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It was the first thing I checked when I woke up in the morning. My eyes opened and, right away, I scrambled for my phone, like how you would in fear of oversleeping for work. What I saw on my screen was a subtle devastation. The devastation you get when you hear that a beloved celebrity died - the kind that’s removed from yourself, in a way, yet chillingly close.

It was my first time voting; my first election day. I had missed the early registration deadlines, so, in the morning after an all-nighter of studio work, I made my way to Providence’s convention center to register and vote. My mind was in a haze from the lack of sleep, but the greater cause filled me with direction and motivation. It kept my feet moving, one after the other. It kept the smile on my face. I was excited and proud to vote—to do my part in supporting a future that I felt strongly for. That is what I told the volunteers outside the convention center when they asked to interview me for a voter registration awareness campaign.

I was in and out in five minutes. As I left, the volunteers gave me an “I Voted” sticker, the kind I had seen for years. Instead of putting it on my shirt for all to see, I chose to save it until I could stick it into my journal for the sake of commemorating the occasion (I am sentimental like that). On my way home, I ran into a group of my classmates going together to the voting center to do their part, as did I. It was a great sight; an atmosphere unlike anything else I had ever experienced. What I saw on Nov. 5 was people coming together. It made me so excited, and optimistic, too. But by the time I was getting ready to sleep and the polls were coming in, that cheeriness faded. I began to see the day like it really was: this was not just an occasion—it was an election. A part of me remained hopeful, but I went to bed worried. Then I woke up like everyone else.

The results loomed over everything that day—every single interaction. The first person I texted was the girl I had been going out with for a little. “Hi,” I texted. “hru” she typed back. “I’m eh… I’m not feeling good over the election” “yeah it’s quite unfortunate”, and a little more back and forth about it after that. Walking to work, I could feel it in the still breaths of the people passing me by—heads down; no eye contact. At work, I could hear my boss in the front room checking in with her colleagues whenever one stopped by. From what I heard, it had been a difficult, sleepless night for her. At dinner, I sat with my friends as our emotions ran loose—sorrow, despair, anger, fear—in frustrated conversation, still with instances of silence from that same disbelief. Around us in the dining hall, tears fell from peoples’ eyes and hugs of consolation followed. An email came out from my professor: class later that day was canceled in light of everything.

After dinner, as the light began to dim in the waning hours of a winter afternoon, I walked the girl I had been seeing back to her studio building. As we walked, I remember passing by a middle-aged woman walking her dog. We passed by quickly, but I remember the look on her face. She looked pensive, wandering in thought somewhere. Defeated, even. As we passed, not a word was said, yet you could feel that we all had the same thing on our minds. Everyone could feel it. Everyone was mourning.

Not long after dinner, some members of the faculty sent out an email inviting students to a last-minute gathering to discuss all things election-related in an open space. Immediately, I knew I wanted to go. The event started at 6:30, and I got there about an hour late. By the time I arrived, there were only seven people there: the three faculty organizers and four students. Joining mid-conversation, trying not to disrupt, I listened as people—young and old, and from all backgrounds—talked about their feelings, upbringings, family dynamics, struggles, and everything else. I sat silently for some time, just listening, but was invited so warmly into the mix. One of the organizers asked me how I was, and I just told them that I didn’t want to be alone on a night like this. I felt a lump in my throat verbalizing it that day, and I feel it again recounting it. I shared how worried I was, even knowing that I—a half-white, straight, and cisgender male—wasn’t ever, and would never be, the main victim of this tragedy. Across from me, one of the organizers was an older white man, while the other two were women. Seeing him there with us—supporting the same cause as us, feeling the same hurt as us—reminded me that there are people like him out there who are on our side. It urged me to remember the human beyond the demographics on the news.

The night went on, and we kept talking. What started as a safe space for conversation about the election eventually became a safe space for conversation about anything. Subtle smiles slowly returned to our faces, and some laughs, too. I got to know the other students, and the organizers, as well—all on a personal level. In what felt too short a time, our time had come to an end, and it was time to go home. The three organizers urged us to take some food for the road, as they had ordered a lot for the event. Feeling seen and safe, I bid my farewells with two full pizzas in my hand and a six-pack of sodas in my bag. The first thing I thought to do was to give one of the pizzas to a woman I’d frequently seen sitting on the sidewalk near one of my school buildings. When I got to the spot she was usually at, I noticed she was sleeping, so I left the box next to her and left, hoping she’d see it upon awakening.

The last thing I did before turning in for the day was text my mom. She was the first person to ever mention Donald Trump to me, years and years ago, when I was still in middle school. We were in the car, and something on the radio must’ve sparked her comment. She told me that he was a bad businessman who was going to be running for president. It was a long time ago, and I was young, but I never could’ve pictured being in 2024 amidst his impending second term. So I texted her, checking in with her about how she was doing after everything. I knew I wouldn’t see a response until the morning given the time difference (my mom lives in Tokyo), but I knew it would be something far better to wake up to than the previous day’s news.

One last thing one of the organizers told us before the meeting ended was about what comes next. She said to us that now is our time to mourn, but, eventually, it will be time to act. Hearing this gave me hope; hearing this gave me direction. It was a connection that was driving us through the day—it was being there for one another that was at the root of it all. When the time comes, I will be ready to step up and do my part for the community. We all will, and we all must.