The Woman Who Cried

I spent nearly twenty minutes talking with a woman outside her home this week.

 

She cried more than once. Not because of a single policy issue, but because she feels overwhelmed by what the country is becoming and exhausted by how hard it is just to stay engaged.

 

She told me she follows politics closely, but it’s becoming harder to keep up without feeling despair. She knows withdrawing completely isn’t the answer, but staying informed feels emotionally expensive. Like many people right now, she’s caught between caring deeply and feeling worn down.

 

What struck me most is that she’s never been someone who protests. She’s never knocked doors. She’s never volunteered for a campaign.

 

But something has shifted.

 

She asked what she could do. Not abstractly. Concretely. How to help. Where to plug in. What mattered most right now.

 

I hear versions of this conversation constantly. Some people respond to disillusionment by stepping away and I don’t blame them. Others decide that if things are going to get worse, they at least want to be able to say they tried.

 

Neither reaction is wrong.

 

My responsibility—our responsibility—is to build something that gives people a real place to step into. Something grounded, human, and serious. Something that doesn’t treat their fear or hope as content.

 

This campaign isn’t just about winning an election. It’s about meeting this moment with enough honesty and structure that people feel less alone in it.

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