We are writing with heavy hearts one email to the whole iLumn8 community as one this week. The killing of Alex Pretti by federal agents in Minneapolis this past weekend—the second such killing of a U.S. citizen this month—has left our country (and the world) reeling. Alex was an ICU nurse, a healer, someone who dedicated his life to caring for others in their most vulnerable moments.
The circumstances of his death, captured on video and contradicting official accounts, are deeply disturbing. Our hearts go out to Alex’s family, friends, and all who knew him, and to the family of Renee Good, killed just weeks earlier.
We share this not to add to the weight of what you may already be carrying, but to acknowledge it. We are awake. We are witnessing. We see what is happening in our community and in the wider world. And we believe that in times like these, the work we do together—exploring how to stay present, how to understand our bodies’ responses, how to hold both grief and hope—is not a retreat from reality. It is essential to engage with it.
This week’s piece from Goddess Guide and iLumn8 Partner Robyn Alley-Hay feels especially resonant right now. Following up on our recent exploration of hope as a nervous system skill, Robyn takes us deeper into understanding despair—not as something to overcome or fix, but as an intelligent response from our bodies that deserves our attention and compassion.
In a world that constantly demands we “stay positive,” Robyn offers us permission to be real. To feel what we feel. To understand that despair, anger, and grief aren’t signs of weakness—they’re signs that we’re paying attention to what matters.
Our work here—offering tools for emotional, spiritual, and physical health—is not about bypassing the reality of violence, injustice, and loss. It’s about developing the capacity to stay present with it, to respond rather than collapse, to maintain our humanity in the face of inhumanity. This is how we survive. This is how we resist. This is how we care for ourselves and each other so we can continue to show up for the world that needs us.
When Despair Makes Sense
The truth about despair: Hope series, Part 2
By Robyn Alley-Hay
I wrote recently about hope and why it is a form of political resistance. (see previous writing “Hope is a Nervous System Skill”). This is part 2 of my inquiry into staying sane and engaged.
Often, before you have hope, there can be despair. Can I find the balance between hope and despair? I’m not wrong for feeling despair—the trick is for me not to make it wrong, or worse to make me, myself wrong for my experience (I know I am the only one who does this, lol).
I often go from one to the other like a rollercoaster (that just keeps going). How do I hold both? Is it truly either/or? What is wrong with me? The short answer is that there is nothing wrong with me. Of course, despair is there. It is a most sane emotion, given current events. I just don’t want to get stuck there, frozen.
Despair: let’s start with what it is not.
It is not a personal flaw.
It is not a lack of resilience.
It is not evidence that you have given up too easily.
Despair is what happens when the nervous system has learned—through repetition—that effort does not reliably lead to change and therefore we must guard our heart by shutting down or giving up. This is how I think of it, anyway.
And in that sense, despair makes sense.
There are moments when grief and despair are the only honest responses to what is happening in the world. There are times when anger rises not because you are reactive, but because something you love is being harmed. Political grief is not abstract. It lives in the body. It shows up as exhaustion, irritability, shutdown, and a longing to look away—not because we do not care, but because we care so deeply that staying open feels unbearable.
Many people I work with tell me they feel ashamed of their despair. Ashamed of their anger; ashamed that they cannot “stay hopeful” all the time, or wanting to give up. But what if despair is not the problem? What if the problem is that we have been taught to turn despair inward, instead of understanding what it is a response to?
From a nervous-system perspective, despair is a protective response. When the system perceives ongoing threat combined with limited agency, it conserves energy. It pulls back. It dulls sensation. This is not weakness—it is survival. The body is saying: I cannot keep mobilizing without relief.
This is why relentless calls to “stay positive” can feel violent. They bypass the intelligence of the body. They demand output without restoring capacity. And they leave people feeling like they are failing at something that was never meant to be sustained alone.
Anger, too, has been misunderstood. Particularly women’s anger. We are taught to fear it, soften it, or redirect it into self-criticism. But anger is not inherently destructive. Anger is information. It signals violated boundaries. It signals that something precious is at risk. When anger is denied or shamed, it does not disappear—it turns inward, often becoming depression, anxiety, or chronic tension - sneaky despair creeps in.
The Political Dimension
Political systems know this. A population that doubts its own emotional responses is easier to manage. People who distrust their anger are less likely to act on their knowing. A community that pathologizes grief is less likely to grieve together—and collective grief is dangerous to unjust systems because it clarifies what has been lost and what must be protected.
This is where despair becomes dangerous—not because it exists, but because of what happens when it becomes isolating. When despair convinces you that you are alone in your grief. When it whispers that nothing you do matters. When it collapses the future into a single, immovable story.
Despair says: Why bother?
Rage says: This must not continue.
Grief says: Something I love is gone—or threatened.
Each of these carries truth. None of them are meant to be carried alone.
The Work
The work is not to eliminate despair, anger, or grief. The work is to keep them from becoming totalizing. To allow them to move. To give them language, rhythm, and relational space. To let them inform rather than dominate.
This is where hope re-enters—not as a replacement, but as a companion.
Hope does not ask you to bypass despair. It asks you to stay connected while you pass through it. Hope does not cancel rage. It gives rage direction. Hope does not erase grief. It insists that grief deserves witnesses.
So if you find yourself despairing, begin here: notice what your body is protecting you from feeling all at once. If you feel angry, ask what boundary has been crossed. If you are grieving, ask what love is being revealed.
Then ask a different kind of question—not “How do I feel better?” but rather “What support would allow my nervous system to stay engaged without collapse?”
That support might be rest.
It might be honesty.
It might be community.
It might be saying no to one more demand that pretends urgency without offering care.
Despair becomes dangerous when it isolates. Rage becomes destructive when it has nowhere to go. Grief becomes unbearable when it is unnamed. But when these experiences are met with understanding, they become clarifying rather than crushing.
Clarity Rooted in the Body
This is not emotional self-improvement. This is clarity rooted in the body.
Because a woman who understands her despair is less likely to internalize blame. A woman who trusts her anger is more likely to protect what matters. A woman who allows herself to grieve is more capable of imagining a future worth living into.
If you feel overwhelmed, place a hand on your body, your heart center or your lower abdomen and take a few long, deep breaths. Not to calm yourself, but to stay present. Say quietly: This response makes sense. I do not have to resolve it right now.
You are not failing.
You are responding.
And that response—when held with awareness and care—is part of how change begins.
We hope this piece resonates with you and offers you the permission to be exactly where you are. In these difficult times, when violence touches our own community so directly, remember that you’re not alone in feeling these things—and there is profound wisdom in your body’s responses.
The work we do here—understanding our nervous systems, honoring our emotions, building community—is not separate from the struggle for justice. It is how we sustain ourselves for the long work ahead. It is how we stay human in the face of inhumanity. It is how we keep showing up.
Please take care of yourselves, and each other. Reach out if you need support. We are in this together.