On Election Day, I devised an intricate itinerary that I affectionately termed the Panic Abatement Plan. My morning would begin with a serene walk in the woods, where the unseasonably warm temperatures are still breaking records in this part of the country. Following my stroll, I planned a visit to Parnassus Books, a haven filled with like-minded individuals, where I would collect my special order: Rachel Carson’s timeless work, The Sense of Wonder.

Afterward, I intended to spend some time in the puppy room at the Nashville Humane Association, soaking in the joy that playful puppies radiate. A leisurely lunch with a dear friend was on the agenda, followed by a tranquil conversation on the porch with another companion. And as the day would wind down, I envisioned myself in the yard, immersed in my new book, as golden sugar maple leaves danced to the ground in the fading light.

Other items on my Panic Abatement Plan resembled a more conventional to-do list for a day away from work: writing heartfelt thank-you notes, cleaning out bird feeders, and deadheading zinnias to encourage new blooms that would nourish the bees in this never-ending summer. Whether I managed to check off those tasks didn’t concern me; what mattered was that I embraced the day.

Having already voted early, the Panic Abatement Plan served as a distraction to help keep my nerves in check while my fellow citizens cast their votes for the future of our country. The aim was to surround myself with beauty, friendship, and, if I squinted just right, a semblance of peace.

I am profoundly grateful I carved out that day of sweetness for myself. However, by the next morning, I felt as though sandpaper had replaced my eyelids, and a heavy rock was lodged in my throat. The sweetness I had cherished now felt like a distant memory, lost from the world forever.

At 63 years old, I find myself as a liberal child of the Jim Crow South. My entire adult life has been spent advocating for a society in which a figure like Donald Trump would never rise to power—not once, let alone twice. The relentless struggle has left many of us weary. A different outcome last week would have provided, at the very least, a temporary reprieve, and I was yearning for that relief. I longed to wake up on November 6 and exhale a sigh of relief.

But Donald Trump is not merely a fleeting phenomenon or an anomaly. That reality should have been apparent long ago. From the moment the carnival barker in chief descended a golden escalator, through his initial campaign of deceit, the harrowing experience of his first presidency, and his chilling silence during the Capitol insurrection, it has become clear that the MAGA fever dream has never truly wavered. The hearings and trials have only fortified the loyalty of his base, illustrating that the struggle for a better world is far from over.