The grief we share; The voice we must use

There’s a grief many of us are carrying right now. It’s not always visible, but it is heavy. It tightens in our chests when we hear the latest news and weighs on our hearts when we look at what’s unfolding in a country we’ve loved and believed in for generations. I am feeling that deep grief as I write this.

I’ve lived through wars, protests, reckonings, and rebirths. I’ve marched, voted, started businesses, raised children, buried my husband, and tried—again and again—to rebuild a good life for myself. But this moment feels different. Not because we haven’t faced hardship before, but because the unraveling we’re witnessing is striking at the very core of who we are and what we stand for.

For those of us who call ourselves baby boomers, this is emotional whiplash—a visceral remembering of a time 50 years ago when we found our voices and, through action, changed the course of our destiny. To now watch that progress being dismantled, without concern for the consequences, is emotionally and spiritually staggering.

So, we find ourselves in a time of deep collective grief. And like all grief, it has stages: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and—if we allow it—acceptance. But acceptance is not resignation. It’s the turning point. It’s where healing begins and where action becomes possible.

Denial, while comfortable, is not our salvation. We can’t afford to look away. I must admit—I’ve been numb the past few weeks. But we cannot let numbness become normal. And above all, we cannot believe the lie that we are powerless.

We are not powerless. We are not silent—unless we choose silence.

I was reminded recently that our voices still have volume. They still matter. They can still move the needle of justice, compassion, and truth. Mine might be softer and quieter than in the past, but we all have the responsibility to now speak—especially for those who cannot. We are the stewards of our homes, our communities, our states, and yes, our country. The responsibility lies with us—not just to grieve what’s been lost, but to protect what remains and build what must come next.

And as we rise, we must also resist the urge to cut off those who may still be caught in the fog of misperception. I’ve watched families fracture, lifelong friendships dissolve, and communities pull apart over a misguided belief in a man who masterfully creates the illusion of inclusion—when in truth, his intent is obedience at all costs. It is tempting to shut the door. In many ways, it would be easier to write off those who sit on the other side of our beliefs.

But perhaps the more radical act is to stay. To say, “Tell me more.” To keep our hearts, open long enough to plant seeds of truth. The illusion of being part of something greater than ourselves is deeply seductive. And while it’s easy to blame the millions whose votes helped bring us to this moment in history, we must remember silence does not create change—but neither does shouting across barricades.

We must stay in the conversation, especially with those we love.

Each of us has a truth to tell. A line to draw. A hand to lend. And a voice to raise.

So yes, we will take our time of grief.

We will cry.

We will rest.

We will feel all that is broken.

And then—we will rise.

We will speak our truths in defense of the democracy we love.

We will show up. We will be counted. We will be heard.

Because our voices still have volume—

And they remain one of the most beautiful, powerful, and courageous forces we possess.

Let us use them—together.

Roxanne Erdahl, PCC is a lifelong Iowan, business owner, and leadership coach. She is the founder of Erdahl Coaching and a Certified Dare to Lead™ Facilitator with over 25 years of experience helping individuals and teams find their courage and voice. She has dedicated her life to creating spaces for creativity, connection, and civic responsibility.