The world is too much
Being real about managing emotions & sharing an example where I didn't do a very good job at it / Not a defeatist message
Thursday is Thanksgiving Day in the United States. This holiday is celebrated with traditional foods and desserts … and dinner conversations about gratitude.
Ordinarily, I am grateful for health and relationships on Thanksgiving Day … the sort of gratitude suitable for discussing at the table.1 And holiday dinner conversations are like hugs. Ordinarily.
Thanksgiving in 2025 feels different from prior years. I feel the wrecking ball that is swinging through our civil liberties and environmental protections. I feel deeply disappointed by brazen abuses of power. Daily.
Current events are relentless and triggering. Children trafficked, used and silenced. Their abusers dismissive and protected behind smokescreens and privilege.
Some days, the world is too much.2
The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending we lay waste our powers;
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
- from “The World Is Too Much with Us” by William Wordsworth
So, I offer this heartfelt public service announcement on behalf of people everywhere: please, know that we’re all hurting. Emotions are close to the surface. The world is too much. Even simple words can feel triggering. Even in the form of a joke — especially in the form of a joke.
Please be kind to each other.
Will the world be at the dinner table on Thanksgiving this year?
Gosh, I hope not.
I imagine that I’m not the only person who has a twinge of fear about someone bringing up wrecking ball topics in social settings … particularly when my guard is down and I am feeling safe among my people.
I have a story … the topic is wrecking ball adjacent. I’m not proud of my reaction. And that’s part of the learning.
The most recent dinner table trigger happened this summer over ice cream cake. A story about two family dogs and a sexually transmitted infection (STI) was told by someone who innocently3 thought it was hilarious: a small, male dog had humped the leg of a large, female dog and ended up with a so-called STI.
The story hit my muscle memory and I knew it. I should have walked away in that moment.
That’s not funny, I said.
The storyteller, insisting it was hilarious, doubled-down and rephrased: Jolene GAVE Little Finger an STI.4
It’s not funny, I maintained. None of this is Jolene’s fault.
You don’t get it, he said.
I think he explained some more. I remember being confused and disappointed. I sensed a building-up of frustration. (Another moment when I could have put down my ice cream cake and walked away.)
No, YOU don’t get it.
(I spoke emphatically, focusing on word choice.)
Jolene did not GIVE anything. Jolene’s leg was humped by Little Finger … any irritation to his penis is on him.
I took a breath. The frustration-turning-into-panic was overwhelming. I continued, trying to explain by switching from dogs to people:
My leg was humped on a crowded bus in Rome and if that man had any irritation to his penis afterward, he did that to himself. I did not give him anything. He took.
The storyteller looked stunned.
When? What did you do? he asked.
I was 22. I did nothing, I said.
He looked aghast.
I froze.
He knew my history. Being frozen and silent was my learned response in childhood. It was in my muscle memory.
I said more, although I should have let it go and said nothing at all. I immediately regretted everything that I’d said.
I walked away. I think I made it to the door before I was covered in tears and shaking.
This retelling may not reflect our exact words … I was hurt, angry and stunned that someone was normalizing assault and blaming the female who simply reacted by freezing.
Later, he said something about me not understanding that he was talking about dogs.
I apologized and tried to give some context but … how could he understand, really, the deep panic that surfaces when sexual trauma is triggered?
REFLECTION:
Even now, writing about this memory is painful and difficult:
I am not ashamed that I froze on the bus.
I regret jumping on the storyteller. Defending Jolene’s honor was a gesture that only made sense to me.
I know this story / this feeling / this panic keeps me in that terrible moment until I release it. I am officially releasing it now … and for this I am grateful.
THANK YOU:
Thank you for reading and engaging with Old Grateful™. I am grateful for feeling more like myself (it has been three months since the passing of my beloved Aunt Linda) and I am deeply grateful for each subscriber to this substack.
Whether you’re supporting my work with a free or paid account, I appreciate each of you. In the coming days/weeks, changes to this substack will make engagement and receiving Reiki simpler. More soon with my thanks.
All of us here know I wear my gratitude proudly.
As I type this sentence — the world is too much — I recall the sonnet by Wordsworth. I am grateful for this memory of studying English Romantic poets in college, including “The World Is Too Much with Us” published in 1807 in Poems, in Two Volumes by William Wordsworth.
I call the storytelling innocent here because it was not told with intent to upset anyone … and he certainly didn’t expect my 🤯 🔥 reaction.
I’ve changed the dogs’ names.