My friends, my family, my fellow citizens—there comes a time in history when silence is not an option. A time when looking away, staying comfortable, and pretending all is well are not merely acts of denial but acts of complicity. That time is now.
Fascism does not announce itself with a grand declaration. It does not arrive in the dead of night wearing jackboots and waving a flag of conquest. It creeps in through the cracks of complacency, through the slow erosion of truth, and through the seductive lies of those who tell you they alone can save you. It grows in the silence of those too afraid to speak. And today, we see its shadow stretching across our nation.
History returns
History is screaming at us. We have seen this playbook before.
Germany in the 1930s was not instantly consumed by the fire of dictatorship. It began with a man who convinced the people that democracy was weak, that the media was the enemy, that immigrants were to blame for their struggles, and that only he could restore their greatness. And people, ordinary people, neighbors, shopkeepers, pastors, businessmen—bought into it. They excused it. They ignored the warning signs because their daily lives still felt normal. Until one day, they didn’t. Until it was too late.
Evil is what evil does. It does not ask permission. It does not require a uniform. It does not arrive with a label for easy recognition. It operates through policies that strip rights from the vulnerable, through laws that undermine elections, and through leaders who pit citizens against citizens. It is not always loud. Sometimes, it moves with the quiet efficiency of a court decision, a school board ruling, or a legislative bill that chips away at freedoms one piece at a time.
And if you are still supporting Trump after all that has happened—after the insurrection, after the blatant attacks on democracy, after the embrace of dictators, and after the denunciation of our own institutions—then you are complicit in this erosion. You do not get to pretend you didn’t know. You do not get to separate his actions from your endorsement of him. You have chosen this.
Is discomfort a fair price for democracy?
I know that speaking out carries a price. I know it means losing friends, alienating family, making the holidays uncomfortable, and becoming the target of resentment. But tell me, what is the price of silence? What happens when we refuse to call out the destruction of democracy because we fear uncomfortable conversations?
The light at the end of the tunnel is only there if the tunnel does not collapse. If we do not hold the walls, if we do not reinforce the founndations of truth, of justice, of democracy itself, then the tunnel crumbles. Only we can save ourselves and let that light shine in.
Some say that resistance should be quiet, that it is about fortifying ourselves emotionally, building community, and refusing to let fear dictate our lives. And yes, those things matter. But if resistance is only internal, if we let it become merely a personal act rather than a collective, public, and vocal one, then we are playing by the rules of those who want us silent.
I have felt it myself—that subtle reprimand when I speak out too loudly, the discomfort in a room when I call things what they are. The suggestion that resistance should be gentler, that I should “lead with love” rather than confrontation. But here’s the truth: resistance needs both. It needs those who build inner strength so they don’t break under pressure, and it needs those who stand up, who call things out, who refuse to be silent even when it makes others uncomfortable.
Do not go silently into the night
Because authoritarianism thrives on people being just quiet enough to keep the machine running. Yes, refusing to be terrorized is important, but so is naming the threat, exposing the lies, and making sure history records who stood up and who stood by.
And we do this not only in our homes and communities but across the platforms that shape our world today. Social media is often dismissed as a battleground of noise, but it is also one of the most powerful tools we have. Every time we use our voices, whether through a carefully crafted message or a frustrated, exasperated outburst, we are participating in history.
Yes, sometimes our words will be sharp. Sometimes they will carry anger, exhaustion, and even the occasional insult. Because we are humans. We are not polished politicians or scripted spokespeople. We are individuals who observe the ongoing erosion of our democracy and refuse to remain silent.
Would it be ideal if we always found the perfect words, if we always responded with grace and patience? Maybe. But let’s be real: when democracy itself is on the line, when we are watching rights stripped away, when we are witnessing the rise of fascism in real time, perfection is a luxury we do not have. Good is sufficient; perfect can come another day.
Passion is not a flaw. Frustration is not a weakness. It is evidence that we still care, that we are still fighting, and that we refuse to become numb.
Use your voices
We will use our voices. We will use them in conversations at the dinner table, in the voting booth, in the streets, and on every digital platform where we can reach people. We will use them loudly, forcefully, and unapologetically. Because silence is not neutrality, it is surrender.
This is not about left or right. This is about right and wrong. This is about whether we allow bigotry, corruption, and cruelty to define our nation. Whether we let those who worship power turn our neighbors into enemies and our freedoms into relics of the past.
So I will not be silent. I will not temper my words for the sake of comfort. I will not bite my tongue to spare the feelings of those who have chosen a path that endangers us all. And I urge you, every single one of you, to do the same.
Raise your voices. Speak truth in every room you enter. Challenge those who would normalize the unacceptable. Be willing to be unpopular. Because in the end, history will not remember who kept their dinner invitations intact. It will remember who had the courage to stand.
And I, for one, intend to stand.
