What Do You Mean, I’m Powerless?

The more I live, the more I do the work, the more I see that there’s just so much change I can affect on my own. But there are a lot of things I CAN do.

TODAY, 2026

I originally published this piece on November 4, 2024, just two days before the presidential election.

So much still applies, and it’s much worse than we thought it could ever be, and it doesn’t look like it’s going to get better in the foreseeable future.

I’m being pragmatic. I’m not wearing blinders, I’m not in denial. This piece about being powerless still holds true, but being powerless over some things doesn’t mean we can’t change the world we live in right under their fucking noses.

They want us to be afraid. I refuse.

Build your communities, local and in-person, or online. However you can. Pursue your passions. Take risks. Welcome the stranger. Do something new. Never give up.

And most of all, laugh in their filthy faces every single day.

When I started working the 12 steps of my recovery program, I had to begin at the very beginning.

Step 1: “We admitted we were powerless over our eating disorders—that our lives had become unmanageable.”

When people come into program, they often have trouble admitting they’re powerless. The ego is a fierce defender. I was one of those people, even though I had no idea how to make change, how to help myself, how to recover. I slowly came to understand what being powerless is about. I’ll always need to work Step 1, to be reminded that I can’t recover in a vacuum. I can’t do my life alone.

We need each other to recover. We need to be humble. We need to be honest.

I thought about writing a fluffier, funnier, more carefree story this week as a balm against how helpless I sometimes feel, but I can’t. It would be like making believe everything is okay and pretending that the most consequential event our country has ever experienced isn’t staring us right in the face.

For over a year I’ve been seriously committed to recovery work. One of the things I’ve learned is that my disordered eating is not the only thing I’m powerless over. Far from it. I’m powerless over a multitude of things that I wish I could influence. That’s hard news for a recovering control freak.

SATURDAY November 2, 2024

I’m writing this in a state of quiet agitation. I usually publish my weekly essay on Wednesday, but this week I have no idea what shape I’ll be in on November 6, the day after the U.S. presidential election. Will I need to be scraped off the floor and poured back into the shell of my former self or will you find me doing a happy dance on the roof of my car? In advance observance of what might be a National Day of Mourning for me and at least half the country or a wild, raucous, hopeful celebration, I’m publishing a two days early. Election Day Eve. None of us know who’ll win, and I’ll be in a state of heightened anxiety until there’s an answer. What happens next? We’ll see, won’t we? I’m worried, not just about my future, but the world’s future. That’s how serious all of it feels. Because it is that serious. I’m told futuristic thinking is useless.

I know that’s true, but it’s hard to resist in times of fear and stress.

I’ve done all the things I can do towards the outcome. I’ve donated, volunteered, put up lawn signs, had them stolen, and purchased more to put them up again. I registered voters, educated myself, read articles across a broad spectrum of political beliefs and ideas. I’ve tolerated the click-bait pundits for far too long. I’ve ranted and railed about the state of this country. I’ll be on call on Election Day, driving voters to the polls from morning until the very last vote is cast.

I’ve gone around in circles for the last 9 years wondering what kind of person could possibly want to elect and then re-elect the Orange Monster––he’s clearly a deranged, narcissistic con man; a dangerous fascist with dementia, and a convicted sexual predator and felon. He’s made lying high art. His delusions of grandeur influence every choice he makes. He’s the human definition of bottomless greed. The thought of him in power again, after all his crimes against this nation and against women, is unfathomable to me. How can they not see what so many of us see so clearly? And if they see it, how can they support it? I will never, ever understand.

I’ve signed petitions, attended Zoom rallies and town halls, donated again, got sick of the pleas for even more money. Started counting how many texts and emails I received imploring me to give again. I’ve gotten upwards of 15-20 asks a day for weeks, not just for the presidential election, but for House races all over the country. Using “STOP” and unsubscribing seems useless. Against my better judgment, but bolstered by my fears, I gave a little more to the Veep and the Gov, and then, out loud, promised my pups (the only live audience I have) and Kamala (in absentia) that this was the “last time I’m giving, stop begging.”

We’ll see if I’m strong enough to keep my word, and not get suckered into giving again because of my anxiety, or I fall into the trap of thinking that if I don’t give again, it will have an impact on the entire result of the election, as if my three dollars will put us over the line. I’m not that powerful and it seems it’s NEVER enough. I’m offended by the manipulative language in everyone’s fundraising efforts, the extreme fear-mongering. Does Kamala think I’m an idiot? Does she believe that I’m flattered by being referred to as one of her biggest donors when my donations have totaled about $93?

I voted. Happily, hopefully, and prayerfully. I had fun waiting in line, enjoying the strangers I chatted with. I’m breathing deeply and making a pledge that I’ll be gentle with myself and others through the end of the election cycle. There is nothing more I can do or say that will change the outcome. 

At this point, all I can do is surrender and acknowledge how powerless I am. When we have the result, I’ll either be ecstatic or bereft. I’m resolved to not fall apart if it doesn’t go the way I’d like. I’ll grieve, I’ll cry, I’ll seek out friends and loved ones so we can comfort each other; I’ll comfort strangers if they need a hug or just to be seen.

But I will not let him steal my life or my well-being. I do have control over that. I’m trying to keep a balanced perspective, but I’m stressed. I’m sitting at my desk, writing and eating mini-Snickers and Twix Bars left over from Halloween. I’m giving myself some grace about that. Balance is hard to maintain in times like these.

The concept of powerlessness is a hard one for people to accept. What do you mean I’m powerless? Well, we are, mostly. I don’t have the ability to influence world events. I don’t have connections to people in power. I’m not a billionaire. I’m a senior citizen (fuck, I’ve never called myself that before), I’m a woman, I’m queer, and I’m Jewish. Not a person in power.

Leading up to the election in 2016, the one I was so sure of, I conducted extensive research about leaving the country for good, in case we lost. I needed to see if leaving was even possible. Any country I’d want to live in requires new citizens to come in with vast resources (money) that I don’t possess now, and probably never will. There was no place to go then, and there still isn’t. I feel too old, and too connected to the life I’ve lived and loved to make a new start.

This is my home.

When I start to spin, the first wake-up call is country-shopping, hoping a new one would pop up that nobody’s ever heard of before. It would be a magical place that had room for all, and was kind and gentle and nurtured its citizens. Like The Good Place. But that was really Hell.

SUNDAY November 3, 2024

I woke up earlier than usual. The end of daylight savings time. Today, I’m more anxious than I was yesterday. More frightened, but still grasping for the hope I feel whenever I hear Kamala speak. She sparkles. I love her smile. Not crazy about her laugh, but it’s a part of her that adds to her charm. We have an opportunity to grow as a country, to evolve, to transcend the feelings of hatred, fear, and separation that have gripped so many of us, these last 9 years, and for a multitude of decades before.

I heard about Kamala’s cameo on SNL. I looked for it online today. It started with the actor who impersonates the Orange Demogorgon. I couldn’t watch. It’s just not funny anymore.

I went for a drive, doing an informal count of how many Kamala lawn signs I’ve seen in my historically conservative neighborhood. Seems there’s been a visible turn to the LEFT. That’s an amazing change for my town. I found that Kamala’s signs far outnumbered the ones that were touting Agent Orange’s. I giggled at the sign that said, “Harris Walz 2024, Obviously” and the one that reads, “Giant Meteor 2024: End It Already.” It calmed me to realize that I still have my sense of humor, even if it has a dark edge at the moment. Oh, who am I kidding? My sense of humor always has a dark edge.

The more work I do in program, the more I learn about letting go. I’m up to the part where I’m exploring what having a higher power means. It’s a tough one for me. I used to think that I was in control of so many things. The more I live, the more I do the work, the more I see that there’s just so much change I can affect bin the world. But, in 12-step the prize is changing myself.

In my heart, I believe I'll be okay no matter what happens. But not as okay as I will be if the right thing happens. The question is what is the right thing?

So, on Wednesday, regardless of the result, if you happen to come upon me lying in the gutter, please offer me your hand and help me get up again.

I followed my sponsor’s advice. It’s what one is supposed to do in recovery. The SNL skit was wonderful. I laughed and cried all the way through. I got goosebumps. I’m “acting as if” tonight, just like I’ve learned in 12 step. Right now, to combat my fears, I’m acting as if it’s a done deal, and we have a president-elect named Kamala Harris.

January 20, 2026

As you all know, the result I was looking for didn’t happen and we’re exactly a year in to the Orange Abomination’s term of terror. Maybe it all has to come tumbling down, finally destroying the taint of this culture that’s never owned the harm it’s perpetrated. Maybe we can build something new. This country is guilty of horrors for over 400 years and hasn’t owned responsibility for the ongoing ugliness and hatred it’s sowed. The Proud Boys are in charge of cleaning house. People are dying. Now, the hatred is unapologetically and proudly out in the open for everyone to see. And it seems only half of us are willing to see. The other half? I hope a lot of them are regretting the tragic mistake they made.

In the meantime, I’m making the best friends I’ve ever had. I’m creating community in a meaningful way. I’m not isolating; that would be the worst thing I could do. We can’t hide ourselves away. We must come together. Now.

Check out my new project, Wham! Bam! Thank You! Slam! It’s a monthly feminist storytelling event. It’s not a competition, as originally intended.

See the video from our first show.

Do you write on this platform? Are you a feminist? Come tell a story.