Politically Pomp

There’s a strange kind of loneliness that comes with caring too much, especially in a time when compassion itself feels political.

Since February, I’ve been called every name imaginable, by strangers online and, heartbreakingly, by people I love. “Libtard.” “Bleeding-heart liberal.” “Communist.” “Misinformed.” Honestly, too many to list.

It’s easy to shrug off insults from people you don’t know. But when they come from family, friends, people who’ve known your heart for decades, it cuts differently.

“It’s easy to shrug off insults from strangers. But when they come from people who’ve known your heart, it cuts differently.”

Why I Speak Out

I don’t share or post because I want to argue. I speak out because I care — deeply.

I’ve watched people I grew up with cheer as others lose their jobs, their benefits, their dignity. I’ve watched them justify cruelty toward people they’ll never meet. I’ve heard them say that children going hungry is just the “consequence” of bad parenting or bad policy.

I don’t recognize that kind of apathy, not in the people I once knew, and not in the country I still love.

“I don’t speak out to fight. I speak out because I still care.”

The Noise and the Numbness

The most common thing I hear now is:

“I just don’t know what to believe anymore.”
“The news only shows half the story.”
“That video doesn’t show what really happened.”

I understand the confusion; information today moves faster than truth. But what troubles me most is how that confusion has become an excuse to look away.

When I look at official communications filled with propaganda, when leaders call protestors terrorists, when a president threatens his own citizens with military force simply for voting differently — I can’t stay silent.

The Flicker of Hope

Still, even in the noise, I see something worth holding onto.

I’ve seen strangers hand out food in the middle of storms.
I’ve seen people defend each other, online and in person, when no one was watching.
I’ve seen compassion bloom quietly, not for attention, but because it’s who we are when we strip away the politics.

That’s the America I believe in.
That’s the version of us that still exists, buried under fear, anger, and endless division.

“Empathy isn’t weakness — it’s how we rebuild what’s broken.”

A Call to Rebuild

We don’t have to agree on everything to start healing what’s broken.
Empathy isn’t naïve. It’s the foundation of every real change we’ve ever made.

So I’ll keep speaking up.
I’ll keep choosing compassion.
And I’ll keep believing that ordinary people, when they finally decide enough is enough, can change everything.

Change doesn’t begin in Washington.
It begins with us —
how we speak to each other,
how we treat each other,
and how brave we’re willing to be when silence feels safer.

Because democracy isn’t something that happens to us, it’s something we build, together.
One voice. One vote. One act of courage at a time.