We’re not strangers to grief. It’s inevitable that we will all stumble through the five stages at one point or another, likely on numerous occasions.  While loss is most commonly associated with physical loss — such as that of a loved one — it can also apply to more ideological dimensions. Political grief became a widely recognized phenomena in the wake of the 2016 U.S. presidential election when Donald Trump’s victory sent shockwaves through the nation. For millions of Americans, Trump’s victory wasn’t just a political loss — it was the loss of societal values, moral compasses, and, for many, the very idea of a future they had once hoped for. And now, on Nov. 6, 2024, those very same feelings of loss were echoed, if not intensified. 

This new form of grief — identified as political grief — has since become a common response to moments of perceived political catastrophe, whether it be an election, a Supreme Court ruling, or evidence of broader shifts in societal values. While the emotional responses to these events may resemble the mourning process we associate with personal loss, political grief differs in one key way: it is shared on a collective scale yet often experienced in deeply individualized ways. This tension between the public and private aspects of political grief has been skillfully explored in the television show “High Maintenance’s” season two premiere episode “Globo.” Through a series of brief narratives strung together by a marijuana dealer named “The Guy” in New York City, “Globo” offers an unfiltered peek inside society’s political grief in response to an unnamed political catastrophe. As the audience’s attention bounces between the actions and conversations of various individuals, the episode fabricates a superficial sense of unity or connectedness among those physically and emotionally immobilized in light of this undefined catastrophe. Yet, beneath its portrayal of solidarity and shared suffering, the episode also uncovers the deeply uneven experience of grief in the modern world — one that is often divided by class, privilege, and the ability to “opt-out” of the pain.

The episode “Globo” begins when The Guy checks his phone in the morning to a series of notifications and the comment: “I think I’m gonna go to work early.” The following sequence is a montage of him running all over the city, catering to customers asking him to be there “ASAP” or sending crying emojis, all to a fast-paced techno song. The first real conversation The Guy has is with one customer who exclaims, “Oh, thank god you’re working cause I woke up to an email that was like, ‘Hey, Brian, we really need you to come in today.’ And I was like, ‘Did you read the fucking news?’ It’s like a phantasmagoria of despair out there. Let me get my wallet.” Swaddled in a blanket on his couch, Brian is so incapacitated by the day’s news that he cannot even fathom going to work. There’s a hint of irony to this sentiment, considering it is intertwined with a sense of relief that The Guy did “come in today.”  Even as Brian seeks solace in getting high, his emotional state remains largely disconnected from those around him, reinforcing a key point: grief, while universally felt, can also be an intensely self-involved process.

This sense of personal paralysis, of retreating into one’s own world as a means of coping, echoes through much of the episode. Yet, there are also moments of supposed collective solidarity, such as when The Guy reassures Brian that despite the chaos outside, people are “really nice to each other.” “It’s kind of like ‘We’re all in this together,’” he says, trying to instill a sense of hope. But even here, the narrative of unity begins to fray, as Brian responds: “Okay, well I’m not able to be ‘in this together’ with anyone until I calm the fuck down.”

The unevenness within the various experiences of political grief is further demonstrated as the episode continues. At one point, the audience’s attention is shifted away from The Guy’s trip through NYC and towards the patrons of an upscale restaurant in Manhattan, with their various conversations strung together by a waiter serving them. First, we hear a man tell his friend, “you’re lucky though, I mean… you’ve got a British passport,” only for her to respond, “Yeah, but Brexit. What’s happening here, like, where—where is safe? Where in the world is safe and sane anymore?” Their conversation is then interrupted by a man experiencing homelessness coming to their table exclaiming, “Oh muscles! I love muscles. Can I have some?” The minute his hand touches the plate, a hostess runs over and frantically hands the plate to the waiter, saying, “Excuse me, sir. You absolutely cannot do that!” As the dish is swept away and the waiter refills another table’s water, a businessman tells his colleagues, “Everything’s upside down right now [...] I mean, the market’s so much more volatile.” At the waiter’s final table before the kitchen, a woman complains to her friend, “...saying she’s too devastated to see patients today.’ ‘Okay, that’s fucked. She’s a therapist.’ “I know.’” Her rant is briefly interrupted by the waiter asking, “‘Excuse me, miss, are you done with this?’ ‘Yeah. I didn’t know they were truffle fries. So yeah. If you’re not available when shit’s bad, how the fuck…”. Though just snippets, these conversations highlight the greater discrepancy between the expectation of care in light of disaster and individuals’ own concerns and mourning processes. Despite The Guy’s prior notion that everyone is united and kind to each other, this short but significant scene demonstrates how idiosyncratic political grief can be. The diners are only concerned about the political turmoil in relation to how it impacts their own specific existence. This is not to say that these individuals are at fault or morally inferior for reacting the way they do, but rather it shows that mourning is an incredibly human process and is imperfect in many ways. However, it is necessary to acknowledge the self-involved nature of grief — the show represents an inability to foster substantial solidarity and empathy for others because there is no clear “ingroup” of those suffering. The restaurant scene suggests that people may default to turning inward when there is no blatant reason or pressure to look outwards. 

“Globo” also demonstrates how it is often the upper class who have the privilege to best manage political grief at an individual level. However, as The Guy and the waiter, whose name is later revealed to be “Luiz,” depicted in the show, lower-class individuals must facilitate the well-being of those in the upper class. As the dialogue in the restaurant showed, many of the customers were able to dodge their responsibilities due to their socioeconomic status. Thus, the sidelined existence of those in the service industry within the show’s narrative points to a potential broader social issue: notions of grieving and self-care often only extend to those who have the time, money, and privilege to buy into them. Sociologists exploring grief note that the ability to process grief, especially something as intangible and nebulous as political grief, is often tied to one’s resources. For those without the privilege to retreat from the world, the experience of grief can feel less like a communal process and more like a solitary struggle.

As more of Luiz’s experience is revealed, this dissonance in mourning processes further developed. “Globo” takes place over the course of a singular day, with its final minutes showing Luiz leaving the bar he works at. After leaving, he is seen picking up his young son, Luca, and beginning his long commute back home. Having to work multiple hours and care for a child, he simply is not given the same space to actively grieve. Luiz never converses with anyone about his fears or anxieties surrounding the day’s news, nor does he take additional time off to process. 

“Globo” provides a powerful commentary not only on the nature of political grief but also on the ways in which class divides shape the mourning process. The episode illustrates that while we may all be touched by political catastrophe, the ways in which we experience and cope with that grief are shaped by factors far beyond our control. For some, grief is an opportunity to take space and time; for others, it is yet another task to be managed amidst the chaos of daily life.

However, “Globo” is not, in my opinion, a fantastic exploration of the human experience because of its striking critique on class consciousness and grief. Rather, I find its beauty to lie in the final moment in which Luiz and Luca are taking the subway home. In the wee hours of the morning, with only a few stragglers present on the train — a tired couple, a set of nurses, and a waiter and his toddler — we see a true demonstration of the solidarity we so desperately hope for in the face of such painful events. As Luiz tries to entertain his son with a “globo” (Spanish for “balloon”), the entire train car joins in, laughing as they bat the balloon around. This simple but poignant moment offers a glimmer of hope in the face of the otherwise self-involved nature of the rest of the episode. The passengers transcend their inner struggles and anxieties in response to the day’s news and simply partake in a moment of innocent communal joy. So, if there is anything to learn from “Globo” and its increasing relevance in our daily lives, it’s perhaps to find that community. The episode does not critique the inherent act or need to mourn, nor does it condemn anyone who does so. Instead, it emphasizes that even in the midst of grief and hardship, there is room for those shared moments of levity and compassion.