Time has always been an elusive concept to me. Maybe it’s due to my lack of control over it, or because I never feel like I have enough it, or because I always feel like a slave to my schedule. People argue routine is lethal, so I tell myself to do it—get out there, seize the day with spontaneous glory. But then I still meticulously map out my day in my planner. I designate the blocks of time for when I can eat, call my mom, fit in a run, talk to my friends. Without fail, I always end up deviating from this schedule. Either the run lasted a little too long (or short), or I don’t make it to Bear’s Den before rush hour, or I need to nap.

Unexpected things often get in the way of these conceived, ideal schedules, kind of like the election of Donald Trump.

On Tuesday night, it felt like we not only lost control over our schedules, but also our futures, particularly considering the imperfections within the electoral system. I speak for myself, and I think for many others as well, when I say Tuesday night felt like watching a spine-chilling accident unfold and not being able to do a thing about it.

As tears formed in my eyes, I frantically texted my dad, “I’m scared.” A simple man, always ready with a quick response and an emphasis on work ethic, he responds, “Don’t worry. Just study.” To which I, stubborn as usual, say, “No.”

In my state of utter disbelief, I also felt oddly electrified while watching this scene and the time pass by. Probably because I didn’t think this could actually happen; I didn’t think the people on the other side held valid opinions or values that would actually be accepted by (nearly) the majority of the country. And perhaps that’s where I went wrong.

In this divisive time, both sides were quick to call the one across the aisle “the other,” invalidate their stance on every issue, and in doing so, fail to take into account the nuances within that “other-ness.” Like the 8 percent of African-American voters, the white working class and the overwhelming amount of white women who pledged their allegiance to Trump. Or, the conservative Republicans who decided to cast their vote for Hillary Clinton or Gary Johnson.

These sides were so quick to demonize and radicalize the opposition without realizing who would make the difference in this election: the people who didn’t fit into these radical, media-perpetuated identities. While the two commonly identifiable extremes certainly made up a proportion of the voting population, the ones who fall somewhere in the middle used their voices at the polls, too.

The morning after, I woke up with another typical text from my dad, a lawyer: “I hope you’re doing what I’m doing today—getting up and pursuing my dreams & goals. Working hard for my clients & my family. And not letting anything stop me!!! Let’s Go Peanut.” (Peanut=me.)

I’m lucky to have someone in my life who is supportive and positive enough to send me this hopeful, affirmative text and am thankful for him with every ounce of my being. Yet, I couldn’t help but think: “you’re white, male, cisgender and financially stable, so yes, you’re OK today.” You’re okay, but there are Muslim-Americans fearful for their lives. There are daughters worried about their dad leaving for work because he might not come back. There are people whose names are being put on a goddamn list.

I thought to myself; “How could he be so blind?”

I realized what my dad may have been getting to with his text after I attended the WU Post-Election Coalition on Thursday night, which provided a space for people to share their thoughts on the election and process the situation if that’s what they needed. Something many vocalized at this community event was the importance of action amongst people who feel safe at the moment. These people may not be happy, but they don’t feel as though they’re in immediate danger. People like my dad, like me, must have the conversations that need to be had and partake in the necessary dialogue because we feel safe enough, and dare I say hopeful enough, to do so.

There is no hope if we remain in the divided state we’re in. I’m not trying to make excuses for the other side, but if we refuse to acknowledge their legitimacy, how will they ever acknowledge our own? I also understand this is easier for me to say than those who may have a background or identity to which I don’t identify with and feel understandably fearful about the outcome of this election. But in order to one day achieve even modest unity, we must do our best to acknowledge and understand those we don’t agree with.

Like most things, achieving this modest unity is going to take time. It’s going to take time for the hurt to heal and the fearful to feel safe again. It’s going to take time for conversations to turn into something substantial, something progressive. But it’s not going to happen if we sit in a circle and sing “Kumbaya.” It’s going to take discomfort—the very thing we are naturally inclined to fear, to reject—for us to move forward. It’s going to be uncomfortable to actively listen to the other side, without forming an opinion before they finish their thought. It’s going to be uncomfortable to stop identifying them as the “other.”

But by realizing the importance of time and conversation, perhaps we might also, as the poet Rainer Maria Rilke put it, “Live the questions now…then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.”