My father is a lifelong Democrat. Not a bandwagon type. Not a “vote blue no matter who” kind of guy. He’s built for it—military medals, academic degrees, a life of discipline and honor. He’s served this country in every way that counts: with blood, with brains, with a belief in the system itself. And to him, that belief still matters. Still holds weight. Still means something.
But his flaw? His moral compass is too damn pure.
He’s the last Boy Scout. Straight shooter. Believes in order, honor, and the idea that if you do good, good will follow. He raised me on that. Raised me to believe in fairness, in dignity, in playing by the rules. And for most of my life, I wanted to believe it too.
But I’ve seen too much.
So now I push back. I tell him, “That’s the lie they feed us to keep us in line.”
Because the truth? Good doesn’t always win. Liars win. Cheaters win. Bullies win because they don’t care about the consequences—and most good people do. That’s the edge. That’s the game. That’s the country.
He doesn’t want to believe that. He can’t. And that’s where his disappointment comes from—not just in politics, but in people. He gives, gives, and gives—always putting others first. And when they don’t reciprocate, when the world doesn’t reward his integrity, it hits him like a punch to the chest. Not because he’s weak. But because he still believes it should be different.
And when it comes to Republicans, that heartbreak shows up as disbelief.
Not hatred. Not name-calling. Just this quiet, stubborn refusal to understand how they see the world. Especially when it comes to Trump.
To him, Trump is the embodiment of everything wrong with America. A man with no honor, no humility, no real sense of public duty. To even entertain that kind of leadership feels like a betrayal—not just of Democratic values, but of American ones. He looks at Republicans and asks, “How can you stand behind this man?”
And I get that. I do.
But I also know people on the other side.
People I trust. People who love their families, work hard, live with principle—and they vote Republican. Not out of ignorance, but out of a different set of priorities. They care about taxes. They care about regulation. They care about gun rights, school choice, business freedom. And they’re not crazy for that.
In fact, if Trump wasn’t Trump—if the man wasn’t a liar, a cheater, and morally bankrupt—I might not have an issue.
Let me say that again: If he were anyone else, this would be a completely different conversation.
Take George W. Bush. I didn’t like his policies. I didn’t agree with the war, or how he handled Katrina, or a bunch of things in between. But I never questioned whether he believed in what he was doing. I never thought he was using the presidency to settle scores or protect himself from prosecution. I disagreed with Bush, but I didn’t distrust his soul.
That’s the difference.

America’s divide isn’t just political—it’s psychological. Over the last twenty years, we’ve drifted from disagreement to complete moral separation. What we’re watching isn’t a debate between liberals and conservatives anymore. It’s a full-blown identity war, where each side is convinced they’re not just right—they’re righteous.
The language we use has changed. We don’t argue policy—we declare moral superiority. We don’t listen to nuance—we hunt for contradictions to discredit. For a country that claims to value freedom, we’ve become addicted to certainty. The right calls the left weak and godless. The left calls the right bigoted and brainwashed. But underneath that noise, something deeper is happening. We’ve stopped reflecting, and we’ve started performing—for our tribes, for our timelines, for our own sense of control in a country that feels like it’s spiraling.
Part of the problem is structural. In 2004, only 39% of Americans lived in what political scientists call “landslide counties”—areas where one political party dominates by over 20 points. By 2020, that number had climbed to over 58%. That means more than half the country now lives surrounded almost entirely by people who vote just like them. Our social bubbles are political ones, and those bubbles are shrinking. The more we stay inside them, the harder it becomes to even imagine someone on the other side having a valid point.
And when the only people we talk to think like us, we stop questioning ourselves. Instead of humility, we develop a sense of spiritual correctness—that our politics reflect our goodness. That our votes aren’t just strategic; they’re moral proof. But that mindset erodes everything democracy depends on. It kills honest dialogue. It turns doubt into betrayal. And it allows extremists on both sides to dominate the conversation, because they’re the ones willing to yell the loudest and bend the truth the farthest.
The rise of social media only accelerated this. Platforms that were supposed to connect us now reward outrage, not reflection. Algorithms push what’s controversial, not what’s constructive. You’re more likely to go viral for attacking someone than understanding them. So people perform. They curate outrage. They dunk, they drag, they “destroy” the other side with a quote or a meme—because likes feel like impact. But in reality, none of this is changing minds. It’s just deepening the trenches.
And here’s the truth most people don’t want to admit: you can be right about the facts and still wrong about how you carry yourself. You can hold the right position and still have no compassion. You can vote blue or red and still lack the ability to reflect, to admit you don’t have all the answers.
That’s why I always go back to this principle: in a democracy, you’re supposed to lose sometimes. That’s how the system works. You vote, someone wins, and if it’s not your guy, you organize and try again. I’ve never had a problem with a candidate enacting the platform they ran on—even if I didn’t agree with it. If it was Bush? I’d argue with his choices, sure. But I wouldn’t deny his right to govern. He won. That’s how it goes. The people made a choice.
But what we’re dealing with now is different. It’s not about losing to a different political vision. It’s about losing to someone who doesn’t respect the office, the truth, or the people who live under his policies. Trump didn’t just challenge Democratic ideals—he challenged the idea of shared reality. He lied about elections. He attacked the media. He openly praised dictators while undermining his own intelligence agencies. And yet, his base stuck with him. Not just politically, but spiritually. They didn’t just support his policies—they adopted his worldview. That’s not democracy. That’s dogma.
And the same thing happens on the left in different ways. When people on my side start canceling anyone who says the wrong thing or applying purity tests that no one can pass, it becomes clear: we’ve all got our blind spots. Both sides have built echo chambers that punish reflection and reward performance. Because in today’s America, admitting you’re wrong—or even that you’re uncertain—feels like weakness. And nobody wants to look weak in front of their team.

I’ve had Republicans tell me that being concerned about Trump’s character means I must be a radical leftist. And I’ve had liberals accuse me of enabling fascism because I dared to criticize their tactics. That’s the box we’ve built. You either fall in line or you’re thrown out of the conversation.
But here’s what most people forget: a whole lot of us live in the real world, not in political theory. We’re raising kids. Running businesses. Trying to afford groceries that somehow doubled in price in the last two years. We care more about how our communities feel than how our feeds look. We care about decency, stability, and long-term impact—not just today’s trending topic.
And yet, we’re ignored by both parties. Because we’re not loud enough. We’re not extreme enough. We’re not profitable enough to be pandered to.
You don’t see thoughtful people going viral. You don’t see nuance getting airtime. Because neither party, neither algorithm, makes money off people who say, “Actually… that’s complicated.”
But that doesn’t mean we’re not here.
We’re the ones who want reform, but not chaos. Accountability, but not vengeance. Progress, but not performance. We’re the ones who still believe in democracy—not because it’s perfect, but because it’s the best tool we have to keep imperfect people in check.
We understand the danger of polarization, not as a concept, but as a lived experience. We’ve lost friends. Split families. Been called traitors by people we used to break bread with. Not because we changed our values—but because we refused to conform to theirs.
And if I’m being honest? The middle is lonely.
You get attacked from both sides. Mocked for not being radical enough. Judged for not being loyal enough. But the middle is also where the grown folks live. It’s where hard conversations happen. It’s where you admit you don’t know everything, and that real solutions take compromise, not purity tests.
The truth is, I don’t need to be right all the time. I don’t need to have the last word. I just need leaders who aren’t lying to me, who aren’t trying to distract me with culture wars while they hand out tax breaks to billionaires or gut education in the background.
And if that sounds too “moderate” for some of y’all? Fine.
Call it what you want.
But I’m not moving.
Because I’m not in the middle to be safe.
I’m in the middle to see clearly.
And from where I’m standing?
It’s not left vs. right.
It’s truth vs. propaganda.
It’s people vs. power.
It’s survival vs. spin.
And the sooner we stop letting parties define what’s worth fighting for, the sooner we’ll remember that this country was never meant to be won.
It was meant to be shared.
So where does that leave us?
It leaves us in a country where most people are more loyal to their party than to the truth. Where disagreement is seen as betrayal, and nuance is treated like weakness. Where winning isn’t enough—you have to humiliate the other side while you’re at it.
And the longer we live like this, the more ungovernable we become. Because there’s no system—no democracy, no movement, no institution—that can survive when the people inside it stop believing anyone outside their bubble is worth listening to.
We keep saying things like “America is better than this,” but is it?
We lock up people for petty crimes while billionaires rewrite tax codes. We demand perfection from struggling workers while giving scandal-plagued leaders second, third, fourth chances. We say we value truth, but most of us don’t even read past a headline. We’re addicted to certainty, allergic to humility, and damn near incapable of sitting with a thought long enough to actually understand it.