The Hundred Day Hangover
On democracy’s headache, the fight ahead, and why giving up isn’t an option
As I sit with the reality of Donald Trump’s latest 100 days in office, “exhausted” doesn’t cover it—I feel hungover. The kind of weary that fogs your brain, drains your energy, and makes you wish you could manipulate time and skip this national embarrassment altogether.
I used to be in the room where it happened—or at least a room that mattered. I sat beside the “Tim Walz” wall, hustling through four frenetic floors of campaign life, where murals of Joe Biden and Kamala Harris shared space with half-toppled yard signs, twinkling fairy lights, and sticky notes of encouragement taped to monitors. It was makeshift, it was messy, but it was alive with one purpose: to save democracy. Back then, I carried a fire that lit me up from the inside out—and despite everything, it hasn’t gone out.
Now, 175 days later, I find myself stuck in a cycle of doomscrolling for answers and shutting down to preserve my sanity. I crave a sense of purpose again, trying to grasp the version of America I was raised to believe in. Maybe she never fully existed—not for everyone, at least—our civic education sanded smooth by a whitewashed lens, the dirt swept under the rug of American exceptionalism. But as Cory Booker once said, “If America hasn’t broken your heart, then you don’t love her enough.”
These last 100 days have felt like one long, exasperating headache. The words “I told you so” sit on the tip of my tongue, not in the smug, “called it” way, but in the “how is anyone still surprised by this?” way. There’s no satisfaction in watching the fallout.
Since Trump returned to office, this administration has wielded its agenda with the subtlety of a sledgehammer—escalating attacks on women’s rights through the SAVE Act, pushing to strip protections from trans Americans, issuing sweeping authoritarian executive orders, and eroding due process with the goal of abandoning it altogether. And now the current pièce de résistance—fucking tariffs.
My worries aren’t abstract—they’re deeply personal. I worry about my parents’ retirement, my grandmothers’ access to Social Security and Medicaid. I worry about my friends losing access to gender-affirming care, and, frankly, my own access to medication—both of which hang by a thread. I worry about empty shelves, overburdened hospitals, and the decades of medical research that will fall behind due to funding cuts. I fume at the thought of not taking my partner’s name to circumvent the SAVE Act, another assault on our rights that feels like an ever-more likely reality.
I can’t begin to tell you how embarrassed I am on the global stage. I have friends all over the UK, Canada, and EU. They know I fought for democracy, but what does it matter now? Once the leader of the free world, now we’re being shut out because of some playground bully who has zero understanding of the economy and how trade works. The fact that Google searches for “what’s a tariff” spiked after the election is both sad and worrying—it’s a symptom of a much deeper, more complex problem we need to address.
None of these fears are fringe, and I’m tired of being told I’m overreacting. Somehow, we’re still stuck in the same exhausted loop: worrying about high school trans kids competing in sports while our country rumbles—possibly beyond repair.
So what do we do with this hundred-day hangover?
We get up. We hydrate. Take some ibprofen. We remember that resistance doesn’t always look like a bullhorn and a protest sign. Sometimes it looks like a quiet choice, repeated daily. It’s an act we all must strive for. Resisting authoritarianism.
If you’re new to this—or if you’re coming back after burn out (hi, me too)—start small. Start local. Follow your school board. Learn who’s on your city council. Read one trusted source on what’s happening in your state legislature. If something pisses you off, find out who voted for it—and call them. (Yes, even if they never pick up. Especially if they never pick up.)
Here’s what doing the work can look like:
Call your representatives—state and federal. Even if you think it won’t matter. Flooding their lines does mean something.
Donate to causes you care about: abortion funds, trans rights orgs, mutual aid networks. Even $5 matters.
If you can’t donate, amplify. Sharing a message spreads awareness—and that has power, too.
Volunteer locally. Help register voters, feed neighbors, teach digital literacy. Change starts on your block.
Show up—at rallies, town halls, forums. Not for the Instagram story, but to listen. To be counted.
Talk to your people. Not to win an argument—but to open a door.
For those of us who are disabled, chronically ill, introverted, or just tapped out— I got you and I see you. There are still ways to resist that don’t drain every last spoon:
Digital advocacy: Share vetted information, uplift marginalized voices, and organize online. Even resharing a resource can help someone feel less alone.
Write: Letters to the editor. Emails to electeds. Public Comments on proposed legislation. Your voice on the page can be just as powerful as feet in the street.
Donate your skills: Are you a designer, writer, researcher, data nerd, or organizer? Many local groups desperately need digital volunteers.
Mutual aid from home: Help coordinate rides, meals, or fundraisers. Drop off groceries or schedule meds refills for folks who need support.
Rest as resistance: Especially if you’re from a marginalized group, prioritizing your well-being is a political act. Burnout serves no one.
You don’t have to do everything. But you can do something. And that something matters. Most importantly: keep fighting when it stops trending. The system wants us distracted. Tired. Obedient. Don’t obey in advance.
Hangovers can be eased with rest, medicine, and time—but the work? The work is the cure, and it needs you. Don’t wait for the nausea to pass—keep pushing, even when it feels like you can’t.