the grief that binds us
/rōot/ awakenings post # 15 - on collective grief, institutional betrayal, and healing in community
On Friday night, after the news of the Senate vote settled in, I sat down in front of the TV looking for a distraction—something familiar and comforting. Something to remind me of happier times. But within minutes, I found myself sobbing. Not the quiet kind—the body-shaking, breath-stealing kind of sobs.
This show I had chosen—an old one that had aired while I was still high school, living safely in my parents’ home—was tackling the same issues we’re still fighting today. Equal rights. Misogyny. Racism. State-sanctioned violence. A lack of accountability for government officials. And after a day of watching yet another failure of leadership in this country, the weight of our reality and the lack of any real real progress in the almost 4 decades since the show first aired—landed like a gut punch.
I’ve been talking a lot about institutional betrayal lately. It’s a form of crisis that often arises with moral injury and is experienced as a wounding to our collective conscience. We’ve felt it for a while, but more so in the past 6 weeks as the people and institutions entrusted with power betray our trust in ways that cause deep ethical wounds. We’ve seen it recently as leaders who swore an oath to uphold the Constitution bend to the will of authoritarians. When laws meant to protect the most vulnerable are wielded against them instead. When those who claim to stand for justice choose power over people, time and time again.
But as I sat with my emotions, I realized what I was feeling was more than just moral injury or institutional betrayal. It was grief.
Not just personal grief that comes with losing someone you love—but collective grief. The kind that settles in your bones when you realize the institutions that were supposed to serve and protect us are not only failing but were never truly built for all of us to begin with. The kind of grief that comes from watching history repeat itself, from knowing that those in power have learned nothing from the past. The kind of grief that is rooted in feelings of not belonging. The kind that is too heavy for any one person to carry alone.
This is the grief so many of us are feeling right now.
This grief we’re feeling in this moment isn’t isolated or fleeting—it’s layered, historical, generational, and communal. We’re grieving democracy as we once knew it. We’re grieving the loss of our freedoms. We’re grieving the loss of our safety and security. We’re grieving the loss of our standing in the world. We’re grieving the loss of life. Some of us have been grieving these things for a long time. For others, the losses are only now becoming undeniable. But regardless of when the grief set in, or when we started feeling it, we can’t move forward without mourning our losses.
As isolating as grief can often feel, collective grief isn’t meant to be experienced alone. Across communities, across generations, across movements for justice, this sorrow links us together. Connects us. It reminds us that we are not the first to feel these losses, and we will not be the last to fight for something better.
And as bleak as things look right now, the beauty of grief is that it isn’t an ending. It’s a threshold.
Our ancestors knew this. Across cultures and traditions, there have always been rituals for the wounded—for those who have suffered injustice, for those who have watched their homes crumble, for those who have had to bear witness to betrayal and loss. In these moments, they didn’t have to turn inward alone. They turned toward each other. They wailed, they prayed, they sang, they held one another. They built something new from the ruins, not by denying their grief—but by honoring it together.
We need those rituals now. We need spaces to grieve together, rage together, rest together. Because the systems that betray us want us to feel fractured, exhausted, and hopeless. But our ancestors whisper a different story into our souls—a story of people who healed and survived because they refused to grieve alone.
a compassionate reframe
Collective grief isn’t just a sign that we still care. It’s a force that pulls us toward one another. Throughout history, communities have survived periods of collective resistance because of the bonds formed in the depths of collective sorrow. We don’t have to grieve alone—because grief, when honored and shared with others, becomes part of the cycle of life itself, like decay giving rise to new growth on the forest floor. It’s how both ecosystems and communities regenerate and come to life after a long winter.
And maybe—just maybe—this grief holds within it an invitation. A chance to return to ways of being that many of us have been pulled away from. Ways that remind us we are meant to rely on one another, to care for one another, to survive together. As we sit with this grief, perhaps it can guide us back to the ancient truth that we are more whole when we remember we were never meant to navigate this life alone.
If it feels like a lot right now, remember that it’s okay to pause here. To sit in the anger, sorrow, and frustration. To feel weighed down by the pain of what is happening to us as a society. To do so isn’t weakness; it’s a form of self-compassion and a reminder that as we play the long game, we don’t have to play it alone.
reflection prompts
As we begin sifting through the ruins of the current destruction, I invite you to reflect on the following:
- What are you grieving right now? Name it.
- What rituals—ancestral or personal—help you process loss?
- Who are the people in your life who remind you that you do not have to grieve alone?
- How can we build new spaces for collective care and healing as we navigate this moment in history?
one final thought
Mourning is a form of resistance. Rest is a form of resistance. Love is a form of resistance. They’re also the ancient ways of survival: to grieve, to rest, to love—and to reach for each other in the dark. In every act of care we connect and remind ourselves that healing and survival have always been shared experiences, that were never meant for us to try to navigate on our own.
Hold on to that knowledge. Hold on to each other. And let your tears flow.
In solidarity + gratitude,
upcoming workshops . . .
Use the link below to learn more about this and the full calendar of upcoming workshops and events using the link below.
in case you missed it . . .
I recently launched a community reflection + writing group where we’re using writing prompts inspired by the book On Tyranny by Timothy Snyder to reflect and process current events. The lessons in the book are very timely and have inspired me to take on a special project where I’m writing an essay each day for 20 days in response to the lesson from the book. Here are a few of of the essays I’ve written so far. You can find the full set of essays using the link below.
Dimple Dhabalia
