Like so many of our dear friends and loved ones, Charlie and I find ourselves untethered – lost – in a stupor following this week's election outcomes. Though I recognized the polling suggested Trump had decent odds of winning, and even harbored fear that many were underreporting their support for him, seeing the map burst into red on Wednesday afternoon still left me shellshocked. I broke down crying at my son's netball game, and Asher, my oldest, folded himself over me and cried softly as well. In that moment of raw vulnerability, my Kiwi friends and fellow parents offered words of kindness and comfort, though they couldn't fully grasp the depth of our distress.
There are countless articles and voices now writing about why this outcome is so devastating for many Americans. Having worked in refugee resettlement, education, and child rights spaces, I know the return of the Trump administration will usher in policies that will be harmful and cruel, dismantling many causes my family and I have devoted our lives to supporting. As Michelle Goldberg (an NYT columnist) wrote on election day: "If voters decide to overlook Jan. 6 because they think — falsely — that Trump will lower the price of groceries, they are making a decision about whether democracy should be a priority." I hold deep fear for the state of my nation's democracy and stability.
What weighs on me most is processing everything from this far-flung island on the other side of the world – being, in some ways, an outsider looking in, an expatriate abroad. We moved to New Zealand to recapture a dream deferred. Having had to put off living abroad in my 20's when Mom was ill, we sought out this verdant, peaceful, restorative island-nation as a place to live and experience – both to recapture that dream and to recuperate, to find space for revisioning what comes next after a grueling decade of life put on hold. When we came, we told ourselves we would stay 2-3 years and then make a decision. We were grateful to be away during a toxic election cycle, hoping we could watch from afar and use that perspective to help us decide whether to stay or go.
Here we stand in the widening chasm, and it still feels unfathomable that this is the direction our countrymen and women have chosen. So many Americans are now amplifying ideas of "moving to Canada" or "moving to New Zealand" – I'm certain the immigration consulting agencies and web searches for moving here have spiked, and that many more of my compatriots will soon arrive on these shores.
And yet, I feel distant from those who want to come here to escape. Charlie and I are still grappling with how long we stay. In recent months we've been missing friends and family, and were beginning to think pragmatically about where we would go in the US if we moved back as our children enter middle school. We'd started dreaming up when and where we might call home next.
With this week's outcome, we are left – like many I know, both here and back in the US – feeling homeless, strangers among many of the countrymen and women we would be returning to. We worry about taking our children back to a nation that is definitively less safe, where they will routinely experience active shooter drills in school, and where we now all stand a statistical likelihood of being in an area where there is an active shooter sometime in our lifetime.
We worry about returning to a nation whose leader uses dehumanizing, cruel, hateful language to speak about political opponents and migrants. Charlie and I were raised in the church, and have always believed that Christ came for the marginalized, the migrant, and the broken. We are appalled and disgusted by the direction of the Christian Church in America.
Perhaps the hardest truth is that there are no easy answers. While New Zealand offers us peace and safety, America – despite its current trajectory – remains home. The very pain I feel watching from afar reminds me how deeply I care about my country's future. Maybe that's what makes this moment so challenging: loving a place enough to grieve its choices, while wondering if love alone is enough to bring us back.
As we stand at this crossroads, I wonder how other Americans (those abroad, but also still at home) are wrestling with these same questions. How do we balance our children's safety with our desire to help shape our nation's future? When does distance become escape, and when is it self-preservation? We know we have to live into these questions, and that we cannot throw our hands up in despair. My hope is in knowing that while answers lie not in certainty, there's a pathway to keep going -- in knowing that we're not alone in asking. I do believe we will find our way forward together – alongside our loved ones and all those who remain committed to being light in these darkening times.
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