I miss who I was before Trump — before fear became part of my morning routine and before hope felt like something I had to fight for. Some mornings I wake up and wonder where that version of me went — the one who trusted her neighbors, believed what she read in the news, and didn’t carry this constant ache for her country. That woman feels like someone I used to know, someone who hadn’t yet seen how fragile democracy really is or how quickly good people can stay silent in the face of cruelty.
The best part of me back then was hope. I used to wake up excited to think about the future — where my life was headed, what my kids might become, the things we’d get to see and do in a country that, for all its flaws, I still believed was good. I miss that version of me — the one who could make plans without wondering if the world was about to collapse under the weight of hate and corruption. Back then, I loved the naïveté of not knowing that people I cared for, people I laughed with and admired, quietly carried values so opposite of mine. I had faith in humanity. I believed most people wanted fairness, that strangers could be trusted, that our communities were built on decency and respect. I miss that sense of connection — that easy confidence that the people around me were rooting for good, not waiting to pick a side.
Back then, I saw America the way so many of us did — as the Land of Opportunity. I was proud to call myself an American. I believed in the promise of this country, in its decency, in the idea that if you worked hard and treated people with kindness, you were part of something good. I felt safe enough to share my opinions without fear of being attacked for them. There was a sense of respect even when people disagreed — a belief that differences didn’t have to make us enemies. I miss that America. Now, speaking your truth feels dangerous. You never know what it’ll cost — your relationships, your peace of mind, maybe even your safety. That kind of uncertainty eats away at the pride I used to feel for this country. It’s hard to love a place that no longer feels like it loves you back.
It’s hard to pinpoint the exact moment everything broke, but the fear started the day he took office. From the moment he stepped into power, it’s felt like we’ve been living under a cloud of chaos — a slow, deliberate unraveling of everything that once made this country feel safe. This second administration isn’t just chaotic; it’s calculated. The lies aren’t careless slips — they’re weapons. The disregard for the Constitution isn’t ignorance — it’s strategy. And the cruelty isn’t random — it’s sport. Every day, I watch him chip away at what’s left of our democracy, throwing tantrums while people suffer, posting his childish, racist AI videos like a dictator who thinks destruction is entertainment. I don’t just feel fear anymore — I feel fury. Fury that one man’s ego could hold a nation hostage while so many sit in silence, pretending this is politics as usual.
And that silence has cost us more than we realize. It’s crept into our families, our friendships, the spaces that once felt safe.
This is where the damage cuts the deepest — in the people I love. There’s someone in my life I’ve always seen as gentle and kind, a person I’ve turned to for comfort more times than I can count. But now, I find myself building walls between us. They don’t fact-check what they hear, don’t look beyond Fox News, and instead make little jokes about what’s happening — jokes that land like tiny cuts. They don’t see the danger, don’t grasp how close this country is to something irreversible. Then there are my childhood friends — people I’ve shared my whole life with — who voted for Trump again. That betrayal hits different. At this point, I can only see two kinds of supporters left: the ones who are dangerously uninformed, and the ones who know exactly what he is and choose complacency anyway. And it’s that second group that breaks my heart the most. Because reconciling who I thought they were with who they’ve shown themselves to be feels like mourning people who are still alive.
That grief — the quiet loss of connection — has changed the way I see my role in all this. I find myself looking for ways to be part of the change. I haven’t found my voice in my own community yet, but I feel this growing pull to start those conversations — the ones that could bring people together instead of tearing us further apart. I’m realizing it’s up to us now. The people. Because our elected officials aren’t listening, and they’re not fighting for what we’ve clearly asked for. In Missouri, Governor Mike Kehoe has gone so far as to undermine voter-approved measures — signing legislation to challenge a constitutional amendment protecting abortion rights and backing efforts to repeal laws that voters themselves passed. It’s infuriating to watch leaders erase the will of the people with a single signature. But it also makes one thing painfully clear: if we want change, we can’t wait for the government to deliver it. It has to start with us — with people willing to face each other again, even when it’s uncomfortable.
If I could sit across from my pre-Trump self, I think I’d start with an apology. I’d tell her I’m sorry for the storm she didn’t see coming, for the years that would test her faith in people and in her country. I’d tell her to get involved locally, to pay attention sooner, to use her voice before it all started to crumble. I’d tell her to build a backup plan — maybe even a way out — because I never could have imagined how far this nation would slide. If I’d known, I would have built a life that let my husband, my kids, and me leave when things got dangerous. Trump didn’t create the hate that’s taken over this country; he just gave it permission to come out of the shadows. And once you’ve seen it that clearly, you can’t unsee it.
What’s survived in me is my resolve. I’m still here, still paying attention, still using my voice however I can. The fear and exhaustion haven’t erased my values — if anything, they’ve made them stronger. I still believe everyone is equal. I still believe kindness matters. I still believe we have a duty to help our neighbors and to stand up for those who aren’t afforded the same privileges we are — especially now, when even my own rights and freedoms feel like they’re hanging by a thread, and the window to fight back is closing fast. Those beliefs are the line I refuse to cross. They’re what tether me to hope when everything else feels uncertain.
Politically, emotionally, and morally, I’m not the same person I was before. I’m more engaged now — not by choice, but by necessity. Fear pulled me in at first. I was terrified by what I was seeing, and that fear turned into a kind of responsibility I couldn’t ignore. I’ve voted in every election since 2008, but I’ll admit there were years I wondered if my vote even mattered. I don’t question that anymore. Every single action counts, even the small ones. When Jimmy Kimmel’s show was silenced in an attack on free speech, millions of us canceled our Disney and Hulu subscriptions — and it worked. It reminded me that individual acts of defiance, when done together, do create change. It’s proof that even when the system feels rigged, our collective voice still matters — if we use it.
If I’m honest, fear still sits at the center of everything — but it’s not the only thing anymore. It’s there when I wake up, but so is resolve. I’ve looked at what it might take to leave this country, what it would mean to take my husband and kids somewhere safer, but deep down I don’t want to go. I want to stay and fight for the version of America that still exists in pieces — the one that values decency, compassion, and truth. Some days it feels impossible, but even in the darkest moments, there’s this flicker of hope I can’t put out. Because if people like me give up, that’s when the future really disappears.
We’re not going back — and maybe we’re not supposed to. The country we once were doesn’t exist anymore. We’ve seen too much hate, too much violence, too much truth to ever slip back into that naïve comfort we used to live in. The veil is gone. What’s been exposed can’t be unseen. For the first time, many white Americans are starting to understand what marginalized communities have lived with forever — that constant, quiet fear, that awareness that hate isn’t history; it’s policy. This moment has forced us to face the ugliness we used to look away from, and that’s painful. But maybe it’s also necessary. Because seeing the truth means we finally have the chance to build something better — something more honest, more equal, more worthy of the people who never stopped believing in what this country could be.
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