The other day, someone asked me how I was doing, and I said, “I’m not okay.”

It’s not the standard response people expect when they ask this question. Usually the person asking doesn’t really want to know how you are, it’s something people say, like “Hot enough for you out there?” or “Do you have plans for the holidays?”

It’s the polite thing to say, a sort of conversational placeholder until it is your turn to speak again.

The truth of the matter is that I haven’t been okay for a long time now. I’ve been walking the fine line between burnout and breakdown for what seems like decades, long before the pandemic and personal loss swept through our lives, stretching me farther than I could have thought possible. Recovering from that time period merely put me back walking on the tightrope, so to speak, instead of clinging to it with my fingertips.

To switch metaphors, there are times when you’re riding a galloping horse and for whatever reason–it stumbles or begins to buck–and you lose your balance. There’s a tipping point at which you know you’re not going to regain it and you have to decide if you should keep trying or bail–choosing to control your fall and landing. I’ve always been good at recovering my balance and getting myself upright in the saddle, getting the horse back under control and shoving my feet into stirrups again. But there are times when it is truly impossible.

Just when I thought I might regain my balance enough to make it to the other side of these past years–whatever that other side might be–I was utterly devastated by the results of the most recent US election. This may lose me readers and followers. If so, so be it.

I grew up in a Christian household. Church every Sunday, Vacation Bible School, and spiritual retreats. Weekly worship sessions were about learning how best to walk in the path of Christ’s teachings. Somewhere along the line, the message of sermons became unrecognizable to me. I saw doors close because members of a congregation would rather have their church dissolved than to let in the influx of BIPOC members of the community resulting from changing neighborhood demographics. I witnessed a kind, decent, and inspirational pastor be removed from his pulpit because his wife asked for a divorce. I noted the rise of authority figures within a church who became powerful and wealthy men in the community, leveraging their status into more power and wealth in the larger world of politics.

Sermons became less about the teachings of Christ and more about how “life is like a football game, and it’s the 4th down and time to punt.” I wish I could tell you I was exaggerating, but I’m not. I’ve heard the football sermon more times that I can count in more churches than I care to name.

For the life of me, I can’t understand how anyone professing to be a Christian can strike down against almost every tenet of Jesus. Who believed in feeding the hungry. Healing the sick. A social activist who had known hunger, poverty, and homelessness. An immigrant, a defender of the marginalized, a champion of the broken-hearted and the oppressed. Executed by the Roman government who saw Him as a political threat.

I cannot understand anyone professing to be a Christian choosing to sit down at a table Jesus would have flipped.

These last few weeks post election have been an emotional rollercoaster for me. I fear for the future of my country and the safety of people I love. I know I’m relatively safe, all things considered. I’m a senior white woman in a loving marriage with a man who supports me as a human being and I’m well-beyond child-bearing age. We have reasonably secure jobs that pay the bills, even though I see major belt-tightening in our future because every time we have a GOP controlled administration, the economy suffers. But not every member of my family has these same privileges. The BIPOC and LGBQTIA+ members certainly don’t. The women in my family don’t. The planet and our future generations don’t have the luxury of taking a “wait and see” approach. And once you start sliding down the slope of authoritarianism, finding purchase to climb back up again is challenging, to say the least.

(I have to say, looking at the next administration’s cabinet picks, I should never give another moment’s thought ever to imposter syndrome. Ever.)

But my pendulum swings between rage and despair are shallower now. I may not be able to change what is happening to my country (and therefore, the world) but I can control how I react to it. I will not live in misery and fear.

As I have previously said, I write stories for the person who needs a few hours of escapism from their lives: the caretaker who needs some moments of respite, those who are chronically ill or in pain, the person who had a crappy day at work (or years of crappy days at work), the person living with crippling anxiety. More and more, I write because I need that kind of escapism.

So while you will see more Ginny Reese mysteries, I’m also going to write the stories that allow me to step into another world and forget my own for a few hours, regardless if they sell or not. I will spend less time on social media, jumping through hoops, aiming for a bar that keeps moving. More time with those I care about most, and doing the small things that bring me joy for as long as I can.

There’s a reason why, when you get bucked off a horse, you’re told to get back on right away. It’s because the longer you stay off the horse, the harder it is to get back in the saddle, to put yourself at risk again. Sometimes, the wiser course of action is to stay grounded and take a different path. I have the luxury of choosing a different path. I hope to use my privilege in more meaningful ways than I have thus far.

So while I’m not okay right now, I’m getting better. And I’ll be okay again someday.