The Man Who Believed in Me First

 

When I decided to explore running for office, the first call I made—after my wife—was to Tony Coelho.

If you don’t know the name, you should. Tony is one of the giants of modern Democratic politics—a man who went from staffer to member of Congress, who built the Democratic Congressional Campaign Committee into a powerhouse, who became the first-ever elected Majority Whip of the U.S. House. He was Al Gore’s presidential campaign chair in 2000. He wrote the Americans with Disabilities Act. He mentored people like Josh Shapiro, Terry McAuliffe, and Rahm Emanuel—all of whom started as staffers before becoming national leaders.

And somehow, for reasons I’ll always be grateful for, he chose to mentor me too.

I met Tony during my time as National Delegate Director on Pete Buttigieg’s presidential campaign. Part of my portfolio was outreach to DNC members—part of the so-called “superdelegates”—and Tony was one of them. But instead of giving me the perfunctory five minutes he owed a campaign staffer, he gave me his time, his attention, and eventually, his friendship.

He saw something in me I didn’t fully see in myself yet.

Over the years that followed, Tony became a compass—the kind of mentor who doesn’t just tell you what to do, but asks questions that force you to understand why. When I was considering joining the Biden administration, he told me, “You can always go back into government. Right now, go build texture and see what impact looks like from the outside.” He wanted me to grow not just as a strategist, but as a person.

He also told me something I’ll never forget:

“Politics shouldn’t be a jobs program. It’s about service. About people. If you ever lose that, you’ve lost the point.”

So when I called him in 2024 to tell him what I was thinking—that I saw a void in Indiana leadership, that no one was rebuilding the Democratic Party here, that someone had to do it—I half expected him to talk me out of it.

Because, objectively, it sounded crazy: a 33-year-old operative taking on a 17-year incumbent in a legacy seat. Someone challenging inertia in the very establishment he came from. A safe Democratic district no one thought could change.

But Tony didn’t flinch. He listened quietly, then said, “There’s something real here. Keep exploring it.”

That was it. But it was all I needed.

That small push—that faith—changed everything. Because if Tony Coelho, one of the sharpest political minds alive, believed I could do this, then maybe I could.

He also gave me the hard truth: that stepping out like this would come with loss.

“You’re calling from inside the house saying it’s on fire,” he told me. “You’ll lose friends. You’ll become persona non grata to the insiders. But if you believe this is about people, not power, do it anyway.”

That stuck with me.

And he was right. I lost some people. But I gained purpose.
 

Now Tony is my Campaign Chair which still blows my mind.

It means everything that someone of his stature chose to stand with me not because it was politically safe, but because it was morally clear. Because he saw what I was trying to build—a campaign that’s not about being something, but about doing something.

He believed in me before I believed in myself. And sometimes that’s all it takes—one person who sees the bigger version of you and dares you to live up to it.