Kurt Morris

The past few years have seen podcasts, magazine articles and books about the problem of loneliness in our society. Now former Surgeon General of the United States, Vivek Murthy, has written a piece for Harvard Business Review about the perils of loneliness, especially as it relates to the workplace. I won’t take up the thrust of Murthy’s argument in the use of the workplace in handling loneliness. However, I do find reason to offer a critique of his notion that loneliness is a problem that needs solved. To the contrary, my experiences with loneliness have solidified my self-reliance. They have also given me strength and caused me to appreciate the relationships I have. While it seemed unbearable at times, I would go through it again as it taught me much about myself. Studies show there are health risks associated with loneliness and I don’t doubt that. I also won’t deny the importance of human connection. Similarly, I don’t deny the problems of loneliness for the elderly and ill. I live in a building with many senior citizens and am concerned for their health and well-being. Last year my neighbor fell and was on the floor of his apartment for over a day. I am thankful he had a connection to a friend with whom he speaks on a regular basis and who noticed he hadn’t heard from my neighbor. Murthy strikes a different tone with loneliness. He states: “…to truly solve loneliness requires the engagement of institutions where people spend the bulk of their time: families, schools, social organizations and the workplace.” But why is loneliness a problem to solve? In labeling loneliness as such, it suggests it’s wrong. Doing so can only create feelings of guilt when individuals seek bonds but don’t find them. I would argue the existentialist view is correct: loneliness is inherent in all our lives from the time we are born until the time we die. Some may see that as sad and depressing, but as Michele Carter wrote, loneliness is “an ineliminable feature of our species.” It’s likely the issue is more in how we see loneliness itself. As one article stated, “…studies have shown that lonely people have incorrect assumptions about themselves and about how other people perceive them.” Coping skills found in cognitive behavioral therapy can help us accept loneliness as part of the human experience. We could also learn to readjust our assumptions about ourselves and others. I write about all of this from a great amount of personal experience. After completing graduate school in 2005 I took a job at a university library for 10 months. This school was home to brilliant professors and undergraduates who came from prestigious backgrounds. Meanwhile, much of the library staff were locals, many without a college education. I found myself unable to identify with either group. I worked afternoons and evenings in the basement, growing despondent with my lack of immediate friendships. There was a protracted suffocation that came with the work. These items weren’t listed on the job description. A darkened basement, relative silence, interactions with people the likes of whom I tried to relate but failed. (Was it me? Was it them? I never found an answer, but did find guilt for thinking if I only did a little better, I could find bonds.) That was me, desperate for connections and friends that were few and far between. The most immediate ones were shallow and meaningless — a few random souls whose names I can no longer remember. At the end of that school year I moved to Seattle. I had friends there and knew its vibe matched the excitement I wanted. I packed all my belongings into my black Toyota Corolla and made a clean break with my miserable loneliness. Yet in hindsight it was in those months I found myself. When one is at their loneliest — and ensconced in depression — all the following experiences are delicious riches. Those 10 months showed me the importance of reaching out to the friends I do have scattered all around the world. That time also revealed to me the strength I have to handle life on my own. I did what I had to survive: took up writing projects, walked a lot, read, did yoga and watched movies. The sadness did not crush me. The loneliness did not make me despair forever. And through that time I began to learn the coping skills I might need should the loneliness come again (and it did). Today I have a fortitude for being alone. I’ve been in a relationship for many years and love my partner. Yet I’m also comfortable with feeling disconnected from friends and family to the point of, at times, being uncomfortable. It was not easy but the tie I forged with myself that year is amongst the most important I will ever know. Thus, loneliness isn’t, as Murthy would suggest, entirely an epidemic that needs solved. Rather it is for many of us a lived experience from which we can learn a great deal about ourselves. We want to hear your story. Become a Mighty contributor here .

The past few years have seen podcasts, magazine articles and books about the problem of loneliness in our society. Now former Surgeon General of the United States, Vivek Murthy, has written a piece for Harvard Business Review about the perils of loneliness, especially as it relates to the workplace. I won’t take up the thrust of Murthy’s argument in the use of the workplace in handling loneliness. However, I do find reason to offer a critique of his notion that loneliness is a problem that needs solved. To the contrary, my experiences with loneliness have solidified my self-reliance. They have also given me strength and caused me to appreciate the relationships I have. While it seemed unbearable at times, I would go through it again as it taught me much about myself. Studies show there are health risks associated with loneliness and I don’t doubt that. I also won’t deny the importance of human connection. Similarly, I don’t deny the problems of loneliness for the elderly and ill. I live in a building with many senior citizens and am concerned for their health and well-being. Last year my neighbor fell and was on the floor of his apartment for over a day. I am thankful he had a connection to a friend with whom he speaks on a regular basis and who noticed he hadn’t heard from my neighbor. Murthy strikes a different tone with loneliness. He states: “…to truly solve loneliness requires the engagement of institutions where people spend the bulk of their time: families, schools, social organizations and the workplace.” But why is loneliness a problem to solve? In labeling loneliness as such, it suggests it’s wrong. Doing so can only create feelings of guilt when individuals seek bonds but don’t find them. I would argue the existentialist view is correct: loneliness is inherent in all our lives from the time we are born until the time we die. Some may see that as sad and depressing, but as Michele Carter wrote, loneliness is “an ineliminable feature of our species.” It’s likely the issue is more in how we see loneliness itself. As one article stated, “…studies have shown that lonely people have incorrect assumptions about themselves and about how other people perceive them.” Coping skills found in cognitive behavioral therapy can help us accept loneliness as part of the human experience. We could also learn to readjust our assumptions about ourselves and others. I write about all of this from a great amount of personal experience. After completing graduate school in 2005 I took a job at a university library for 10 months. This school was home to brilliant professors and undergraduates who came from prestigious backgrounds. Meanwhile, much of the library staff were locals, many without a college education. I found myself unable to identify with either group. I worked afternoons and evenings in the basement, growing despondent with my lack of immediate friendships. There was a protracted suffocation that came with the work. These items weren’t listed on the job description. A darkened basement, relative silence, interactions with people the likes of whom I tried to relate but failed. (Was it me? Was it them? I never found an answer, but did find guilt for thinking if I only did a little better, I could find bonds.) That was me, desperate for connections and friends that were few and far between. The most immediate ones were shallow and meaningless — a few random souls whose names I can no longer remember. At the end of that school year I moved to Seattle. I had friends there and knew its vibe matched the excitement I wanted. I packed all my belongings into my black Toyota Corolla and made a clean break with my miserable loneliness. Yet in hindsight it was in those months I found myself. When one is at their loneliest — and ensconced in depression — all the following experiences are delicious riches. Those 10 months showed me the importance of reaching out to the friends I do have scattered all around the world. That time also revealed to me the strength I have to handle life on my own. I did what I had to survive: took up writing projects, walked a lot, read, did yoga and watched movies. The sadness did not crush me. The loneliness did not make me despair forever. And through that time I began to learn the coping skills I might need should the loneliness come again (and it did). Today I have a fortitude for being alone. I’ve been in a relationship for many years and love my partner. Yet I’m also comfortable with feeling disconnected from friends and family to the point of, at times, being uncomfortable. It was not easy but the tie I forged with myself that year is amongst the most important I will ever know. Thus, loneliness isn’t, as Murthy would suggest, entirely an epidemic that needs solved. Rather it is for many of us a lived experience from which we can learn a great deal about ourselves. We want to hear your story. Become a Mighty contributor here .

In 2008, I was living in Seattle and trying my hand at online dating. I was also in the midst of bipolar disorder type II. I was taking medications, but they didn’t seem to be working. I found myself often insensitive to others, irritable and depressed. Bipolar disorder also has a bad tendency to cause one to turn inward, away from caring about others, despite our best attempts. I met Abbie* through an online dating website. She was very sweet and cute. We went out for a few months—going out to eat, spending the night at one another’s apartments, and talking about music, movies and life. Yet I began to have doubts. Abbie was much more affectionate toward me than I toward her. She latched on and complimented me to no end about my intelligence, looks, how I was caring and my sense of humor. It got to the point where I began to wonder if she was talking about me or someone else. My self-esteem was not skyrocketing all the time and it was difficult, if not impossible to believe her when she said such things to me. After dating for a few months, my doubts overwhelmed any sense of affection I may have had for her. Additionally, as a fairly organized person, I had grown irritable with the clutter and messiness at her apartment as well as the disarray in her personal life. “So, we need to talk,” I said to her in a serious tone. “Uh, sure. What’s up?” she asked. Her voice acknowledged that my tone had meant business. Her normal upbeat energy was lost. “I’m not really feeling as though this is working out with us. I like you but I’m not at a place where I can be in a relationship. I thought I was, but it took me some time to realize that I’m not. I’ve got too many issues to work through.” She began to tear up. “What kind of issues?” “Ah, you know. I’m depressed a lot and anxious.” “I don’t care. I’m willing to be there for you when you feel that way.” “Yeah, I dunno. I just don’t feel like this is working out.” She was crying now. I began to feel my stomach rise in my gut. I hate to make people cry, especially people I am dating. “Why are you just telling me all this now? You never open up to me!” She was getting angry and I recoiled inside. I didn’t want a confrontation. I wanted a quick tear of the bandage — right off — and have it over. “Uh, I feel like I opened up to you quite a bit. I shared with you some pretty personal things.” I started getting defensive. Any sense of empathy or kindness I had toward her was quickly dissolving. “No, I mean how you’re feeling now. You never tell me what you’re feeling.” “Well, I’m telling you how I feel now,” I said, angrily. “No, you don’t. It’s so frustrating how you keep so much inside. I never know what you’re thinking.” She did have a point. Openness wasn’t always my strongest suit. My therapist and journals got an earful but I was cautious with what I told partners and friends. I suppose I didn’t want to overburden anyone with my life’s complaints. Still, I felt I had been open with Abbie — more than I’d been with anyone in a long time. “I don’t know what to tell you, Abbie. I feel like I was being open.” I was petulant and uncaring by this point. I wanted out. We spoke a few times afterward and got a meal or two together, and then went our own ways. A few months later, I moved across the country but never spoke with her again. Recently, in going through some old emails, I realized how much pain my irritability and frustration with her caused. I reread something I had forgotten: Abbie grew up with abuse and homelessness. It’s possible she didn’t have the best examples of love and relationships. She had experienced a lot of hurt and pain in her childhood. I didn’t do a great job treating her with kindness and empathy. My depression and crabbiness often cause me to be a self-centered, hurtful jerk. I can be insensitive to everything but my own concerns. Abbie didn’t need my few months of acting like I cared, only to have me pull the rug out under her. She needed love and respect and appreciation. I tried to give her some of that but I wasn’t the right person to do so. I don’t know how I would’ve gotten out of the situation without hurting her to some degree. From my perspective, it was inevitable. Hindsight shows me that all she was looking for was love, and I did a poor job communicating with her. I may have kept too much to myself. But I feel pretty bad about how I treated someone who grew up in homeless shelters and at the hands of abusive family members. There could’ve been more sensitivity on my part. My bipolar disorder, though, has a tendency to crush that sensitivity. It causes me to focus on myself and grow cantankerous at things that aren’t exactly how I want them. It’s one of the least flattering parts of my personality — the thing that, when it occurs, embarrasses me the most. * Name has been changed for privacy. We want to hear your story. Become a Mighty contributor here . Getty Images photo via Vasyl Dolmatov

The past few years have seen podcasts, magazine articles and books about the problem of loneliness in our society. Now former Surgeon General of the United States, Vivek Murthy, has written a piece for Harvard Business Review about the perils of loneliness, especially as it relates to the workplace. I won’t take up the thrust of Murthy’s argument in the use of the workplace in handling loneliness. However, I do find reason to offer a critique of his notion that loneliness is a problem that needs solved. To the contrary, my experiences with loneliness have solidified my self-reliance. They have also given me strength and caused me to appreciate the relationships I have. While it seemed unbearable at times, I would go through it again as it taught me much about myself. Studies show there are health risks associated with loneliness and I don’t doubt that. I also won’t deny the importance of human connection. Similarly, I don’t deny the problems of loneliness for the elderly and ill. I live in a building with many senior citizens and am concerned for their health and well-being. Last year my neighbor fell and was on the floor of his apartment for over a day. I am thankful he had a connection to a friend with whom he speaks on a regular basis and who noticed he hadn’t heard from my neighbor. Murthy strikes a different tone with loneliness. He states: “…to truly solve loneliness requires the engagement of institutions where people spend the bulk of their time: families, schools, social organizations and the workplace.” But why is loneliness a problem to solve? In labeling loneliness as such, it suggests it’s wrong. Doing so can only create feelings of guilt when individuals seek bonds but don’t find them. I would argue the existentialist view is correct: loneliness is inherent in all our lives from the time we are born until the time we die. Some may see that as sad and depressing, but as Michele Carter wrote, loneliness is “an ineliminable feature of our species.” It’s likely the issue is more in how we see loneliness itself. As one article stated, “…studies have shown that lonely people have incorrect assumptions about themselves and about how other people perceive them.” Coping skills found in cognitive behavioral therapy can help us accept loneliness as part of the human experience. We could also learn to readjust our assumptions about ourselves and others. I write about all of this from a great amount of personal experience. After completing graduate school in 2005 I took a job at a university library for 10 months. This school was home to brilliant professors and undergraduates who came from prestigious backgrounds. Meanwhile, much of the library staff were locals, many without a college education. I found myself unable to identify with either group. I worked afternoons and evenings in the basement, growing despondent with my lack of immediate friendships. There was a protracted suffocation that came with the work. These items weren’t listed on the job description. A darkened basement, relative silence, interactions with people the likes of whom I tried to relate but failed. (Was it me? Was it them? I never found an answer, but did find guilt for thinking if I only did a little better, I could find bonds.) That was me, desperate for connections and friends that were few and far between. The most immediate ones were shallow and meaningless — a few random souls whose names I can no longer remember. At the end of that school year I moved to Seattle. I had friends there and knew its vibe matched the excitement I wanted. I packed all my belongings into my black Toyota Corolla and made a clean break with my miserable loneliness. Yet in hindsight it was in those months I found myself. When one is at their loneliest — and ensconced in depression — all the following experiences are delicious riches. Those 10 months showed me the importance of reaching out to the friends I do have scattered all around the world. That time also revealed to me the strength I have to handle life on my own. I did what I had to survive: took up writing projects, walked a lot, read, did yoga and watched movies. The sadness did not crush me. The loneliness did not make me despair forever. And through that time I began to learn the coping skills I might need should the loneliness come again (and it did). Today I have a fortitude for being alone. I’ve been in a relationship for many years and love my partner. Yet I’m also comfortable with feeling disconnected from friends and family to the point of, at times, being uncomfortable. It was not easy but the tie I forged with myself that year is amongst the most important I will ever know. Thus, loneliness isn’t, as Murthy would suggest, entirely an epidemic that needs solved. Rather it is for many of us a lived experience from which we can learn a great deal about ourselves. We want to hear your story. Become a Mighty contributor here .

The past few years have seen podcasts, magazine articles and books about the problem of loneliness in our society. Now former Surgeon General of the United States, Vivek Murthy, has written a piece for Harvard Business Review about the perils of loneliness, especially as it relates to the workplace. I won’t take up the thrust of Murthy’s argument in the use of the workplace in handling loneliness. However, I do find reason to offer a critique of his notion that loneliness is a problem that needs solved. To the contrary, my experiences with loneliness have solidified my self-reliance. They have also given me strength and caused me to appreciate the relationships I have. While it seemed unbearable at times, I would go through it again as it taught me much about myself. Studies show there are health risks associated with loneliness and I don’t doubt that. I also won’t deny the importance of human connection. Similarly, I don’t deny the problems of loneliness for the elderly and ill. I live in a building with many senior citizens and am concerned for their health and well-being. Last year my neighbor fell and was on the floor of his apartment for over a day. I am thankful he had a connection to a friend with whom he speaks on a regular basis and who noticed he hadn’t heard from my neighbor. Murthy strikes a different tone with loneliness. He states: “…to truly solve loneliness requires the engagement of institutions where people spend the bulk of their time: families, schools, social organizations and the workplace.” But why is loneliness a problem to solve? In labeling loneliness as such, it suggests it’s wrong. Doing so can only create feelings of guilt when individuals seek bonds but don’t find them. I would argue the existentialist view is correct: loneliness is inherent in all our lives from the time we are born until the time we die. Some may see that as sad and depressing, but as Michele Carter wrote, loneliness is “an ineliminable feature of our species.” It’s likely the issue is more in how we see loneliness itself. As one article stated, “…studies have shown that lonely people have incorrect assumptions about themselves and about how other people perceive them.” Coping skills found in cognitive behavioral therapy can help us accept loneliness as part of the human experience. We could also learn to readjust our assumptions about ourselves and others. I write about all of this from a great amount of personal experience. After completing graduate school in 2005 I took a job at a university library for 10 months. This school was home to brilliant professors and undergraduates who came from prestigious backgrounds. Meanwhile, much of the library staff were locals, many without a college education. I found myself unable to identify with either group. I worked afternoons and evenings in the basement, growing despondent with my lack of immediate friendships. There was a protracted suffocation that came with the work. These items weren’t listed on the job description. A darkened basement, relative silence, interactions with people the likes of whom I tried to relate but failed. (Was it me? Was it them? I never found an answer, but did find guilt for thinking if I only did a little better, I could find bonds.) That was me, desperate for connections and friends that were few and far between. The most immediate ones were shallow and meaningless — a few random souls whose names I can no longer remember. At the end of that school year I moved to Seattle. I had friends there and knew its vibe matched the excitement I wanted. I packed all my belongings into my black Toyota Corolla and made a clean break with my miserable loneliness. Yet in hindsight it was in those months I found myself. When one is at their loneliest — and ensconced in depression — all the following experiences are delicious riches. Those 10 months showed me the importance of reaching out to the friends I do have scattered all around the world. That time also revealed to me the strength I have to handle life on my own. I did what I had to survive: took up writing projects, walked a lot, read, did yoga and watched movies. The sadness did not crush me. The loneliness did not make me despair forever. And through that time I began to learn the coping skills I might need should the loneliness come again (and it did). Today I have a fortitude for being alone. I’ve been in a relationship for many years and love my partner. Yet I’m also comfortable with feeling disconnected from friends and family to the point of, at times, being uncomfortable. It was not easy but the tie I forged with myself that year is amongst the most important I will ever know. Thus, loneliness isn’t, as Murthy would suggest, entirely an epidemic that needs solved. Rather it is for many of us a lived experience from which we can learn a great deal about ourselves. We want to hear your story. Become a Mighty contributor here .

In 2008, I was living in Seattle and trying my hand at online dating. I was also in the midst of bipolar disorder type II. I was taking medications, but they didn’t seem to be working. I found myself often insensitive to others, irritable and depressed. Bipolar disorder also has a bad tendency to cause one to turn inward, away from caring about others, despite our best attempts. I met Abbie* through an online dating website. She was very sweet and cute. We went out for a few months—going out to eat, spending the night at one another’s apartments, and talking about music, movies and life. Yet I began to have doubts. Abbie was much more affectionate toward me than I toward her. She latched on and complimented me to no end about my intelligence, looks, how I was caring and my sense of humor. It got to the point where I began to wonder if she was talking about me or someone else. My self-esteem was not skyrocketing all the time and it was difficult, if not impossible to believe her when she said such things to me. After dating for a few months, my doubts overwhelmed any sense of affection I may have had for her. Additionally, as a fairly organized person, I had grown irritable with the clutter and messiness at her apartment as well as the disarray in her personal life. “So, we need to talk,” I said to her in a serious tone. “Uh, sure. What’s up?” she asked. Her voice acknowledged that my tone had meant business. Her normal upbeat energy was lost. “I’m not really feeling as though this is working out with us. I like you but I’m not at a place where I can be in a relationship. I thought I was, but it took me some time to realize that I’m not. I’ve got too many issues to work through.” She began to tear up. “What kind of issues?” “Ah, you know. I’m depressed a lot and anxious.” “I don’t care. I’m willing to be there for you when you feel that way.” “Yeah, I dunno. I just don’t feel like this is working out.” She was crying now. I began to feel my stomach rise in my gut. I hate to make people cry, especially people I am dating. “Why are you just telling me all this now? You never open up to me!” She was getting angry and I recoiled inside. I didn’t want a confrontation. I wanted a quick tear of the bandage — right off — and have it over. “Uh, I feel like I opened up to you quite a bit. I shared with you some pretty personal things.” I started getting defensive. Any sense of empathy or kindness I had toward her was quickly dissolving. “No, I mean how you’re feeling now. You never tell me what you’re feeling.” “Well, I’m telling you how I feel now,” I said, angrily. “No, you don’t. It’s so frustrating how you keep so much inside. I never know what you’re thinking.” She did have a point. Openness wasn’t always my strongest suit. My therapist and journals got an earful but I was cautious with what I told partners and friends. I suppose I didn’t want to overburden anyone with my life’s complaints. Still, I felt I had been open with Abbie — more than I’d been with anyone in a long time. “I don’t know what to tell you, Abbie. I feel like I was being open.” I was petulant and uncaring by this point. I wanted out. We spoke a few times afterward and got a meal or two together, and then went our own ways. A few months later, I moved across the country but never spoke with her again. Recently, in going through some old emails, I realized how much pain my irritability and frustration with her caused. I reread something I had forgotten: Abbie grew up with abuse and homelessness. It’s possible she didn’t have the best examples of love and relationships. She had experienced a lot of hurt and pain in her childhood. I didn’t do a great job treating her with kindness and empathy. My depression and crabbiness often cause me to be a self-centered, hurtful jerk. I can be insensitive to everything but my own concerns. Abbie didn’t need my few months of acting like I cared, only to have me pull the rug out under her. She needed love and respect and appreciation. I tried to give her some of that but I wasn’t the right person to do so. I don’t know how I would’ve gotten out of the situation without hurting her to some degree. From my perspective, it was inevitable. Hindsight shows me that all she was looking for was love, and I did a poor job communicating with her. I may have kept too much to myself. But I feel pretty bad about how I treated someone who grew up in homeless shelters and at the hands of abusive family members. There could’ve been more sensitivity on my part. My bipolar disorder, though, has a tendency to crush that sensitivity. It causes me to focus on myself and grow cantankerous at things that aren’t exactly how I want them. It’s one of the least flattering parts of my personality — the thing that, when it occurs, embarrasses me the most. * Name has been changed for privacy. We want to hear your story. Become a Mighty contributor here . Getty Images photo via Vasyl Dolmatov

It’s been months since I felt the literal suicidal despair of the acknowledgment of a Donald Trump presidency. I didn’t know how to express how I was feeling, so I wrote a zine called “Donald Trump (almost) ate my brain.” I tried to get my thoughts down in a coherent form and express them to others with the hope they would relate. I’m a recovering anxiety -prone individual. Through imaginary conversations, I’ve learned how to tamp down the feelings of despair to a reasonable place. “Everything will be OK. You’ll survive. It’s unlikely there will be concentration camps for straight, white, male liberals.” It may seem I’m joking, but unfortunately, I’m neurotic. In the time since the election of Trump, I’ve found myself stricken with my recurring depression (a frequent visitor for 25 years). I don’t find it surprising that I’d feel depressed about the current situation in the United States. My dejection and suicidal ideation have taught me to be empathetic. I hate to see human beings in pain or struggling — especially those who aren’t like me. Besides, I have people of color and women in my life — two of the many groups with whom Trump and his followers have issues. I’d love to see myself on the streets fighting with Antifa against neo-Nazis. I’d love to be at every protest — I’ve attended a few. Living in a liberal state with Democratic Reps and Senators, I don’t know what else I can do. Sometimes I’m more conservative than my congressperson. He sends out weekly email updates, I read them and nod my head in agreement, but other times think, “Woah, man. Calm down!” He’s pissed but in a controlled, professional manner. I’ve become lethargic. I read articles and comments on social media about how everyone should be out on the streets and fighting against racial oppression. According to some Twitter users the time in which we now live is no different than the Civil Rights era of the 1960s. A post on Twitter stated something to the degree of: “You’d stand up back then, right? Why not do so now? You’re responsible for racism and what white supremacists are doing if you don’t take a stand against it.” I felt guilty upon reading that. I don’t want to be complicit in racism. I want to stand up and protest. But what do I do when I contemplate death and wishing I didn’t have to exist because of the constant assault on my mental health by my depression? Some mornings it’s tough for me to get out of bed. Most days being at work leaves me with too much time to think about how miserable I am. How do I fight against oppression in the midst of this? It’s quite possible that the entire system of government in the United States is bigger than any one of us. We can try to get our voices out there. Yet what does it mean to sound off on social media or protest or call my representative whose feelings and beliefs mirror my own? All this is speaking into a void. If you’re not feeling up for radical activism, or your current environment doesn’t invite it, but you want to take part in fighting against injustice, there are options. One is to reach for your wallet and chip in some money to a worthwhile cause. Another possibility is volunteering for a non-profit. I write for a depression awareness group and that makes me feel as though I’m doing something worthwhile. Donating money, volunteering — these are the things I do when there are waves of despair crashing in on me due to our current political situation. If nothing else, it’s enough to spread a kind word. When I read the news I want to scream, “ Why can’t we all be nice to each other? ” and then I realize that’s all I can do: show kindness and empathy while spreading that message in conversations and my writing. That includes being kind to myself: I need to take care of me and know it’s OK to not feel guilty for doing so. It’s been a year since the election. It’s been a time of hate and hurt, despair and depression. Some may think I’m being a “sensitive snowflake.” But I want people to treat others how they would like to be treated. If nothing else, I’d love to get someone to ask him or herself, “How will my actions affect others?” I was able to find some ways to help with my mood. I made some goals back in April — I needed something to distract my mind from feelings of helplessness. I’m doing my best to follow through with them: write more, submit that writing for publication, do more public speaking and share my story with others. If anything good has come from this, it’s that I’ve become more focused on spreading a message of compassion and empathy. There’s value in helping people through their depression, anxiety and suicidal thoughts. If people are so low they can’t even function, there’s not much hope of changing things for the better. And right now we could all stand to have some hope and change. Editor’s note: This story reflects an individual’s experience and is not an endorsement from The Mighty. We believe in sharing a variety of perspectives from our community. If you or someone you know needs help, visit our suicide prevention resources page. If you need support right now, call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255 , the Trevor Project at 1-866-488-7386 or reach the Crisis Text Line by texting “START” to 741-741. We want to hear your story. Become a Mighty contributor here . Photo by Michael Ramey on Unsplash