Fists of Resilience
After six brain surgeries, the race was called. We won.
I clench my fists. Not in resistance, but in despair while I sleep.
It is symptomatic of a fight or flight response that Dr. Curtis Reisinger, a clinical psychologist at Zucker Hillside Hospital, calls flooding.
When our thoughts and emotions overwhelm our mind, some have insomnia, some grind their teeth, I ready to defend.
I am one of the 476 women who ran for the House of Representatives this year, and after a highly competitive primary which I wasn’t “supposed” to win by traditional standards, I was one of 235 women nominees for House in the November 6 midterm elections.
Surprisingly for the first 379 days on the campaign trail, my brain didn’t flood. I was exhausted, yes, but there wasn’t a restless anxiety because every day had purpose. Every day we spread the message of healthy families. Every day I left it all out on the field.
We were running a movement for change in a district that had never seen the likes of it, and we were doing it our way without corporate money and without negativity. It was honest, emotional, transparent and true to my values. Despite the attacks, it evoked no worry. Each day gave me hope.
Then, on September 20 my sleep grew weary, restless and tense.
It was the night before a televised debate with the incumbent. While confident in my purpose and positions, it would be a falsehood to claim I wasn’t anxious. I was a tech COO not a four-term Congressman. Would his DC experience and rhetoric outshine my stories from the ground?
By all accounts, I stood strong and faired well in the hour-long dialogue, but my sleep remained disrupted. As that Friday evening turned to Saturday, I realized something was very wrong at home.
I was the first-time Congressional candidate in a district labeled too tough to flip, a race no one wanted to cover because the odds were against us despite the change we were creating. Now, I was suddenly also the Congressional candidate with a husband diagnosed with multiple brain abscesses. He was in a fight for his life.
In the days that followed, if I slept, my fists were clenched. My mind flooded with thoughts of winning one battle but losing the other. I wanted two wins. I needed both.
What people called “amazing” strength in the subsequent weeks was actually a response to fear. My fight or flight response in waking hours was one of determined force unlike the fearful flood response of the dark.
With my boys at my side or often on my hip, I rallied volunteers, spoke to crowds of voters and listened to those who simply needed to be heard. I showed up, even when my opponent declined to share the stage with me. And with every handshake, every mile and every hug, I was held up by a community driven by incredible purpose.
My kids were loved, fed and held by this growing family of support. They showed remarkable resilience.
The hope was strong.
On November 5, my husband had surgery for the sixth time. It was midday on a Monday, and I sat in a familiar room waiting for results.
On Tuesday, he watched election results from the ICU with an external drain implanted in his brain. Thirty minutes away, the kids and I shared the moment with nearly 200 new family members.
Soon the race was called and a checkmark took position by my opponent’s name. Even though we knew the political odds were always stacked against us, defeat was gut wrenching.
We closed the gap from previous cycles by more than 50 percent, but still, I felt I had let the movement in Arizona’s 6th Congressional district down. I was honored to be lifted up by voices that simply wanted a new type of representation. I was honored to be chosen, and I had to make good on their efforts.
I spent hours, if not days, going over what could have been done differently.
But all I could do now was clench my fists to move forward.
Returning to a campaign promise
On the Saturday following the election, my husband returned home. After 45 days across three hospitals and six brain surgeries, we had won this battle.
For the first two days of his homecoming I simply went through the motions. I watched myself feel unsure of what would come next, afraid of the challenges of recovery, and sunken in my own loss despite this family win.
Sunday night as I put the boys to bed I lingered in their room, too numb to deal with anything happening in the world outside their door. Here, through my tears, I saw a mother’s greatest reflection of self and our greatest chance at spreading immutable hope.
My oldest was asleep, but his face furrowed with stress and his fists clenched. I tried to open them, but his burden was great.
Earlier that day he had asked me with great seriousness, “Will Daddy stay for Christmas?”
Wade is four going on five. When I first decided to run, he gave me hope. Now, it is my turn to rebuild his.
I may not be prepping a Congressional staff and office this cycle, but I will still be focused on healthy families, removing worry and leading with hope. That was my campaign promise. And I plan to honor it.
I’ll start with a Power Rangers 5th birthday party.
