“Should I stay or should I go?”

It’s a question many people I know are asking—especially in the wake of the 2024 presidential election. But it’s not a new question. It’s one that people labeled immigrant, refugee, or exile have asked for generations.

It is the question of the crossroads—a place of uncertainty, of parting paths, of difficult choices.

I admit, I’ve been asking myself this question, too.

Some people I know are determined to stay in the U.S. They are optimistic about the future—about democracy’s resilience—or feel a patriotic duty to remain. Others simply love the land, the community, the people they’ve grown roots with. They can’t imagine leaving.

But many are leaving—or planning to. Friends have moved to Spain, Portugal, Croatia, Mexico. Some are embracing a nomadic life, seeking safety, or simply a different way to live.

Yesterday, I heard from an African American friend. Her family, she said, is grieving.

“It’s not an option to move a 96-year-old mother without a passport out of the country.”

Another friend has Lebanese parents who were visiting but cannot return home due to the bombings. Their family is now in a painful limbo.

Others can’t afford to move. Or they don’t know how—especially those with children, aging parents, or community obligations.

Some are already under threat of deportation.

So the question may not be just, “Should I stay or should I go?” But also, “Is it selfish to go when those I love can’t?”

At the crossroads, whatever path we choose, we are often met with a breaking.

A breaking of hearts.

A breaking from place, from kin, from past promises.

A breaking of illusions.

And all around us, other forms of breaking:

🌪️ Trees toppled by wind

🏚️ Homes lost to floods and mudslides

🔥 Cities broken by bombs and fires

So what do we do at this threshold, when we feel immobilized?

There’s one thing that helps me in these moments—and I’ll be sharing more in my walks, workshops, and writings.

👉 Pay attention to the life in the broken landscape.

Notice the woodpeckers and insects feeding from a fallen tree.

The squirrels gnawing the pumpkins we carved and abandoned after Halloween.

The neighbors quietly helping one another—bringing food to displaced families, bailing water from flooded streets, sitting beside those who are grieving.

Even in the breaking, there is always the act of creation.

Poet Stephanie Burt, in her piece “Advice from Rock Creek Park,” offers this:

Almost always better
to build than to wreck
You can build in a wreck
Under the roots
of an overturned tree

🌱 We build even as things fall apart.

🌀 We move forward even when we’re unsure which path is “right.”

And we pay attention to the smallest signs of life—that remind us we are still here.