More than half empty

Closed doors, open secrets, and sorry excuses

If listening suits you better, I offer an audio version here. ⤵️

Half full. Photo by Rachel Beggins

For those of us who tend toward half full, it can be hard to admit when the glass tips sideways and most everything spills out.

I try to reason things out. Even when it’s not the popular opinion, even when it runs counter to the moral outrage of the moment, I can usually find my way to some compassion for the person who said or did the thing. Raging addiction. Unstable mental health. Traumatic childhood. I am not someone who gives up easily on people.

But when it comes to gross abuses of power, I’m tapped out.

When I read recent stories about online communities that exist solely to provide instruction—and paying audiences—for men inclined to drug and rape their wives, I spent most of that night fighting the demons in my mind. I know it’s not all men. I know it’s not only men. But why is it so many men? And why are so many others complicit in their silence?

My husband told me once about a night from his high school days. A group of guys, a young woman who’d drunk herself into a stupor, a suggestion of what they might do. He protested, told them, in so many words, to get a grip. I love him for that. I also can’t imagine what happens to some men’s brains that makes that idea even remotely attractive.

Prom. Photo by the author.

At least 28 women have accused Donald Trump of sexual misconduct. One has been awarded damages, but the man is still sitting in the country’s highest office. A war in Iran is a useful distraction from evidence that might link him to a sex trafficking ring led by Jeffrey Epstein. Notice what we’re not talking about these days?

I came across a video recently. “Two Female Pilots Tackle the World’s Most Dangerous Approach.” Tell me there are structural biases without telling me there are structural biases. Last week, a workshop on apologizing reminded me how much weight we still place on women saying sorry, and how little consequence there is for men who never do.

I’m tired and angry. Where are the songs, the statements, the male manifestos about how it’s not women’s job to fix the war on women?

April is National Poetry Month, and I’ve been thinking about what the word sorry costs some of us, and that it costs others nothing at all. And so, a poem.

Sorry

I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.

Sorry, you have the wrong number. Sorry, could you say that again?
Sorry, am I talking too much? Sorry, I wasn’t listening.

Sorry, I just thought—

I’m sorry, is this seat taken? I’m sorry, I don’t mean to complain.
I’m sorry, I know you’re busy. I’m sorry, I just need a minute.

I’m sorry I asked.
I’m sorry I cried.

I’m sorry if these actions made anyone feel uncomfortable.

This was locker room talk. It never happened. She’s not my type. I’ve never met this woman. I don’t know who she is. I barely knew him. I may have been there but I don’t recall. I never saw anything inappropriate. Always space for you. Will you be taking Oreo ice cream to Paris? It never happened. And yet I can’t tell a soul. All of these liars will be sued after the election.

To my family, staff, friends, and supporters, I am deeply sorry for mistakes in judgment I’ve made in my past.*

I’m sorry, but we warned you.
I’m sorry you didn’t believe us.
I’m sorry. You should have known.

I’m sorry you let them lie.
I’m sorry you looked away.
Sorry you called it complicated.
Sorry you failed us.

Sorry excuses.
Sorry men in a sorry room.
Craven cowards.

The ones who flew. The ones who knew.
They knew. They always do.

We know, too.

~Elizabeth

(Left) My great grandmother with her three daughters. My mother's mother is the one on the right. (Right) My girls and I with my mom.

*This line and those in the section above are drawn from public record. This one is a statement made by Eric Swalwell upon his resignation from Congress, April 2026.

Afterward:

I include this section as an invitation to turn reflection into action, when the spirit moves you. Our spheres of influence are wider than we sometimes think, and small actions have a way of compounding in ways we don’t always get to see. Each week I share something concrete, something to read or watch or try or support, because that’s what I can do from here, and it’s probably what you can do from there, too.

Try this:

Listen! I don’t pretend to speak Zulu but as I understand it, the words in this song are simple: Malibongwe igama lamakhosikazi (Mah-lee-bong-weh/ee-gah-mah/lah-mah-koh-see-kah-zee) Translated, in context, that means “Praise the name of the women.” The song comes from South African resistance movements. It’s both a tribute and a statement of strength.

If you’d like to go deeper, Jackson Katz has spent decades arguing that this is a men's issue. His new book, Every Man, is a place to start.

It’s worth noting that I spent time yesterday evening putting seeds into soil as a way of recalibrating and refilling my glass. It helped.

If you’re a woman, you probably need little convincing, but I’d love to know what you’re carrying right now, and where you’re finding solid ground.

If you’re a man reading this—and I hope you are—I’m not here to make you feel bad. I’m here because I think a lot of you are more troubled by all of this than you let on, and more uncertain about what to do than you’d like to admit. A place to start, I think, is in recognizing that uncertainty isn’t the same as weakness. What else stays with you here? What’s one place you’ve felt stuck?

A sentence is plenty. A word is welcome. If something here resonated, a heart or a restack goes a long way. And if you think someone needs to read this today, please pass it on.

My work is always free. If you find value in it, a paid subscription (which comes to a about a dollar per essay) is one of the most direct ways to say so. One-time donations are great for those who prefer that. However you choose to show up, I’m glad you’re here.

See you next week!