Think back: When is the last time you were so shocked/offended/upset/unhappy that you had no idea what to say? Today, we’re talking about something I think we’ve all felt at one point or another: that gut-wrenching, throat-closing moment when politics come up, and you’re so angry or upset that you don’t even know what to say. Maybe you’re afraid of starting a fight, or maybe you’re just so overwhelmed that you freeze. Either way, this episode is for those moments when grief, anger, and politics all collide — creating an experience I’m labeling “angriefolitical.”
Angriefolitical conversations are scary but necessary, because they reflect deeper personal stakes, identify where we might get off-track, and learn how we can start creating space for these difficult conversations with empathy, love, and ownership of our values without causing harm or othering our audience.
I often find myself asking, “How many therapy sessions per week is too many?” As the American political season intensifies, I’m one overwhelmed trauma specialist and grief coach. The emotional toll of the political climate is staggering. Reactions range from apathy to full-blown political obsession, and I’ve been told countless times to just focus on my own life. I’ve even been told I’m failing as a professional for daring to share political conversations.
But here’s the thing: it’s not about the election or isolated political issues anymore. What I’m witnessing more and more is what I call angriefolitical—the emotional exhaustion and embodied grief of constantly encountering people who wield their “right to believe whatever they want” as a defense. They excuse themselves from accountability or responsibility for the harm their beliefs cause, especially when those beliefs shape legislation that actively endangers marginalized communities. And this is why we’re losing relationships—not because we’re intolerant of different opinions, but because those opinions often represent an inherent contradiction.
When someone says, “I’m not arguing, but…” or claims they’re “just stating their beliefs,” they’re often deflecting responsibility. But they’re also minimizing the valid argument about your values, too – that real harm is happening, and they are directly or indirectly contributing to it. What’s being missed is the impact of those beliefs on real lives. Political opinions don’t exist in a vacuum—they shape policies that have devastating consequences for people who are less privileged and already marginalized. And so, these beliefs aren’t just abstract ideas; they’re actively harming people I care about.
When we walk away from relationships in the aftermath of political conversations, it’s not because we can’t tolerate differing opinions. It’s because those beliefs, held so strongly, often stand in direct contradiction to the kind and compassionate person someone claims to be. There’s a disconnect between the values people say they hold and the harm their beliefs can perpetuate. For those of us whose lives and communities are directly impacted, it’s impossible to ignore that contradiction.
Now the online atmosphere where many of these conversations are happening are not in good faith. Online is a wonderful place to be, when you curate the space you occupy. So often in our pain, however, we take to the digital streets, shouting to be heard and attracting people who will never make space. But in real life, face to face with others, we have to remember the same defensive posturing is present in everyone in the conversation – yourself and bystanders included. Taking the risk to share your vulnerable thoughts on the state of the world is not something we do with every person, but when we do feel enough trust to open up, the last thing we need to hear is the same spiritual bypassing, minimizing, centering, or platitudes that show up for grievers.
These conversations are happening on a daily basis, and friends, I am both breaking down and fired up. In the few days after the election (okay, weeks), I found myself crying and wishing I could find the words I needed. I wanted to host conversations, but with each one, felt the space darken comment by comment. Accusations of name calling and unkindness accompanied passive comments about my words that suggest I’m better off being ignored. And for those of us keeping track, that is minimizing.
The problem is that it’s the same commenters demanding unity want me to be nice or to be quiet. Check in with yourself. Do you want that too? Or do you feel your own version of angriefolitical rising within? There are too many lanes to walk down from this intersection, but this is the trailhead where we all need to take several seats.
When we are minimized, decentered in our own experiences, or offered a politely spoken “Please shut up,” we are not going to find the right words if we’ve not done our own trauma and grief work in life first. When we try to advocate for others, but fail to see our roles and privileges and pains in the light of day, what emerges is a weaker version of what we’re hoping to say.
Advocacy without personal healing is like building a house on a weak foundation. No matter how beautiful or strong it seems from the outside, without a solid base, it risks collapsing under pressure. Our trauma work strengthens that foundation, allowing us to advocate from a place of stability and resilience.
It took courage to stop sharing my frustration in a space that could not hear it. While that doesn’t mean I’m done talking about politics (obviously) it does mean I’m allowing my own heart to rest through an active and intention pursuit of joy as resistance.
Joy is a value in life that we all want to experience but often it can feel inappropriate or unavailable when so many griefs are happening around us. Our work in advocacy gets loud and messy in these moments, never resting, never backing down, and never relenting even when we are also causing more harm.
If we are determined to make an impact in our communities, yes it can start with conversations in our immediate circles, but it must be in partnership with organizations already doing advocacy work in our cities. As with all things, we would not make ourselves available 24/7 for volunteer hours. We would require rest. And no organization worth working alongside would demand 24/7 access to you, either. Rest is an integral part of being a human, of navigating the difficulty of angriefolitical moments, and of learning how to create common understanding that moves the needle toward lasting change.
If we are not giving ourselves space to rest, we are unable to pursue joy. Plain and simple. Angriefolitical moments are a flag, desperately waving for our attention – we need to step away from the impact we are trying to make and recognize no ground is being gained. Angriefolitical conversations are full of emotional bypassing disguised as dialogue – it sounds like an insistence that hope is present and everything will work out. On paper, it looks like encouragement but within us, we recognize the invalidation of our expression. It’s a visceral, embodied experience making it hard to tell where we can even begin to make them understand.
Angriefolitical is waking up with the weight of the world on your chest, knowing that a political decision isn’t just an abstract debate, but a life-or-death reality for many people. Grief is political. Politics make us angry. Anger is also grief. Angriefolitical is the deep sorrow of knowing that, while I may have the privilege of intellectualizing my anger, others — due to the color of their skin, their gender, their sexuality, or their immigration status — live in that grief daily.
And when I attempt to share these intersecting emotions, I don’t need rebuttals; I need people to hold space. This is where many of our conversations break down. When I’ve said my piece and still sense an embodied refusal to understand what I’m trying to explain, angriefolitical sensations erupt.
In these spaces, we need rest. We need joy. We need permission to step back and lean into our own work of healing that needs to happen. Regardless of our belonging in a marginalized community or not, we are being harmed by the current political system in power – even the people who voted for it. But communicating this as true and making the message clear enough cannot happen if we are drowning in complex, layered, deeply personal angriefolitical experiences.
When I rest and recover, and allow my own personal hurts to receive intention and care, I can return to the conversations and remember that they are more than a debate where points are scored for knowing the most facts. Each conversation is about human beings, safety, and the future of our collective well-being. To dismiss that with simplistic reasoning or, worse, to reduce it to “just politics” is to completely overlook the humanity behind the issues, and when we are well-tended in our care for ourselves, we can address simplistic reasoning, bypassing, and the like with similar care for the other person.
For example, in a recent conversation I had with a family member, it became clear that our dialogue wasn’t just about differing political opinions. No matter the point of view I offered, the values I articulated, or the appeal to their humanity, we landed on different opinions about the definition and importance of human flourishing and the individual’s right to thrive. My perspective of the collective wellness we all need in order to heal was dismissed as soft and weak.
The conversation embodied my grief and fear over what those opinions mean for people I love. It was not just about what I think would be best in the world — it was about how personal loss, systemic oppression, and societal injustices shaped my perspective in ways that couldn’t be easily explained or debated. Creating space for angriefolitical conversations is not only vital — it’s revolutionary. To sit with someone else’s grief and anger, to resist the urge to “not argue but…” and instead say, “I see you,” is a radical act of empathy.
In these moments, we are not only offering emotional safety but also opening the door to potential transformation. After all, you cannot change someone’s mind by attacking their position; you invite others into growth by connecting with their personhood – their heart.
To create these conversations for ourselves, we must first recognize that no one else can dictate how or why we feel grief and anger in response to political matters. These are real, valid emotions that stem from lived experiences, and dismissing them only leads to further harm.
So how do we move forward with advocacy in these spaces?
First, we gotta do our own work. Has that been clear enough? That’s not permission to remain distant or tucked away by privilege, but it is a requirement to remain curious with yourself. How might your own story and past be surfacing in these moments? How can you address your trauma story and activations before trying to educate and support others to look toward theirs?
But once you’re in a healthy, sustainable rhythm of self-care and grief work, then I want you to know…that as you step back toward the work of advocacy, it is okay to burn bridges. If someone causes you harm, insists on misunderstanding you, or wants to minimize everything about your perspective or story through violent rhetoric or talking points, that burning bridge will light your path forward. It’s okay to release people and walk away, because access to you is a privilege and ultimately, their growth work is their own.
But if they’re ready to talk and hear you share as well, you begin by listening. When you hear someone expressing their angriefolitical feelings, resist the urge to jump into a debate. Start by acknowledging their pain and anger, not as a political challenge but as a deeply human experience.
Ask what is at stake for them and how you can be part of a conversation that leads to healing, rather than division. Those questions might sound like this: Do you have life experiences that have shaped that viewpoint? How would your life be impacted if this did or didn’t happen? What makes this issue so personal for you? I’ve found that sometimes the most impactful way to challenge someone’s misinformed or narrow political conclusions isn’t with facts or counterarguments, but with vulnerability.
It is much harder to hate or ignore someone when you can see their humanity and similarities to yourself. Sharing my grief, my fear, and my anger not as weapons but as invitations to empathy can open doors that would otherwise remain firmly shut.
A peacemaker is needed. When someone demands unity, what they’re playing is peacekeeper, and those roles are wildly different. For these intense and charged conversations, a person willing to regulate their own nervous system and move toward others in conflict from a foundation of love and not fear can change the world. When we see the scarcity and harm narratives pushed forth, we are witnessing a value set foundationally built on fear. Emphasis placed on severe and negative outcomes, but couched in phrases like “family values, love, tradition, and even safety, etc.” are driving toward a future where control and certainty are the true primary values.
The alternative is love. Leading with love, not control or certainty, allows us to manifest our values with less effort and pain. Love leads a wide path through chaos. The generosity is an overflow, because we’re not scrambling to be cared for; our needs are met because we show up to ensure the collective is thriving, and we are part of that collective. In the end, it’s not about who wins or loses an argument.
These conversations need to happen and they need to shift, because I want to be part of creating a world where we can navigate the complexities of politics, grief, and anger in ways that honor each other’s humanity. The state of politics and interconnectedness is hard — brutally hard — but maybe, just maybe, if we can find the courage to have angriefolitical conversations, we can start to collectively heal.
If this conversation resonates with you, I encourage you to go deeper with the works of Resmaa Menakem and Dr. Chanequa Walker-Barnes. And if you find you’re not ready for your own work, but need to learn how to rest with the discomfort of your story and grief, then start by learning about The Nap Ministry. All of these resources can support you as you explore your own embodied responses and engage in the work of healing—for yourself, and for your community. Start by examining your embodied reactions to these difficult conversations and seek out resources that ground you in the work of healing, for yourself and for your community.
Thank you for listening to episode 172 of Restorative Grief. At the intersection of grief, anger, and politics is the potential for collective healing. By doing our own internal trauma work first and engaging with others from a place of empathy and seeing who they are beyond our assumptions, we create space for transformation in ourselves and in the world around us.
If this is your first time listening to the podcast, I hope you will make space for yourself to explore any offense or irritation or inspiration you feel from this conversation. When we have a reaction internally, that is our embodied wisdom inviting us to do our own work to explore a new way of thinking. No one can do the work for us, and certainly no one wants to hear from us if we haven’t done our own work, especially when we start telling others how they should show up in the world.
Please subscribe to this podcast, come follow me on social media, and leave behind a 5 star review if you like what you heard. The essays and interviews planned for the rest of this year are life changing and that is my unbiased opinion so I hope you will stay with us here at restorative grief and keep working toward a more integrative and supportive life for yourself on the other side of grief. And before we go as always one last thing. Please remember, the only solution for grief is to do the work of grieving. Thank you for listening. I’ll see you next week.
Links + Resources from this episode:
- Resmaa Menakem’s work, The Quaking of America
- Dr. Chanequa Walker-Barnes’ work
- Rest is Resistance – the Nap Ministry
- Become a Patron
- Connect with Mandy on Instagram