How To Live in a Broken Country

Hoping for a "Plot Twist" in 2026...

The Geodome of Blyn, Washington

Today I spent three hours in a forest with women I didn’t know, moving in and out of saunas, doing cold plunges, and writing in our journals. It was forty-some degrees, the Pacific Northwest sky was clear, but because of the high heat of the saunas, I never felt cold.

The whole sanctuary was organized by Carrie Bancroft, whom I met in 2024, right before I began living through 2 of the hardest years of my life. If you’re in Western Washington (especially Kitsap or the Olympic Peninsula), I really recommend following her (Rising in Love with the Natural World ) because she creates the most grounding, generous spaces in the natural world for people to come back to themselves.

The reason I know Carrie is that one summer I randomly signed up for a Write, Hike & Swim on the Dosewallips River event. I didn’t know her. I didn’t know who would be there. I didn’t know what we’d be doing. I just had that inner feeling to say yes. A good friend was tracking my phone because when she asked “Who are you going on this hike/swim with?” my answer was, “I don’t know, I’ve never met them,” she thought it would be smart to have some idea where in the Olympic National Forest I was. When my cell signal dropped (as it does out there), she briefly assumed I’d joined a group of kidnappers and called Rose to plan my search party. Thankfully, they waited and I lived. But when I do these weird “follow my instinct” I’m reminded that sometimes we have to sign up for the thing we can’t fully picture yet—to “choose the bigger life” as Gretchen Rubin says.

And today, that bigger life looked like this: sweating in saunas that were heated by wood (thank you, SeaTsu Saunas near Sequim, WA), then plunging into 38-degree water, then rinsing off and lying back in an outdoor bathtub filled with herbs, staring up into the trees, feeling as if I’d been returned to myself. I sat for a good fifteen minutes watching the spiderwebs shimmer in the sun. It felt simple and good. It felt as if my nervous system was finally unclenching its tiny (um, huge!) fists for an afternoon.

Of course, you know the news yesterday (it’s early and I haven’t looked at what next new horrible thing happened today). And I won’t repeat the news here because I don’t want to add to anyone’s misery, and because even if you’re not watching the news, it still finds you, blindsides you, and maybe you feel it in your body, well—I do.

I keep thinking about this phrase for a poem, the next worse thing, because that’s what it can feel like living in America today: waiting for the next worse thing to come, bracing before it even arrives. I don’t think this is good for us.

Which is why I deleted all my social apps from my phone last night. I never know what video will pop up, what headline will slap me in the face, what will send my brain into high-alert. The strange part is that I’m supposed to be promoting my upcoming book right now, and social media is “where you do that,” but for a bit—I’m choosing something else. I’m choosing to protect my mind. I’m choosing the forest, the page. I’m choosing this little corner of the internet and decaf coffee.

So for now, I’ll be here on Substack. But if you ever need to reach me directly, you can always email me at kelli@agodon.com.

Also here’s a thing—I want this for you too. I want you to feel peace, not overwhelm.

We don’t have to be clueless or uninformed. We can still stay active (I’m on an email-chain by a local activist who shares “next steps” and local rallies to partake in). I recommend finding an organizer in your area who stays informed for those of us who feel overwhelmed and helpless, maybe hopeless. (If you’re looking, I kind of like this organization, Indivisible, because they have a “Find a Group” feature where you can click a box that says “newcomer friendly.”)

I also found READING news from the BBC is my best way to learn what’s happening in the world—1) they are not-for-profit & not associated with any government 2) it’s written in a boring way, not intentionally, but when you’re writing to share the news as opposed to freak people out on a daily basis, it’s much more informational than clickbait. It’s my throwback to how we got our news back in the 70s when I was kid, when the Sunday paper landed on the front porch and I sat in the living room with my parents, my father passing me the comics to read… So I’ve learned that, for me, it’s best to read my news.

Also, I don’t want to assume what you’re feeling. But if you have even a Grinch-size bit of compassion and empathy, you may be looking around with that Marvin Gaye song in your head and thinking, “What’s going on?” (By the way, this song was released on January 21, 1971—which, wrap your minds around that because this 55 year old song is so relevant today as well).

So I’ll leave you with this—even in these times of despair—I hope you keep writing poems, making art, baking bread, knitting sweaters, supporting live theatre & live music, writing letters, traveling, talking to strangers, and holding open doors. I hope you keep showing up for your people and find your ways to resist that don’t turn your mental health and nervous system into knots.

For so much of my life, I was told, You’re too sensitive or Don’t be so sensitive. As a child, I always felt a little broken when I heard this as I knew no other way to be than just myself. It took me years to realize: I’m not too sensitive. Maybe the world is not sensitive enough. The reframing. Maybe you need to hear that. You’re not too sensitive and there’s a reason we care hard. It can hurt, but I’m glad we do care.

Every day I wake up and hope this is the day for the “plot twist”—whatever it is that changes us into a positive direction as a country, where love wins over hate. I want to wake up to that thing that makes us say, “Wow, that’s good news! I didn’t see that coming!”

So that’s what I have for you this morning. May you go out into the world (or not) and find some joy, the miracle of the natural world, or even the coziness of coffee and a book at home. Small comforts. We need them.

Sending love, light, and a big dose of hope,

📍Where to find me: Substack. Author Page. Driving over the Hood Canal Bridge.

P.S. Also, since I won’t be sharing this on the socials—if you do want to preorder, Accidental Devotions I’d be thrilled (and so would my publisher!) You can do so here: from Open Books: Seattle’s Poetry-Only Bookstore / Amazon / Bookshop.org

And if you buy from Open Books: Seattle’s Poetry Only Bookstore, I can inscribe it to you. If you purchase it from anywhere else, drop me an email and I’ll send you a signed bookplate.

It’s unfortunately funny that my first Copper Canyon book came out during a global pandemic and now my second is coming out during the fall of democracy, so clearly I have a gift for impeccable timing. If Copper Canyon publishes a third book of mine, please check on your neighbors and stock up on beans. Love to you all. . . 💛

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