Oh, So Now You Want to Talk.

To the millions of MAGA voters leaving their movement suddenly looking for a soft place to land.

Now that the bottom is falling out. Now that the thing you built is eating itself and taking the rest of us with it. Now that your grocery bill is a horror show, hundreds of thousands of jobs lost, oil is projected to be over $150 per barrel by mid-week this week, your retirement account is bleeding and the strongman you slobbered over for a decade is looking less like a savior and more like exactly what everyone told you he was—

And now you want to find community with the left.

And there are a lot of you. Millions, in fact. The polls are showing it. The think pieces are being written about it. Millions of MAGA loyalists peeling away from the movement like paint off a burning building, suddenly appalled, suddenly disillusioned, suddenly arriving at the conclusions the rest of us reached years ago. And where are you turning? To us. To the left. To the very people you spent the better part of a decade mocking, dismissing, and voting against, because you confused our tolerance as an open door to the intolerant.

The audacity. The absolute, breathtaking audacity.

You want to know what I have for you? Nothing. Less than nothing. I have the door, and I have the direction away from me, and that is the full extent of what you will ever get from me. So allow me to be crystal clear before you waste another second knocking - We. Are. Not. Your. People.

We were never your people. You made sure of that.
And I want you to know—I tried. I really really tried. After 2016, when the rest of the world was reeling and scared and people like me were watching what was coming with dread, I still tried to be a voice of reason. I extended good faith and empathy. I engaged. I listened. I attempted to find the thread of common humanity because I believed that people could be reached. That the right conversation might matter.

You know what you did with that?

You went back and voted for him again in 2020. After four years of everything. After the chaos and the corruption and the cruelty on full display every single day. After children in cages. After a pandemic turned into a mass casualty event that took the life of my sweet Aunt Carol. After all of it—you looked at the wreckage and said “more, please.”

And then January 6th happened. You watched a mob—your mob, summoned by your corrupt candidate, fueled by lies you chose to believe—storm the United States Capitol and try to overturn a free and fair election. You watched officers beaten. You watched democracy itself get put in a chokehold on live television and witnessed your disgusting group of unamerican cucks rub literal shit on the walls of the people’s house.

And then you fucking voted for him again.

Because you just couldn’t bring your racist-ass to vote for the black woman.
So don’t you dare show up here acting like a victim of circumstance. You are not a victim of anything except your own choices finally catching up to you. I used up my good faith after 2016. I spent it trying to reach you and you handed it back to me three times over. I have washed my hands of you completely. It is too late. You made it too late.

You didn’t stumble into this. Nobody dragged you. You walked into that voting booth three times—three fucking times—with full knowledge of what you were voting for, because it was never subtle, it was never coded, it was never hidden. He told you exactly who he was. He told you what he thought of women, children and immigrants and gay people and anyone who wasn’t useful to him. He insulted every ally we have. He said the quiet parts so loud they rattled windows. And you cheered. You bought the hat. You put it on your car and waved your stupid flags. You posted about it. You argued with your family about it at Thanksgiving and felt righteous doing it.

And I want to talk about what those choices cost—because you don’t get to skip past that part. You don’t get to arrive at your little crisis of conscience without first standing in the wreckage you helped create.

My son is a soldier in the Army. He’s boots on the ground when called to do so. He could be deployed into this war that nobody wanted at any moment, into a mess that everyone with two eyes and a functioning brain saw coming from miles away. I support our troops with everything I have. I pray for every man and woman in uniform who is living through the devastation unfolding around them—who signed up to serve their country, was lied to, and is now being used as a chess piece in a reckless, unnecessary, ego-driven catastrophe. I support our troops. Completely. Without reservation.
But, I do not support this war. I do not support what they are being sent into. And I hold the people who made it possible directly responsible.

Their blood is on your hands.

I wake up every morning and the first thing I feel before I am even fully conscious is fear. Raw, animal, bone-deep fear. I carry that fear through every hour of every day. I carry it when I make coffee. I carry it when I go to sleep. I carry it when my phone rings and for one terrible half-second the world stops.

Is this the day my son gets deployed?

Is this the day, ICE mistakes my American-born brown kids and husband for being illegal immigrants and sends them off to their makeshift concentration camps?

Is this the day another right wing nutjob shoots up my kids school?

Is today the day?

That is what your votes bought me personally. That is what I get to live with while you’re out here having your little reckoning. Fuck you and fuck your reckoning.

So when you show up to leftist spaces with your hat off and your hands out, looking for someone to tell you that you’re not a bad person, looking for the comfort of community with the very people you dismissed and mocked and voted against—I need you to understand what you’re actually asking.

Because, you are a bad person.

You are asking the people you harmed to make you feel better about having harmed them. You are asking us to subsidize your emotional recovery with our labor and our grace and our exhausted, depleted compassion.
No.
Absolutely not.

Let’s not sugarcoat what this little tour of contrition actually is either, because I refuse to let you dress it up as something noble. You are not sorry. You are not remorseful. Remorse is about the harm you caused to other people. What you’re feeling is embarrassment. What you’re feeling is the specific humiliation of being publicly, catastrophically, historically wrong. What you’re feeling is people pointing their fingers at you and hating you the same way you did to us. What you’re feeling is your own un-comfortability now that the bullshit is affecting you personally. Because when it only affected the people you hate, it wasn’t a big deal.

Your bigotry is on a billboard.

Your cruelty has a paper trail. The world is watching and the world has made its judgment and you don’t like how it feels. That is not a moral awakening. That is a narcissist’s response to bad optics from being on the wrong side of history.

You voted for racism. You voted for misogyny. You voted for homophobia. You voted to strip women of their bodies and trans kids of their childhoods and immigrant families of their right to exist without terror. You voted for war. You voted for the gutting of every institution designed to protect the people least able to protect themselves. You voted for a fucking rapist. You voted for all of it—not accidentally, not naively, not because you didn’t know. Not because of the price of eggs. You voted for it because some part of you wanted it. Because the cruelty felt like strength. Because the chaos felt like power. Because you were so pathetically desperate to feel like a winner that you didn’t care who lost.

Three times. After everything. Even after January 6th.
And now the bill is due and you want my sympathy? How about instead, you take your own advice… Fuck your feelings.

And let’s not forget to talk about God. Let’s talk about how you let him use your faith as a weapon against your own conscience.
He stood in front of a church holding a Bible he has never read, upside down, having just tear-gassed peaceful Americans to get there, and you called it strongman leadership. Evangelical leaders told you he was chosen—God’s instrument, a modern-day King Cyrus, a flawed vessel being used for holy purpose. And you believed it. Not because it was convincing theology. Because it was convenient theology. Because it gave you permission to be piece of shit. Because if God chose him then your conscience didn’t have to.

He told you Christianity was under attack. That without him, your faith itself would be dismantled in America. All lies. He handed you a persecution complex and called it a calling. He made voting for a porn-star-paying, multiple-divorced, accused child-rapist who’s name appears more times in the Epstein files than God is in the Bible, feel like spiritual warfare. He turned your church into a campaign office and your faith into a loyalty oath and you let him do it because it felt righteous and it felt like power and it felt like winning.

He didn’t find God. He found that you had God and because of your weak minds and fragile ego’s, he took it from you and used it against everyone else.
And you handed it to him. Willingly. Three times.

The damage is done. Do you understand that? The damage is done. The families separated at the border are not whole again. The women who lost their rights did not get them back. The trans kids legislated out of existence did not get their childhoods returned to them. The people who died because healthcare was a punchline are still dead. My son does not get to un-deploy when he gets called. American soldiers have died. American citizens have died. None of it gets undone because you’re having feelings about it now.

There is no version of this where you get to skip the consequences and land softly in the arms of the people you hurt. There is no redemption arc that runs through me. I am not your confessor. I am not your mirror. I am not your community. I am not your safe space. I will never be your safe space.

You want to do the work? Good. It’s about time. But let me tell you what the work actually looks like—it is not a podcast or a TikTok video. It is not a Substack comment. It is not finding the nearest leftist and performing your growth at them until they validate you. The work is sitting alone with the full, unvarnished, ugly magnitude of what you chose. Not the comfortable version where you were misled by a very convincing man.

You were not misled.

You were a willing and enthusiastic participant—three times over, with full information, past every possible warning sign, including a literal insurrection. The work is looking directly at that without flinching and without an audience and without anyone to make it easier.

Do it. Do all of it. But do it far away from me. Do it far away from every single person you helped hurt.

You want community? You want belonging? You want somewhere to land?
You build it. It’s waiting for you. Full of people exactly like you, who made exactly the same choices, who are having exactly the same belated crisis.
The only community you deserve is each other.
Go.