You know exactly who you are, and if you don’t, that’s part of the problem.
I need you to understand something clearly, and I’m done gift-wrapping the truth in politeness so you can feel warm and fuzzy while cheering for policies that actively endanger my family.
We’re past disagreement.
We’re past “let’s hear both sides.”
We’re in existential threat territory, and you’re holding the welcome mat.
Let me spell it out like you’re reading the teleprompter at a press conference about freedom while wearing a fascist ballroom gown.
You support bombing ships full of people without trial, because fear feels better than facts. You believe military swagger replaces judicial process. You hear the word “enemy” and think it means “no rights.” And if you think that’s okay, you have no idea what democracy is — but congrats on the cosplay.
You think a gold-plated ballroom is a sign of success. Sweetie, it’s a cartoon villain’s lair with better lighting. We are cutting Medicare and disability services while you’re clapping for chandelier fascism. If you think strength means marble floors instead of moral courage, I’m going to need you to sit in a waiting room for eight hours with a broken mobility scooter and no insurance and tell me again how “beautiful” it all is.
You support policies that treat my genderqueer children like public safety threats. As if their pronouns are pipe bombs. As if their joy is contagious — and not in the good way. You want to legislate their existence out of classrooms, out of clinics, out of their own damn bodies. And then you tell me it’s for their own good. I’ve seen horror movies with better parenting.
Let me be abundantly clear:
I am a mother.
And if you mess with my kids, you mess with everything that holds me back from becoming a full-time street prophet with a megaphone and a flamethrower made of glitter and rage.
My husband is neurodivergent. My nephew is autistic. Our houses are beautiful circuses of stimming, parallel play, and executive dysfunction where love lives in a pile of half-finished laundry and too many whiteboards. You want schools that punish, systems that isolate, and laws that define normal by what makes you comfortable. And you call that “freedom.”
I use mobility supports. My body does not conform to your bootstrap mythologies. Every time you cheer for deregulation, I see a ramp disappearing. Every time you chant “cut government,” I hear: “You are not welcome here.”
My niece married an immigrant, which means her family is now your political piñata. You beat it for votes. You talk about “invasions” like she crossed enemy lines instead of a border line to visit her in-laws. You don’t want safety. You want surveillance with a smiley face sticker.
And all of this?
You call it patriotism.
I call it cruelty in a sparkly hat.
I’m a Therapist. A Licensed Professional Counselor. A Doctor of Behavioral Health. I understand cognitive dissonance. I understand fear. But I am no longer required to cushion your ignorance with my patience. I am out of bubble wrap. We’re down to blunt instruments.
You keep asking why we “can’t just have a civil conversation.”
Well, maybe because your idea of civil includes erasing my kids, criminalizing healthcare, and building literal monuments to cruelty while my people get trampled in the marble dust.
And no — I don’t get to “go away.” I’m a professional. I sit in rooms I didn’t choose. I hold space for people who would vote away my family’s rights before their second cup of coffee.
I’m still here. But I am not pretending anymore.
I’m not pretending we sit at the same table.
I’m not pretending your opinions are harmless.
I’m not pretending this is normal.
You are not misunderstood.
You are not reasonable.
You are dangerous — and I’m calling it what it is.
I’ll keep doing the work. I’ll keep showing up where I’m needed. But I will not smile and nod while you load the next policy cannon pointed directly at my child.
This isn’t politics. This is triage in a collapsing democracy.
This is survival with a side of sarcasm.
I’m not asking you to agree with me.
I’m telling you: you are not safe for my family.
And I will never again pretend that you are.
— Dr. Jess
Mother, Partner, Therapist,
Licensed Professional Counselor,
Doctor of Behavioral Health
Daughter of the Ghetto of Beautiful Things
Council of the Cult of Brighter Days
Carrier of the Pastel Flamethrower
