Restorative Grief with Mandy Capehart
Angriefolitical: A Plea for Empathy
When politics, anger, and grief collide
How many therapy sessions per week is too many? This is a question I find myself wondering aloud too often these days. As the American political season continues (somehow) to intensify daily, I am one overwhelmed trauma specialist and grief coach.
The response to our political climate right now is a spectrum. Where some are apathetic, others are emboldened with no other areas of focus. I’ve been told to forget about the election and focus on my day to day life. I’ve been advised that I’m failing as a trauma professional by sharing political conversations. More times than I can count, I’ve been “not argued with” on social media through fact flinging and rhetorical questions.
I won’t go so far as to say there are no good faith arguments on social media any longer, but what I find more common is the intentional misunderstanding of what I’m calling “angriefolitical.”
This. This is what I feel when I think about when I express my utter helplessness and frustration at the current political landscape, common online responses to my anger, and the grief underlying all of it.
When I take the chance to share something about the current candidates for president or any other office that scare me (for myself OR on behalf of other people groups), the last thing I need to hear is the same spiritual bypassing, minimizing, centering, or platitudes that show up for grievers.
The second to last thing? Phrases like, “I’m not arguing, but…”. Equally infuriating, these are statements meant to drive an argument as to why what I’ve said is not sufficient.
But let’s unpack that a little. Angriefolitical isn’t just a catchy term. It’s a visceral experience — one where anger and grief and politics don’t sit side by side but are braided together so tightly that pulling them apart feels impossible. It’s waking up with the weight of the world on your chest, knowing that the outcome of a political decision is not just an abstract idea for debate but a life-or-death reality for many. Grief is political. Politics make us angry. Anger is also grief.
Angriefolitical is the deep sorrow of knowing that, while I may have the privilege of intellectualizing my anger, others — due to the color of their skin, their gender, their sexuality, or their immigration status — live in that grief daily. And when I attempt to share these intersecting emotions, I don’t need rebuttals; I need people to hold space.
This is where many of our conversations break down. When I’ve said my piece and still sense an embodied refusal to understand what I’m trying to explain, angriefolitical sensations erupt. Angriefolitical feelings are complex, layered, and deeply personal. It’s not a neat argument where points are scored for knowing the most facts. It’s about human beings, safety, and the future of our collective well-being. To dismiss that with simplistic reasoning or, worse, to reduce it to “just politics” is to completely overlook the humanity behind the issues.
For example, in a recent conversation I had with a family member, it became clear that our dialogue wasn’t just about differing political opinions. No matter the point of view I offered, the values I articulated, or the appeal to their humanity, we landed on different opinions about the definition and importance of human flourishing and the individuals right to thrive. My perspective of the collective wellness we all need in order to heal was dismissed as soft and weak. The conversation embodied my grief and fear over what those opinions mean for people I love. It was not just about what I think would be best in the world — it was about how personal loss, systemic oppression, and societal injustices shaped my perspective in ways that couldn’t be easily explained or debated.
Creating space for angriefolitical conversations is not only vital — it’s revolutionary. To sit with someone else’s grief and anger, to resist the urge to “not argue but…” and instead say, “I see you,” is a radical act of empathy. In these moments, we are not only offering emotional safety but also opening the door to potential transformation. After all, you cannot change someone’s mind by attacking their position; you change it by connecting to their heart.
To create these conversations for ourselves, we must first recognize that no one else can dictate how or why we feel grief and anger in response to political matters. These are real, valid emotions that stem from lived experiences, and dismissing them only leads to further harm.
So how do we move forward? We begin by listening. When you hear someone expressing their angriefolitical feelings, resist the urge to jump into a debate. Start by acknowledging their pain and anger, not as a political challenge but as a deeply human experience. Ask yourself what is at stake for them and how you can be part of a conversation that leads to healing, rather than division.
Those questions might sound like this:
- Do you have life experiences that have shaped that viewpoint?
- How would your life be impacted if this did or didn’t happen?
- What makes this issue so personal for you?
I’ve found that sometimes the most impactful way to challenge someone’s misinformed or narrow political conclusions isn’t with facts or counterarguments, but with vulnerability. It is much harder to hate or ignore someone when you can see their humanity and similarities to yourself. Sharing my grief, my fear, and my anger not as weapons but as invitations to empathy can open doors that would otherwise remain firmly shut.
A peacemaker is needed. For these intense and charged conversations, a person willing to regulate their own nervous system and move toward others in conflict from a foundation of love and not fear can change the world.
When we see the scarcity and harm narratives pushed forth, we are witnessing a value set foundationally built on fear. Emphasis placed on severe and negative outcomes, although couched in phrases like “family values, love, tradition, and even safety, etc.” are driving toward a future where control and certainty are the true primary values.
The alternative is love. If we can learn to lead with a foundation of love — not one based on theology, control, certainty, or limited risk — we start to see our values manifested with far less effort and pain.
Love leads a wide path through chaos. The generosity is an overflow, because we’re not scrambling to be cared for; our needs are met because we show up to ensure the collective is thriving, and we are part of that collective.
In the end, it’s not about who wins or loses an argument. These conversations need to happen and they need to shift, because I want to be part of creating a world where we can navigate the complexities of politics, grief, and anger in ways that honor each other’s humanity. This political season is hard — brutally hard — but maybe, just maybe, if we can find the courage to have angriefolitical conversations, we can start to collectively heal.
Mandy Capehart is on a mission to normalize grieving and cultivate the conversations that bring us healing. She is the founder and CEO of The Restorative Grief Project, an online community focusing on one another’s stories and new methodologies for grief to create a safe environment for our souls to heal and our spirits to be revived. She is also the host of a weekly podcast, Restorative Grief with Mandy Capehart, as well as a published author, certified trauma professional, grief educator, one-to-one coach, and somatic embodiment practitioner. She specializes in the intersection of grief and faith, educating faith communities on how to create helpful healing environments without platitudes or spiritual bypassing.
Learn more about Mandy’s work at MandyCapehart.com.
