In 1997, at the ripe old age of 17, I arrived in Nashville to start my freshman year at Vanderbilt. I was pretty vocal that I didn’t care for country music, despite now living in its headquarters. Dolly was the exception. I’d grown up on a diet of 9 to 5, “Islands in the Stream,” and Steel Magnolias, and she felt like a friend. I used to get my hair cut down near Music Row, and to this day I hold it as a point of pride that it was the same place Dolly got her wigs done.

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Thinking about her, I’ve realized I didn’t just follow her beauty advice. We’d all be well served to follow the rest of what she modeled.

1. Remember where you came from. Eastern Tennessee is a special place, full of good, hard-working people who love their families and that landscape fiercely. Dolly rose far above her humble beginnings and never once let go of pride in where she started.

2. Accept people as they are. Dolly exuded love. She didn’t care what you did, where you came from, or who you loved. She knew you were a child of God and deserved love just as much as the next person.

3. Give back. She’s well known for her book program, and I have to believe it made a real dent in childhood literacy across this country. There’s a documented tie between elementary school reading levels and future incarceration rates, so simply putting books in kids’ hands likely changed the course of thousands of lives. She was also generous well beyond that, giving to medical research, including vaccine development and pediatric cancer care, at my alma mater, Vanderbilt.

4. Lift as you rise. She recognized when others needed a leg up, and she was quick to praise even the people who could be seen as her rivals. She didn’t hold a grudge even when it would be easily justified.

5. Be fabulous. My hair never reached the heights of Dolly’s wigs, but I think we can all agree that everything is better with a little sparkle.

Dolly never needed a stage to make people feel like they mattered. That’s the whole point of showing up for each other. So here’s to doing something, in her honor: buy the book for a kid who needs one, call the person you’ve been meaning to call, and put a little more sparkle into whatever room you’re standing in tomorrow.

‘Cause I can see the light of a clear blue morning
I can see the light of a brand new day
I can see the light of a clear blue morning
Oh and everything’s gonna be all right
It’s gonna be okay

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In each of these races, everyone can do something. If you live in the respective state, vote. If you know people who live in these states, talk to them about these candidates and races. If you can, volunteer with these campaigns or donate money. Everything matters.

Governors

Why should you care about governors in other states? Governors are on the front line in fighting back against the missteps of the federal government.

Katie Hobbs, AZ The single most vulnerable Democratic incumbent, Katie Hobbs, has been a tremendous governor in Arizona, delivering real results, and we need her at the helm for another term.

Keisha Lance Bottoms, GA Former Atlanta mayor Keisha Lance Bottoms is running for governor. She’s a powerhouse. Georgia is and will continue to be a critical battleground state. When elected, she will be the first African American woman ever elected as governor in the country.

Deb Haaland, NM Former Secretary of the Interior and Congresswoman Deb Haaland is running to be the first Native American woman governor ever elected in this country, and with a female-majority legislature in New Mexico.

Amy Acton, OH I lived in Ohio once upon a time. There are good people there, and Dr. Amy Acton is one of them. She was the face of public health during the COVID crisis, and she’s running against Vivek Ramaswamy, who is the absolute definition of a bad guy.

Tina Kotek, OR Oregon is one of those states where people think the races are easier than they are. Governor Kotek has been a champion in Oregon. Let’s get her another term.

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Senate

Democrats need to flip four seats and hold all existing seats to take control of the U.S. Senate.

Mary Peltola, AK There’s a mega opportunity to flip a seat in Alaska. The person to do this is Mary Peltola. She is a former congresswoman and would be the first Native American woman elected to the U.S. Senate.

Juliana Stratton, IL Lieutenant Governor Stratton will be only the sixth African American woman ever elected to the U.S. Senate and will join Senator Blunt Rochester and Senator Alsobrooks to bring the total up to a record three serving concurrently.

Peggy Flanagan, MN Lt. Gov. Flanagan is an organizer at her core. That means she knows the people and delivers for them. She is brave and principled and will be an amazing senator. There’s a lot of crypto money being spent against her and that feels really icky.

Congress

Democrats need a net gain of three seats to flip control of the U.S. House of Representatives. There are 435 congressional seats, and they are all up for reelection every two years. I am not an expert on every single race, but here are a few that I keep an eye on.

In 2018, five newly elected congresswomen with national security experience came to be known as the Badass Caucus. Inspired by the Badasses, let me present the Hellcats and the Six Stars.

Hellcats

• Cait Conley: Army veteran and former National Security Council official running in New York’s 17th district.

• JoAnna Mendoza: Retired Marine Corps drill instructor running in Arizona’s 6th district.

• Rebecca Bennett: Navy veteran running in New Jersey’s 7th district.

• Maura Sullivan: Marine Corps veteran running in New Hampshire’s 1st district.

Six Stars A female general or admiral has never been elected to the House, in either party. The Six Stars are going to change that:

• Nancy Lacore, SC: Rear Admiral (Retired), U.S. Navy, running for the seat vacated by Nancy Mace.

• Eileen Laubacher, CO: Rear Admiral (Retired), U.S. Navy, running against Lauren Boebert.

Leela Gray, FL: Brigadier General (Retired), U.S. Army, running against Anna Paulina Luna. This one is personal for me, as this district is part of my now-gerrymandered hometown.

Secretaries of State

Why do these races matter? Secretaries of state run our elections. They decide how ballots get counted, how voter rolls get maintained, and who gets to vote at all. After 2020, this office stopped being the boring one on the ballot. Electing people who actually believe in free and fair elections, and who will certify results even when they don’t like them, might be the single highest leverage thing we can do in 2026. Pay attention to the race in your state and learn about others through the Democratic Association of Secretaries of State.

Attorneys General

Attorneys general are on the front lines against Trump. If you live in a state with a strong Democratic AG, you have legal recourse when the federal government does something illegal. If you don’t, you probably don’t. These are also the offices that interpret and enforce the laws protecting voters and keeping elections fair, and they’re the ones defending secretaries of state in court when their election decisions get challenged. This is not a background role.

Kris Mayes, AZ I had the chance to hear AG Mayes speak last year, and left saying that I’d walk through fire for her. She is a warrior and we’d be lucky to have her serve another term.

Tish James, NY Tish James is running for a third term after the Trump administration indicted her on mortgage fraud charges that a federal judge later threw out. That’s not a subplot, that’s the point. She’s one of the most consistent legal checks on this administration in the country, and they know it.

Andrea Campbell, MA Andrea Campbell made history as the first Black woman elected to statewide office in Massachusetts, and she’s running for a second term on a record of consumer protection work and federal litigation. She talks about the job as more than enforcing the law, and she means it.

Nicole Cannizzaro, NV Cannizzaro spent over a decade as a prosecutor and became the first woman to serve as State Senate Majority Leader. She used to prosecute gangs and when elected she’ll apply those skills against other thugs.

Atlantic County Clerk, NJ

Allow me a moment of personal privilege. I’ve worked on various campaigns for about 15 years, but Lisa Bender has been my best friend for over 40. Supporting women running for office is one of my favorite things to do, and made even more special when it’s a friend. Lisa has been involved in local politics for many years as an organizer and a candidate. This year she’s running against the incumbent to become Atlantic County’s top election official. I am very proud of the campaign she’s running and know that she’d be tremendous in the role. Donate here and follow her on the campaign trail here.

That’s the incomplete list. What ties all of these women together isn’t just gender, it’s that they’re running in the exact races where the fight actually gets decided, the ones that don’t make the national news until it’s too late to help. I’m always here to answer questions or help in any way I can.

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My sister Eileen wanted all of us – her, my brother-in-law, our sister Laura, my husband, and me – to go on a trip together this year. I suggested that we go back to Detroit. Now Detroit probably isn’t at the top of most people’s destination lists, but I had seen enough to intrigue me in 2024 and wanted to go back when it wasn’t November.

Detroit gets a bad rap. Some of that is well deserved. It has gone through some really, really tough times, but Detroit is full of fighters. A lot of it has come back probably better than it’s ever been. We stayed a few blocks from the ballpark, and everyone we met was warm and welcoming in the most mid-western of ways.

The trip’s highlight was a tour of the Ford Rouge plant, the original mega-factory Henry Ford built a century ago, where you can now walk a catwalk above the active assembly line and watch F-150s get built in real time. A new truck rolls off the line every 53 seconds, and that factory alone can produce half a million trucks a year. I could have stayed all day. I only left because the workers broke for lunch.

Watching people do their actual jobs felt a little voyeuristic, if I’m honest. But standing there, tracing the steps it takes to turn sheet metal into a truck, I kept thinking how few of us outside this building have any idea how much has to go right to make one of these. The red body and the red door meet up at exactly the right time, and this one gets premium speakers and that one gets a sunroof. Even though I’ve been a driver for more than 30 years, I never stopped to think about what it actually takes to get a door and a body to arrive at the same spot on the line at the same second.

This is one of the backbones of the American economy, built by union labor, running exactly as it should. I don’t usually get that kind of access, not to a plant floor, not to the version of America that keeps it running. The only other time I do is when I’m door knocking.

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That’s the thing about door knocking that I love: it drops you into a version of America you don’t otherwise get to see. I often think door knocking is more for the knocker than the knockee. I learn so much, about America, about politics, about life, every time I knock doors, no matter where I am. This trip gave me the same thing, minus the door knocking. Watching a plant floor hum with purpose taught me something about this country I wouldn’t expect from a tourist itinerary.

You don’t need a campaign, and you definitely don’t need a plane ticket, to get some of that. You just need to go somewhere you don’t already have a script for: the town whose highway exit you always pass, or the neighborhood in your own city you’ve never had a reason to walk through, a factory tour instead of another wine bar. The point isn’t the destination, it’s letting a place surprise you instead of confirming what you already believed about it.

I still didn’t get to visit Motown. It’s closed for a renovation, but this gives me a good reason to go back to Detroit again, and I’m already looking forward to it.

So: go to Detroit. Or anywhere. Just go somewhere that isn’t on your usual loop.

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All of my posts on this Substack are free. I write because I have things to say and I’m glad you’re here to read them.

I’d be grateful if you’d consider becoming a paid subscriber. Your support is what makes it possible for me to keep writing, keep noticing, and keep sharing what I find.

Silver Lake is a small lake in rural Pennsylvania, near the town of Montrose, and my family has been going there for generations. The Montrose Fourth of July parade is central casting for rural American life: kids from the 4-H on tractors, stock cars, local beauty queens waving from convertibles, the whole thing aggressively and cheerfully patriotic. I love it. (I had both a marching band and bagpipes at my wedding, so you could say that parades are my thing.)

A few years ago I was back at Silver Lake for the Fourth, and after dark my cousins across the lake put on a fireworks show from their dock that I would put up against any big city production I have ever seen. It helps that the lake is small enough that sound carries easily, so we could hear them laughing and they could hear us oohing and aahing in response.

I have also spent a lot of Fourths in Ocean City, New Jersey, watching fireworks over the beach, and a few in Bexley, just outside Columbus, Ohio, which takes the Fourth so seriously that the parade route is permanently painted on its streets.

For the past twenty years, Eric and I have crossed the Golden Gate Bridge on the Fourth to watch the parade in Larkspur, a small town in Marin. It is exactly the same parade every year, just new kids on the little league teams. We used to bring our nephews and niece. They’re too old for the parade now, but we still go.

I will be honest with you about something: part of why I have always loved the Fourth of July is simply that it is hot, and I love hot weather. There is something about a long summer day when you are not rushing anywhere and there is nothing in particular to accomplish. No turkey to cook or tree to decorate. You are just outside, together, eating a hotdog, waiting for it to get dark enough for the fireworks and sparklers.

There is something about that simplicity that feels, to me, distinctly American. Not the America of arguments and grievances and competing visions of what this country is or should be, but the America of a parade down a painted street, of cousins across a lake, of a small town in Marin that still lines the sidewalks every July. The America that belongs to all of us.

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I know that patriotism has felt contested lately, that the flag has been claimed by some as a symbol of a particular kind of politics, that it can be hard to know what you’re signaling when you hang one from your porch. I understand that discomfort. But I also think we are allowed to love this country and to say so, loudly and without apology, in the same breath that we work to make it better and hold it accountable to its own best ideals.

We have the freedom to do this. The sparklers, the songs, the flag in the window. The parade and the fireworks and the long hot day with the people you love. None of that belongs to anyone more than it belongs to you.

This year San Francisco is setting off fireworks over the Golden Gate bridge. I’m going to be there, fog notwithstanding.

Happy Fourth of July, and Happy Birthday America.

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It was completely delightful.

It got me thinking about a conversation I had recently with a woman who leads a community organization — the kind of sustained, demanding, deeply human work that holds people together. She mentioned almost in passing that she’d been spending time on something she loves — something creative — and then she apologized for it. She felt guilty for taking time away from her group to do the thing that genuinely fills her up.

I could not disagree more.

We have the relationship backwards.

Somewhere along the way, a lot of us absorbed the idea that joy is something we earn. That the things that light us up — art, music, dancing badly in the kitchen, spending a Saturday at a museum — are what we get to do after the real work is handled. If there’s time left, which of course there never is.

But joy isn’t the reward for finishing. It’s what makes the finishing possible.

Most of us spend a significant portion of our lives giving — to our jobs, our families, our communities, our obligations. That kind of sustained output has a real cost, and it requires real replenishment in the form of actual joy.

When my friend sits with her creative practice, she isn’t abandoning her mission. She’s restoring the thing that fuels it. She comes back fuller, clearer, more herself. And the people she serves get a leader who is genuinely present — not one running on empty and performing fine.

The guilt isn’t virtue. It’s just a symptom of a grim cultural story that says our value is measured by our output. Under that logic, of course joy seems frivolous. It doesn’t produce anything you can put in a report.

When I worked in a corporate setting, I was never the person burning the candle at both ends. Maybe I sacrificed some advancement by not playing the optics game — staying late to be seen, being exhausted as a badge of honor. But having a full life outside of work made me a hell of a lot better at my actual job. And when I managed people, I didn’t reward the work-at-all-costs behavior either. That kind of performance looks like dedication. It usually isn’t.

The things that genuinely replenish you produce something more durable than overtime: people who bring their whole selves to their work, which makes the work that much better.

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So no, you don’t need to earn it.

If you feel guilty doing the thing that genuinely lights you up, I’d ask: who benefits from that guilt? Not your family, your community, or your co-workers. And definitely not you.

The things that fill you up are not a distraction from your life. They are your life. The work, the community, the people you love — they all get a better version of you when you’ve actually been fed.

Go to the exhibit. Sign up for the class. Show up on a Friday night and paint a happy little tree.

What’s the thing that brings you joy that you keep putting off? Tell me in the comments.

This is not democracy. This is exhausting

Let’s start with polling. Polls are meant to reflect who people want to vote for — not tell people who to vote for. When you vote for the frontrunner because they’re the frontrunner, you’re not making a choice. You’re ratifying a number someone else generated. The whole thing collapses into a self-fulfilling prophecy, and the actual question — who do you want representing you — never gets answered.

Here’s the thing about those polls: they’re heavily skewed by name recognition, which in the era of self-funding billionaire candidates is a serious problem. Tom Steyer has spent over $192 million of his own money on the California governor’s race. That kind of ad saturation moves poll numbers. It does not tell you anything about whether he’s the candidate California Democrats actually want — only that they’ve seen his face enough times to recognize his name when a pollster calls. Polling Steyer’s viability right now is a little like polling the popularity of a song that’s been played on every radio station every hour for six months. Humor me, and assume that people still listen to the radio. Of course people know the words. 

I can already hear a California reader: “Easy for you to say — you want two Republicans in the top two?” I don’t. But whether that happens depends on Republican turnout, not on which Democrat you choose. If Hilton and Bianco can’t collectively pull enough votes to crowd out two Democrats, that’s a reflection of where Republican support actually stands in this state.

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The gaming instinct runs deeper than polling, though. In states with open primaries — where you can walk in and choose which party’s ballot you want without formally changing your registration — some voters cross over to vote in the other party’s primary. Sometimes this is to elevate a more moderate Republican they find less horrifying. Sometimes it’s to boost the weaker Republican candidate, on the theory that their preferred Democrat will have an easier time in November.

This impulse comes from a genuine place. People are scared. They’ve watched too many elections go sideways. But it doesn’t work. The most famous attempt at organized crossover voting was Rush Limbaugh’s 2008 “Operation Chaos” — his campaign urging Republicans to vote for Hillary Clinton in Democratic primaries, explicitly to prolong the race and damage whoever emerged as the nominee. It was loud, it was coordinated, it had the most listened-to radio host in America behind it. Researchers who studied the data afterward found no meaningful evidence that it moved the needle. If Rush Limbaugh couldn’t pull it off with a megaphone and a dedicated following, a groundswell of anxious Democrats improvising on their own is not going to crack the code.

I’m hearing from Democrats in Minnesota that Republicans are quietly pushing the line that Peggy Flanagan will be easier to tie to the fraud scandals plaguing the Walz administration — and that some Democrats are choosing Angie Craig in the Senate primary for that reason alone, not because they prefer her. I understand the fear. But the premise of the scare tactic doesn’t even hold up: both candidates beat their likely Republican opponent by nearly identical margins in general election polling. The seat is rated likely Democratic. Voters are doing complex math to solve a problem that doesn’t exist — and in the process, not voting for the candidate they actually want representing them, in this case, for the next six years. 

Now, I’ll poke a hole in my own argument, because I’d rather do it than wait for you to: Jill Stein. If your takeaway from everything I’ve just said is “great, I’m voting third party in November,” we have a different conversation to have. Strategic thinking absolutely belongs in a general election, particularly in close races where every vote in the wrong direction has real consequences. The primary and the general are different instruments for different purposes.

But the primary is specifically designed for you to say what you actually think. It’s the one moment where the system is explicitly asking: who do you want? Not who can win. Not who is already winning. Not who has spent $192 million making sure you recognize their name.

Who do you want?

Vote that person.

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A note on your ballot, before we get to my choices

I’m used to opening my California ballot and finding many, many pages. This one is relatively short. Hooray! But, you’ll see that there are over 60 candidates for Governor. Why? And why so many with unconventional names? The barrier to getting on the ballot is low. To run for governor this year, you needed either a ~$5,000 filing fee or 6,000 signatures. The long list of names is normal and also slightly absurd, and you should not feel bad for ignoring most of them.

Guiding principle

I’m most interested in ideas paired with experience. I love living in California, but there’s both a lot of room for improvement and a lot of opportunity.

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Governor: Katie Porter

I’ve written about this race twice now — here and here — so I won’t re-litigate the whole case. Short version: she’s been working on housing her entire career, she doesn’t take corporate money, and California has never elected a woman governor. Not once.

I don’t have a second choice in this race, but I want to say clearly that it isn’t Xavier Becerra. He is the opposite of what I mean when I say I’m drawn to candidates with ideas. And while he hasn’t been personally implicated in the scandal involving his campaign manager, I certainly wouldn’t put it past Trump’s Justice Department to f*#k with California. An indictment, warranted or not, against a Democratic candidate for governor would leave us with Steve Hilton in the state’s highest office, because there are no write-ins in November. That’s not a hypothetical I’m willing to entertain.

Lt. Governor: Michael Tubbs

Tubbs made national headlines in 2016 when he became the youngest and first Black mayor of Stockton. As mayor, he piloted a guaranteed basic income program that attracted attention across the country. He’s got ideas, and I believe in him as a future leader of this party.

Secretary of State: Shirley Weber

Reelecting the incumbent. Protecting our elections is one of the most critical tasks in California (and all of the other states) over the next four years. Weber has been in court repeatedly defending California’s election laws. She is the right person for this moment.

Controller: Malia Cohen

Reelecting the incumbent. I’ve met Malia a number of times and she is more than competent. She’s also an Emerge alum, which I love. Emerge trains Democratic women to run for office, and they have a killer track record, with Malia as evidence.

Treasurer: Eleni Kounalakis

Our current Lt. Governor taught me what the Lt. Governor does. I’ve spent time with Eleni over the past decade and find her exceptionally principled. Here’s a quick story about her: In 2016, a group of us went to Las Vegas to canvass and work the Nevada caucus. Eleni had recently broken her leg skiing and was in a full leg cast, but that didn’t slow her down at all. She showed up and was in that campaign office day and night, working the phones. That’s who she is.

Before entering politics, she was a hugely successful businesswoman and served as U.S. Ambassador to Hungary. She’s already sat across the table from one authoritarian leader, and that’s important experience for us to have this moment in this country.

Attorney General: Rob Bonta

Reelecting the incumbent. In the first year of Trump’s second term alone, Bonta filed 54 lawsuits against the Trump Administration, and won the majority of them. I don’t know exactly what the current count is, but I know it keeps going up. He is doing exactly what a California AG should be doing right now.

Insurance Commissioner: Patrick Wolff

Remember when no one knew who the insurance commissioner was and didn’t particularly care? Those days are over. Climate change, and especially wildfires, has made insurance in California a crisis. Wolff is focused on the continued regulation needed right now to ensure that we can still insure. Ben Allen is a strong second choice: he’s a state senator who represents the Palisades, has introduced meaningful legislation, and understands this issue up close and personally.

Board of Equalization, District 2: John Pimentel

If you don’t know what the Board of Equalization does, I didn’t either until I sat down to write this. The short version: it’s the body that handles property tax appeals and administers certain tax programs in California, and there’s a good case to eliminate the board altogether. Pimentel has deep experience and willingness to push for needed reforms, including possibly eliminating the board and his job.

U.S. Representative, District 11: Scott Wiener

I’ve written about this race too. The big development since then: Nancy Pelosi has endorsed Connie Chan. I see that less as a shot at Scott and more as a shot at Saikat Chakrabarti in an attempt to consolidate the field and push him out of contention. (Something I’d welcome.) Wiener is leading by double digits in recent polls, and the state Democratic Party has already endorsed him. Pelosi had previously endorsed Chan in her SF Supervisor race, the only city race that Pelosi weighed in on. And there’s a theory (or rumor) that this move was designed to encourage Connie not to run against the Speaker Emerita’s daughter Christine Pelosi, who is eyeing Wiener’s State Senate seat in 2028. I don’t know if Nancy is still the kingmaker (or queenmaker) locally that she once was, but I do know that Scott Wiener has delivered for this city for years and we’d be lucky to have him in DC.

One aside: if Scott is elected to Congress, his State Senate seat will go to a special election. Watch that space.

State Assembly, District 17: Matt Haney

Incumbent. Running unopposed. Still vote. (Will run for Wiener’s State Senate seat either in election in 2027 or when Wiener is termed out in 2028.)

Judge of the Superior Court, Seat #16: Phoebe Maffei (or Alexandra Pray)

Both candidates are qualified. I’m going with Maffei.

Superintendent of Public Instruction: Al Muratsuchi or Richard Barrera

I don’t have children, so my process here was to ask someone who does — this time, a public school parent who is also a sitting school board member. Their recommendation was Muratsuchi, based on state-level legislation he’s championed that will let districts like SFUSD focus on outcomes-based results. Richard Barrera is an advisor to the current Superintendent and has the support of the NEA. He’s another good choice.

Member, Board of Education: Phil Kim

Voting to have him serve out the remainder of the term. We’ll vote again for two board members in November.

SF Props

Prop A (Earthquake readiness): YES. This one is not complicated.

Prop B (Lifetime term limits for Board of Supervisors and Mayor): YES.

Props C and D: NO on both. Both are attempts at tax reform that aren’t well enough designed to deserve a yes. We need real structural tax reform, not this. And for what it’s worth, I’ll be voting no on the state billionaire tax in November for the same reason: a one-time measure isn’t reform, it’s a patch.

Ballots are due June 2. Mail it well before then or find a drop box. Happy voting!

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One is rural Pennsylvania. The other is Florida.

Let me explain.

About 20 minutes south of Binghamton, New York, just over the Pennsylvania border, nestled in the rolling foothills of the Adirondack Mountains, there’s a small lake called Silver Lake. My friend Kim, who grew up on an island in the middle of Lake Erie, called our lake a puddle to give you a sense of scale. When giving directions to the Lake you’ll hear, “When it starts to look like Ireland, you know you’re there.”

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About 80 years ago, my paternal grandparents acquired the dining hall of a former girls’ summer camp on that lake. It became the family homestead, a humble cottage where my extended family has gathered for my entire life. My parents owned a cottage across the lake for a while, sharing it with my uncle Johnny’s family. My grandfather’s brother Joe built his own cottage, and his kids, my dad’s cousins, still have theirs. A constellation of family friends from Binghamton spent their summers around that lake too. Most of my memories are stored there. My grandparents are buried in the church cemetery down the road and my parents will be too.

We are lucky that this pristine lake and the woods surrounding it have been protected in perpetuity through a land conservancy, thought up by some prescient people before we had the sense to appreciate what we had.

Our family calls the road the cottage sits on Tobacco Road, even though its official name is South Lake Road. At the top of that road is a dairy farm that’s been there longer than any of us. My dad spent many hours there as a boy, helping out, and it remains a destination when we visit, entertainment being somewhat limited in that part of the world. The farm is run by Reuben and Beth, my dad’s childhood friend and his wife. It is hard, unrelenting work. You never get a day off. The margins are thin. Last year, Reuben and Beth made the decision to sell their cows.

I think about that a lot.

This morning, I read a piece in The New York Times about the Watson family, dairy farmers at Butter Ridge — 326 acres of pastoral valleys and rolling hillsides just south of the New York State border, east of the mighty Susquehanna river. I don’t know exactly where Butter Ridge is, but it can’t be far from our cottage. The Watsons have been dairy farming since before the Civil War. Brad Watson is 41. He supported Trump in 2024, in part because Trump promised to be “the most pro-farmer president you’ve ever had.” Instead, tariffs cut into Brad’s export market and a war in Iran sent fuel and fertilizer prices surging. The article doesn’t mention it, but don’t forget the subsidies Trump sent to Argentinian farmers instead of helping his own. Brad was losing thousands of dollars every month until he made the call he’d been dreading his whole career: he arranged the Watson family’s final dairy sale.

The story gutted me. But when I went to read the comments — and I know, I know, never read the comments — I found something that gutted me almost as much. So many people writing, in effect: they did it to themselves. They voted for Trump.

I understand the frustration behind that sentiment. I do. But I can’t let it go unchallenged.

Imagine you are a farmer in rural Pennsylvania. You are losing several hundred dollars every single day. You have never once taken a vacation. Your banker looks at your numbers and tells you it’s a hobby, not a business. A politician comes along and says the economy is going to get better — for you. How, in your heart of hearts, could you not want to believe that? How could you not try?

And while we’re at it: fracking has been deeply controversial in that part of Pennsylvania for years. People like me, who love the beauty of Silver Lake and want to protect it, are genuinely alarmed by what drilling does to land and water. But how do you tell a farmer who is barely holding on that he shouldn’t take the lifeline put directly in front of him? The tension is real. The choices are impossible. That is a very different thing from villainy.

The people are not the villains. The places are not the villains.

When I was eight years old, my family moved from Binghamton to St. Petersburg, Florida. We still spent part of the summer at Silver Lake to escape the brutal Florida summers, but Florida was now home, or at least my home. My two older sisters were in high school when we moved and barely acknowledged they ever lived there. My dad is from Binghamton. My mom is from the Jersey Shore. I’m the only one in my family who says I’m from Florida.

Florida has been the butt of political jokes for more than twenty years. I get it — Florida is genuinely weird, but that’s also what makes it great. I have a theory that the high incidence of “news of the weird” in Florida is the result of lax bankruptcy laws, but that’s a topic for another time. A few blocks from the house I grew up in is a former roadside attraction called Sunken Gardens, complete with a deeply tacky gift shop and a beautiful garden full of tropical plants and flamingos. Just up the road is a theme park with a mermaid show. The Shuffleboard Hall of Fame is in St. Petersburg, and playing there on Thursday nights with a cooler of beer is a genuinely good time. The baseball field in the park at the end of the block is home to the Kids ‘n Kubs, a competitive softball league with a minimum age requirement of 74. I love all of it. I claim all of it.

The powder sand beach at Pass-a-Grille is my happy place. It was almost wiped off the map by back-to-back hurricanes in 2024. But the people brought it back.

Last week, Governor DeSantis signed a new congressional map into law — one that cuts Florida’s Democratic congressional seats in half, ramming it through in less than 72 hours, in open defiance of a voter-approved ban on partisan gerrymandering that Floridians themselves passed in 2010. Legal challengers are already calling it one of the most extreme gerrymanders in American history.

This is the leadership Florida is subjected to. The Floridians I know — including my own family — didn’t ask for this. They are not this. They are people living with the real, daily consequences of climate change — the flooding, the heat, the insurance collapse — without the government representation to do a single thing about it. They didn’t choose to be abandoned. They are not a punchline.

A few months ago, I was at an event in San Francisco — a meet-and-greet with one of the many candidates running for California governor. It was a room full of Democrats, in a Democratic city, in a Democratic neighborhood (they all are, but this one especially.) A woman stood up to ask a question, identified herself as someone from Florida, and someone in the crowd hissed.

Hissed.

I was so taken aback I didn’t even hear what she asked.

We have to stop this. And that’s my ask for you. Not just because it’s unkind, though it is. Not just because it’s unfair, though it is that too. We have to stop it because it is failing us. We will not build anything worth having — any coalition, any movement, any future — by making the people of Florida and rural America and anywhere labeled “red” the other.

The next time you feel that hiss rising, think about Boyd Watson. Think about Reuben and Beth. Think about a woman who stood up in a room full of people who were supposed to be on her side, and was met with contempt for where she came from.

Then ask yourself what you’re actually for.

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I was standing on our front steps earlier this week, just staring up at the tree, noticing the pattern in which the tree blooms from the top down. Then a hummingbird appeared out of nowhere and hovered right in the middle of the blossoms. You would have thought I’d won the lottery I was so excited. (I have a thing for hummingbirds.) It was one of those moments that reminded me that the natural world is doing extraordinary things, every single day, right outside my door. We just have to stop long enough to notice.

This week feels like the right moment to stop and notice. Today is Earth Day, this Friday is Arbor Day, and it’s also the 45th anniversary of Friends of the Urban Forest, the organization whose board I’m honored to serve on.

Forty-five years ago, just blocks from where I live in Noe Valley, a small group of committed San Franciscans came together and planted a tree. That single act launched what would become one of the most impactful urban greening organizations in the country. Since then, Friends of the Urban Forest has planted over 60,000 trees across this city — trees that clean our air, shade our streets, slow our stormwater, and stop neighbors like me dead in our tracks.

It’s easy to take for granted what trees give us. We walk past them every day without really seeing them. But my dogwood doesn’t let me forget. It demands to be seen, and I’m thankful.

If you’ve ever had a moment like mine on the front steps — a bloom that caught your breath, a bird that appeared like a sign, a patch of green that made a city feel livable — that’s Friends of the Urban Forest at work.

On this Earth Day and 45th anniversary, I’m asking you to support that work. A donation to FUF goes directly toward planting and stewarding trees in San Francisco neighborhoods that need them most. It’s one of the most direct, tangible ways to invest in the health and beauty of this city we love.

Donate to Friends of the Urban Forest →

Here’s to 45 more years. And to every hummingbird, every bloom, every neighbor who looks up.

🌸

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Let me tell you what’s happening in the California governor’s race, and then let me tell you why it makes me want to throw something.

Katie Porter — former congresswoman, whiteboard warrior, the woman who made bank CEOs squirm on national television — is running for governor. She’s one of exactly two prominent women in the entire field. California, our loud, progressive, we’re-so-much-better-than-that state, has never elected a woman governor. Not once.

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And right now, the knives are out.

Last fall, two videos went viral. In one, Porter snapped at a staffer during a Zoom call. In another, she pushed back hard on a reporter she felt was asking bad-faith questions. The media verdict came quickly: she’s “difficult to work with.” She has “a reputation.” And now, with Eric Swalwell’s abrupt exit from the race this week following sexual misconduct allegations, the whisper campaign has gotten louder. Several members of the California congressional delegation have reportedly told SF Chronicle political writer Joe Garofoli — privately, of course — that Porter didn’t play well in the sandbox. One said she often “Momsplains” to her colleagues.

Almost all of them were men.

Let’s do a quick inventory of women in politics who’ve been handed this “difficult” label: Hillary Clinton. Kamala Harris. Amy Klobuchar. Elizabeth Warren. AOC. Shall I go on? Because I can. The pattern is so consistent it practically has its own Wikipedia page.

When a man is demanding, he’s a leader. When he raises his voice, he’s passionate. When he pushes back, he’s standing his ground. When a woman does any of those things? She’s difficult. She’s not a team player. She Momsplains. She’s shrill, hysterical, too emotional, too angry.

I’m not here to tell you Porter is above criticism. I’m here to ask whether the same criticism would stick to a man. Because the field is full of them — billionaires, mayors, former attorneys general — all apparently certain they’re the right person for the job. Is anyone asking whether they’re easy to work with? Is that a question that even gets asked about men?

What can we do about it? Notice it. Name it when you see it — in op-eds, in conversations, in your group chats. Not because calling it out will change the next news cycle, but because silence is how it gets baked in as conventional wisdom.

And remember this: women cast 91 million votes in 2024 — nearly 9 million more than men. We are 53% of the electorate, and we have been for thirty years. That’s not a fun fact. That’s power. The question is whether we’re willing to use it to demand that candidates — all candidates, of any gender — be evaluated on what they’ve done and what they’ll do. Not on whether they’re easy to be around.

_____________________________

California’s June 2 primary is coming up fast, and a lot is at stake. Ballots go out in early May, which means decisions are being made right now. Here’s what I’m watching.

The Governor’s Race: Historic Means More Than One Thing

A few weeks ago, USC scheduled a gubernatorial debate using polling and fundraising criteria that resulted in every invited candidate being white, while the four candidates of color in the race, Villaraigosa, Becerra, Yee, and Thurmond, were left out. The backlash was swift, the debate was canceled, and a lot of the conversation became about the urgency of electing a governor of color.

I don’t disagree. Electing leaders of color matters enormously, and that’s why I’m so excited about a number of races across the country this year. Deb Haaland is running for governor of New Mexico, where she would become the first Native American woman ever elected to lead a state. Keisha Lance Bottoms is running for governor of Georgia. If she wins, she would become the state’s first woman governor and the first Black woman governor ever elected in the US. Juliana Stratton just won the Democratic Senate primary in Illinois and when elected would become the sixth Black woman ever to serve in the Senate. Peggy Flanagan, a citizen of the White Earth Nation of Ojibwe is running for Senate in Minnesota. And Mary Peltola, the first Alaska Native person ever elected to Congress, is running for Senate there. No Native American woman has ever served in the U.S. Senate. Either one of them (and hopefully both) would make history. There is so much to be excited about.

But here’s what bothered me about the California debate framing: in the rush to invoke historic representation, no one was talking about the fact that California has never elected a woman as governor. And Katie Porter — a frontrunner — is right there.

I’m sick of the double standard. Porter has faced months of criticism over some videos that, if we’re being honest, would barely register as a footnote for a male candidate. She’s been held to a different standard at every turn. “But those videos” is the 2026 version of “But her emails.”

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The Steyer Problem

Tom Steyer is a self-funder. He has that luxury. He doesn’t need to spend hours calling rich people like him for cash or going to fundraisers to fuel his gubernatorial campaign. He has blanketed the airwaves with over $60 million of his own money to find himself only tied with the other frontrunners. We keep learning this lesson and ignoring it: money doesn’t automatically translate to votes, and governing is not the same as spending.

Porter is the only candidate in this race refusing donations from corporations and their PACs. She’s not beholden to anyone. In a field full of self-funders and special interest money, that matters.

When Tom Steyer announced his candidacy he talked about housing, housing, housing. He’s pledged to build one million homes in four years and has positioned himself as the most progressive candidate in the field. I have a real problem with this.

If housing is Steyer’s driving issue, then why didn’t he endorse Katie Porter out of the gate? She has been working on housing her entire career, long before she was ever elected to office. She’s the one with the track record. If you’re serious about the issue, you support the most effective champion of that issue. The fact that he’s running instead feels more like ambition than mission.

So little attention has been paid to Katie Porter’s actual track record on housing. In 2012, Kamala Harris appointed Porter to be California’s independent monitor of a nationwide $25 billion mortgage settlement, overseeing $9.5 billion in reforms for Californians. She wasn’t a politician. She wasn’t running for anything. She got personally involved in individual foreclosure cases, wrote six reports calling out bank misconduct, and delivered better outcomes for California homeowners than anywhere else in the country.

And she kept at it in Congress. Porter co-led the Stop Wall Street Landlords Act, which would have ended large institutional investors’ ability to use taxpayer subsidies to buy up single-family homes, going directly after the corporate landlord practices that are pricing working families out of homeownership. That’s the kind of housing work that doesn’t make for a flashy campaign ad. It’s just someone who actually understands the problem, doing the work.

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Results vs Rhetoric

Speaking of doing the work, San Francisco, we need to talk about Congress. For those of you who don’t know, we are voting to replace Speaker Emerita Nancy Pelosi who is retiring after a historic career in Congress.

Scott Wiener has done the work. Wiener’s policies have helped revolutionize California’s approach to housing. Six months ago, if you’d asked anyone to describe him, they would have said he’s one of the most progressive lawmakers in the country, a tireless LGBTQ advocate, and the person most responsible for actually moving the needle on housing in this state. Now suddenly he’s being framed as “the establishment.” I don’t buy it.

His main opponent is Saikat Chakrabarti, who briefly served as AOC’s chief of staff and is positioning himself as the progressive outsider, essentially coronating himself as the AOC of the West. He’s garnered excitement in progressive circles drawing comparisons to Zohran Mamdani’s insurgent campaign in New York. Mamdani is genuinely exciting. He brought new voters into the fold, ran on bold ideas, and had real credibility doing it. But here’s the key difference: Mamdani had actual legislative experience before running for mayor. He served in the New York State Assembly. Chakrabarti has not held elected office. Being an operator behind a politician is not the same as being the politician. Saikat is no Mamdani.

And then there’s the money. Chakrabarti is a centimillionaire from his time as a founding engineer at Stripe. Tech fortune or not, self-funding is self-funding (see above). He is now running one of the largest paid canvasser operations in San Francisco history, with more than 250 door knockers, including two dozen Cantonese speakers, paying up to $45 an hour. By contrast, Wiener and Supervisor Connie Chan say they have no paid staff whose sole job is canvassing; that work is largely undertaken by volunteers. Chakrabarti appears to have adopted Mayor Daniel Lurie’s winning formula: lavish self-financing, an anti-status quo sentiment, and a robust ground game with a battalion of paid canvassers.

But that comparison only goes so far — and not in Chakrabarti’s favor. Lurie spent years embedded in San Francisco through Tipping Point Community, doing real work on homelessness and poverty long before he ever ran for anything. He had roots here. Chakrabarti is running the same financial playbook without that foundation. And let’s be honest: we wouldn’t know who Saikat Chakrabarti is if he weren’t wealthy. That’s not a qualification. That’s a checkbook.

Bottom line: The June 2 primary matters enormously — not just for California, but as a signal about what kind of politics we want to reward. I want to reward track records, not checkbooks. I want to stop letting money substitute for governing experience. And I want to finally, finally, elect a woman to lead this state.

Ballots drop in early May. More to come.

A note to readers

All of my posts on this Substack are free. I write because I have things to say, and I’m glad you’re here to read them.

But if these dispatches bring you something, I’d be grateful if you’d consider becoming a paid subscriber. Your support inspires me to keep writing, keep noticing, and keep sharing what I find. No pressure, just an honest ask.

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The list of companies you were “supposed” to stop patronizing included Amazon, Apple, Netflix, Target, Whole Foods... basically the infrastructure of my daily life. And I really, really tried. But at some point I almost drove to Staples to buy toilet paper — we are a Cottonelle family (TMI) — and I had to ask myself: is this actually better? Is Staples meaningfully different? Am I serving the greater good by driving all over town to avoid Target? I decided the answer was no. I bought my toilet paper at Target, and I’ve been lobbying my Costco to start carrying it ever since. I recognize that having the luxury of being picky about my toilet paper brand — let alone having multiple stores to choose from — is itself a privilege. Not everyone has those options.

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I still shop at these places, but I shop more intentionally. For example, I use Target’s drive-up, which I am convinced is one of the greatest inventions of the 21st century, because it forces me to buy only what I actually need. No wandering the aisles, no impulse body lotion, no throw pillows. Just the things I came for, in my car, and I’m gone. Doing a little is still doing something. Buying your household staples at a big box store doesn’t mean you can’t also be more thoughtful about where else your money goes, and it doesn’t make you a bad person.

Which brings me to the second part of this post: shopping local actually matters, and not just in the way you think.

Last year I went to an event with Joe Hargrave, the owner of San Francisco’s Tacolicious restaurants. A few months later, the location in my neighborhood closed. Running a small business is really hard, and it’s easy to overlook how crucial they are to our communities. Small businesses are what give our neighborhoods their character and life. Without them, we’re just a collection of chain restaurants and vacant storefronts. They’re worth fighting for.

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Here’s what Joe said that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about. When you spend money at a local restaurant (or bookstore, or hardware store, or whatever), you’re not just buying a meal. You’re supporting their employees, their vendors, and a whole web of small businesses that depend on each other. The sales tax you pay at a local business stays in your community and pays for your streets and firefighters and schools. The sales tax you pay online mostly doesn’t.

And then there’s this: DoorDash made more money off Joe’s restaurant than he had in the previous month. Read that again. The app that supposedly exists to help restaurants was taking a bigger cut than the person who owns the place, bought the food, hired the cooks, and runs it every single day. How hard is it for me to either eat in the restaurant or pick up my own food? Honestly, not that hard. I recognize that’s not everyone’s situation, but for me, it was a real gut-check. My DoorDash habit has changed significantly since that conversation.

The little things matter. Pay in cash when you can. Credit card transaction fees are a small percentage that sounds meaningless until you add it up across hundreds of transactions. Cash is free for businesses to accept. If you have it, use it.

None of this requires a dramatic lifestyle overhaul. You don’t have to delete Amazon and live off the grid (I don’t want chickens). But being a little more intentional about where you spend your money — especially locally — is one of those small, collective actions that actually adds up.

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It’s working. The Surgeon General declared loneliness a public health epidemic in 2023. COVID sped up something that was already happening — the slow unraveling of the social fabric that used to hold us together without us even noticing it was there. We stopped going places, we stopped knowing our neighbors, and we spent more time observing strangers through screens than interacting with people in real life.

Community is the cure to this epidemic. Community combats authoritarianism, not just philosophically, but also structurally. Authoritarianism requires isolation to function. People who know each other, trust each other, show up for each other are genuinely harder to control.

Here are some of the places I find community.

One is with my fellow volunteers at Friends of the Urban Forest. FUF plants trees all over San Francisco, and I’m part of the crew that cares for them for the first few years after planting — making sure they’re healthy, pruning them so they’ll grow strong, chatting with neighbors along the way. It is unglamorous and necessary and I love it. I’ve learned a ton about trees and about this city, and made real connections with the staff and my fellow volunteers. None of us will be around to sit in the shade of most of what we plant. That’s fine.

Another is church. I’m a practicing churchgoer in a city that has the distinction of being the least churchgoing metro in America. People are often surprised to learn this about me. For me it’s not primarily about doctrine — it’s about the room. Old and young, straight and gay, all showing up every Sunday at 8am, week after week.

After months away working on the Hillary campaign, I came back to find Mark and his husband Dorian in their usual spot in the row behind me — where they had sat, religiously (pun intended), for years. Mark simply put his hand on my shoulder. That was all. But I understood everything he meant: I’ve missed you. I’m grateful for you. I’m here for you. That kind of wordless shorthand brought tears to my eyes, and it builds slowly over years until exactly the moment you need it.

Then there’s my Pilates studio, which taught me about the surprising depth hiding in weak ties. I have friendly but not close relationships with a lot of the other clients. In some cases I don’t know their names and they don’t know mine. We do our workout, chit chat a bit, and leave.

Until I was diagnosed with breast cancer. Suddenly the Pilates studio became my most important resource. The woman doing jumpboard next to me for two years? A cancer researcher at UCSF. The woman whose weekly schedule mirrors mine? A two-time survivor with the best doctor recommendations I received from anyone. I hadn’t known any of this, and I didn’t know I needed to know until I needed to know.

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For the past year I’ve been working to build community at scale — specifically, to create opportunities for women across the country to come together personally, professionally, and politically at a hyperlocal level. Working with my dear friends and Sara Smirin, we built Bonfire, following the publication of Shannon’s book Fired Up. The response told us everything we needed to know: women were craving community and hungry to answer the question, “What can I do?”

Bonfire was never meant to be another group that meets to discuss how bad things are — but to actually go out and do something. Bonfire groups across the country have already planted flowers in their medians, attended city commission meetings together, and explored new hiking trails. Action is the antidote to anxiety. This is, in fact, the whole premise of this newsletter: do something. Anything. It doesn’t have to be grand. A lot of small actions, compounded over time, are how we actually change things.

Last week, we announced that Bonfire is joining Red Wine & Blue — an organization with the infrastructure and reach to take what we built and grow it into something bigger. I’m proud of what Shannon, Sara, and I made. And I’m genuinely excited about what these communities will do next, because the doing is the whole point.

None of this is heroic. By just showing up — regularly enough to build something, or just long enough to be there when it matters — we make this place we call home better, one inch at a time.

Community doesn’t scale the way movements want it to. It can’t be manufactured from the top down. It has to be built one room at a time, one Bonfire at a time.

By coming together, we remain human — and we remain a threat to anyone who needs us divided.

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All of my posts on this Substack are free. I write because I have things to say and I’m glad you’re here to read them.

I’d be grateful if you’d consider becoming a paid subscriber. Your support is what makes it possible for me to keep writing, keep noticing, and keep sharing what I find.

Why do politicians need money in the first place?

Running for office is expensive. Candidates have to make themselves — and what they stand for — known to voters. Think of it like a brand campaign, except instead of batteries or car rentals, you’re selling a person.

The vast majority of campaign spending goes to media. People still watch television, and TV ads are not cheap. Campaigns also buy ads online, on radio, and on billboards. Those texts you keep getting asking for money? They cost money too. (Yes, they’re annoying. Yes, they work. That’s why campaigns keep sending them. I unsubscribe to all of them, even the ones from candidates I support.) Then there’s direct mail — printing plus postage — plus yard signs, buttons, t-shirts, door-hangers, and so on.

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Depending on the race, travel is a major line item too. Running statewide in California means budgeting to get to every corner of it.

Campaigns also run on staff: campaign managers, communications directors, fundraisers, and what’s called “field” or the “ground game” — the people who coordinate volunteers knocking doors and turning out voters. All of these people need to be paid, and they need somewhere to work.

How much can a single person give?

It depends.

For Senate and House races, the maximum individual contribution to a candidate is $3,500 per election. That “per election” piece matters: you can give $3,500 for the primary and $3,500 for the general, for a total of $7,000. You can give the full $7,000 all at once as long as it’s before the primary. If the candidate doesn’t advance, you can technically get your money back. Once the primary has passed, the maximum drops to $3,500.

A couple of examples:

Peggy Flanagan is running for Senate in Minnesota, where the primary is August 11th. You could give her $7,000 today — but starting August 12th, you could only give $3,500.

Roy Cooper is running for Senate in North Carolina, where the primary was March 3rd (he won). If you’re a first-time donor, you’re capped at $3,500.

I say “only” like that’s not still a shit ton of money.

One notable exception: candidates can give unlimited amounts to their own campaigns. See: Tom Steyer, JB Pritzker.

Federal donations are reported quarterly and are publicly searchable. The FEC website is the official source; OpenSecrets is a more user-friendly way to look up individual contributors.

A note on presidential races: I’m leaving that aside for now since we’re not in a presidential year. Short version: the primary rules above still apply for everyone except a sitting President running for re-election, but the general gets complicated — it merges with state parties and the DNC, and the maximum jumps to $1 million. We’ll get there.

States and cities have their own rules. Virginia has no campaign finance limits at all — you could have given Abigail Spanberger any amount during her successful gubernatorial run last year. I’m not a fan of that (but I am a huge fan of her). San Francisco caps individual contributions at $500, which I love.

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What about PACs?

Ugh. I’ll be upfront: this is not my area of expertise, and I have no interest in making it one. But here are the basics.

Hard money vs. soft money: Hard money goes directly to candidates. Soft money goes to outside organizations — SuperPACs — that work on behalf of candidates but are legally prohibited from coordinating with them.

SuperPACs can essentially do whatever they want, thanks to Citizens United. They don’t have to disclose their donors and can operate under names like “Americans for a Better Tomorrow”.

Not all PACs are the same. Elected officials often have Leadership PACs that let them give money to other candidates. Hybrid PACs can give directly to campaigns.

What would it take to overturn Citizens United?

A constitutional amendment.

Why does early money matter?

You’ll hear the phrase “early money matters” a lot. EMILY’s List literally stands for “Early Money Is Like Yeast.” The earlier campaigns have cash, the earlier they can get their message out, potentially scare off primary challengers, and lock in more cost-effective media rates. How much a candidate raises — and when — is also a signal of momentum, and it gets covered as news.

Bottom line: My advice? Give directly to candidates. They can use that money however and whenever their campaign needs it. A candidate doesn't have to outraise their opponent to win — they just need enough to be competitive. And here's something people don't often think about: small-dollar donations are actually a signal. When a candidate raises money from thousands of real people, it tells them — and the world — that they have genuine support. Contrast that with self-funders like Tom Steyer or JB Pritzker, who can write themselves a check but have no way of knowing whether anyone actually wants them there. Every dollar you give is a vote of confidence that money can't manufacture. So give what feels right to you.

The program got me thinking about an idea I've had for a long time: block captains. What if every block in the city had a designated resident — not appointed, just self-selected — who swept the leaves into the street on street cleaning days, picked up litter, and quietly inspired their neighbors to do the same? No budget required. No bureaucracy. Just someone who gave a damn about their little patch of sidewalk.

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It turns out this instinct is more common than you might think. During the pandemic, Vincent Yuen started picking up trash on his block as a way to get his kids outside and entertained. That simple act became Refuse Refuse, which now organizes close to 40 cleanups around the city each week. I’m part of a neighborhood group that meets the second Sunday of every month. I'll admit I assumed I lived in a pretty clean neighborhood — but without fail, I fill an entire bag before the first hour is up. You start noticing things. I've developed a particular fixation on rubber bands, which our postal workers seem to shed at an impressive rate; I'm slowly building a rubber band ball at home. My friend Libby got tired of finding nails in her tires, so she spent a year picking up every piece of metal she spotted in the street. By the end, she had quite a pile — and, presumably, excellent karma.

Fair warning: once you start, you never look at the sidewalks quite the same way again.

Every little bit makes a difference. And a lot of little things, practiced by a lot of people, add up to something much bigger. So I'm curious — what's your version of this? Maybe it's pulling in the trash cans in front of your neighbor's house, or introducing yourself to the person who just moved in down the street, or refilling a Little Free Library. The bar is low, but the impact is real. What's your patch of sidewalk?

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A note to readers

All of my posts on this Substack are free. I write because I have things to say, and I'm glad you're here to read them.

But if these dispatches bring you something, I'd be grateful if you'd consider becoming a paid subscriber. Your support inspires me to keep writing, keep noticing, and keep sharing what I find. No pressure, just an honest ask from someone who thinks a little mutual support goes a long way — which, now that I think about it, is kind of the whole point of this piece.

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Right now, states run their own elections. That’s by design, and its in the Constitution. It means no single person or party can rig the whole system. Trump wants to change that. And if he succeeds, he gets to decide who counts the votes, who can vote, and ultimately, who wins.

Every single election we hear that “this is the most consequential election of our lifetime.” Guess what? Here we are again, but this time for different reasons. Whereas before it meant that the decisions by the elected official would have monstrous impact, this time it means we are at risk of this being our last election. That might sound like hyperbole, and I think we are all getting sick of hyperbole. (“The best. Never been done before. The greatest ever.”) But this is not an exaggeration - it is an imminent threat.

There have been and continue to be tremendous efforts to suppress the vote in this country. Things like requiring ID to register and vote, limiting early and mail in voting, closing polling locations in communities of color, purging voter rolls without proper notification, reducing the number of ballot drop boxes, and making it harder for organizations to help people register to vote. I’m of the belief that voting is an essential right of every American. The only reason to suppress the vote is fear that you cannot win without cheating. Much of the rationale for this suppression is based on claims of voter fraud, especially claims of non-citizens voting in our elections. The facts (remember those?) are that the incidence of voter fraud in this country is negligible and has no meaningful impact on our elections.

So, what can we do about it? Lots.

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Check your voter registration.

Even if you are certain that you are registered or you just registered last week, double, triple, quadruple check it. You can go to iwillvote.com to do so. Voting rolls are purged regularly and eligible, registered voters get caught in the crossfire. If you are not registered, register. Make sure that you are registered with the affiliation you want. States treat primaries differently, so often you have to be registered with a party to vote in the primary. If you want to vote by mail and that is available in your state, make sure your registration reflects that.

Make a plan to vote

There are at least two important elections in every state this year: the primary and the general election on November 3. Let’s start thinking about voting as a season, not as a single day.

Find your primary date and put “Primary Voting Deadline” on your calendar for that day. Then add “General Election Voting Deadline” for November 3. If you use Google Calendar, I did the work for you. Click here.

Now decide how you’re going to vote:

Early in-person voting: Pick your date, add “Primary In-Person Early Voting” to your calendar with all the details, and invite a friend or two to keep each other accountable. Do the same for the General Election when that information is available.

Mail-in voting: Find out if voting by mail is an option in your state. Put an appointment at least one week before Election Day called “Mail primary ballot.” Laws vary, but with the Federal Government monkeying with postmarks, mail early. If you miss your deadline, you must hand-deliver your ballot to a drop box, voting location, or election office or risk your vote not being counted. Make sure you sign up to track your ballot where available.

Election Day voting: Know where to go and commit to a time - earlier is better. Fill out your sample ballot beforehand so you can just transfer your votes. Don’t wear anything endorsing a candidate - you could be turned away. If you’re in line when polls close, stay in line. You have the right to vote. But please don’t cut it this close.

Vote as early as possible. Turnout will be high, and early votes ensure your voice gets heard. If you have any problems voting, visit iwillvote.com and call your state’s voter hotline posted there.

Figure out what you’re voting for.

You’ll receive an official voting booklet with everything on your ballot. When it arrives, set aside time to review it. In high-turnout years like 2026, ballots are long — organizations want their measures on the ballot when the most people are voting. Complete your entire ballot.

Figuring out what to vote for takes work. Try this: invite friends over to do it together. Divide up the research. Everyone takes a few candidates or propositions, then you come back together to share what you learned and discuss.

Some resources:

• Your local newspaper

• League of Women Voters (nonpartisan voter guides)

• League of Conservation Voters (environmental scorecards)

• Ballotpedia (comprehensive ballot information)

• People who know their stuff - I’m not a parent, so I ask friends with kids in public schools about school board candidates, for example

A note about all of that mail that you get during elections: on every piece it will say (sometimes in very small type) who has paid for it. Please look at that before considering what the piece is trying to tell you. Dark money is real, and bad actors hide behind innocuous sounding PACs all the time.

Fill out your sample ballot (or mail-in ballot if you have it). Done.

If you’re comfortable, share what you’re voting for and why with people you know. You might be someone’s best resource. Your vote is still private, so this is optional, but it helps.

Volunteer to work the polls

A confession: prior to 2016 I thought working the polls was lame. I thought it was a cop out. I was wrong. The effort it takes for a municipality to pull off an election is gargantuan and the success relies upon volunteers. Volunteer as a poll worker.

I volunteered as a Field Election Deputy in 2021. I got to drive a sweet government issued minivan and oversaw operations at a handful of polling locations. It was definitely a long day, but fun and enlightening. It was also the easiest election ever. Why do I say that? There was one question on the ballot (“Should Governor Newsom be recalled and, if so, who should replace him?”), the vast majority of votes were cast by mail, and foot traffic to the polls was very slow. 2026 will not be like that. There will be a lot on the ballot, turnout will be massive, and poll workers will be the frontline defense against chaos and voter intimidation. There are poll-working veterans who are truly heroes, and we need more good people to join them.

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Voter Protection

If you’ve got the bandwidth, consider volunteering with voter protection efforts. These are the people who staff hotlines on Election Day, help voters who are turned away at the polls, and document irregularities. Organizations like Common Cause, the Election Protection Coalition, and your state Democratic party all need volunteers. You don’t need to be a lawyer - you just need to care and be willing to learn.

Support SoS and AG candidates

I know, I know. These races are boring and you probably don’t know who these people are. But here’s the thing: Secretaries of State oversee elections in most states. Attorneys General enforce election laws. In other words, these are the people who will either protect your vote or help take it away. Research the candidates. Donate if you can (here and here). And here are a few AG candidates I’m into: AZ, MI, and NV. These races often come down to a handful of votes because fewer people pay attention to them. Pay attention.

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Democracy is not a spectator sport. You can’t just watch it happen and hope for the best. You have to suit up and get in the game. Check your registration. Make your plan. Do your homework. Show up. And bring people with you.

Because if we don’t fight for this, we will lose it. And unlike a regular election where you get another chance in two or four years, if we lose our elections, we don’t get a do-over.

How am I doing this?

I joined the most recent cohort of Unfortunately Not a Sound Bath – a listening club that’s been getting a lot of attention lately, including a recent feature in The New York Times. Here’s the premise: we listen to right-wing media not to criticize or slam it, but to actually understand the communication tactics being used – and then apply those lessons to how we communicate on the left.

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And, let me tell you. It is hard. I have to listen to the assignments on 1.5x speed to be able to get through them without going into a full on panic attack. I get the majority of my news from NPR (subscriber to two stations), The New York Times, and The San Francisco Chronicle. Why would I willingly subject myself to content that makes my blood pressure spike? Because understanding how the other side talks, what resonates with their audiences, and how they frame issues isn’t about agreeing with them. It’s about getting smarter about how we show up in conversations – especially the hard ones with people we care about who see things differently.

It turns out there’s actual science backing this up. This recent piece in the Times breaks down what research tells us about productive disagreement – and spoiler alert: most of us are doing it wrong. The key isn’t winning the argument, it’s creating opportunity for actual understanding.

I’m also drawing inspiration from this piece about talking to friends who “aren’t paying attention” to politics right now. It’s a reminder that productive conversations aren’t about winning arguments – they’re about staying connected to people and helping them see why any of this matters in the first place.

So here’s my commitment: I’m going to keep showing up for these uncomfortable conversations. I’m going to listen more than I want to. And I’m going to report back on what I’m learning – because if we’re going to do something about democracy, we need to be able to talk to people beyond our bubble, even when (especially when) it’s hard.

Who’s with me?

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Back in 2016 I had left my job and accidentally ended up volunteering full time on the Hillary Clinton campaign. Through that experience, I learned a LOT about electoral politics, voting, US citizens and our country. Friends were asking me for information and advice on how to help, so I started a semi-regular email series called Do Something About Democracy. It was largely focused on the nuts and bolts of the 2016 election: how to register to vote, early voting, volunteer opportunities, fundraising and the candidates on the ballot.

Since then, I’ve never stopped being involved in politics. It can be a very small world, and once you are in, you are in for life. Elections aren’t something I think about only when it is time to vote; I think about them – and work to impact them – every year, year-round. Friends and family still frequently approach me with questions, and I’m happy to answer/help. After all, democracy is about the participation of the people, and if I can help to get more people engaged in any way, I’ll do that.

Here we are 10 years later. I won’t mince words. Our country is in crisis and our Democracy is at risk. Lots of people are asking me, “What can I do?” I think they expect me to always respond with a political answer, which I do sometimes. But, more often than not, I say, “Just do something. It all matters.” Yes, this can mean working on a campaign or giving money, but it also means volunteering in your community, introducing yourself to a neighbor you’ve never met, organizing a group of friends to go to lunch or an event. The more we engage with our communities, the less risk there is of (further) pushing us apart.

So, this Substack is v2 of my email newsletter, this time simply called “Do Something. Anything.” I’m going to regularly share ways that you can make a difference, one small action at a time. I hope you’ll follow through on some of them, share this with your friends and together bring our country back from the brink. I’d love to hear what you’re doing, what you’re learning, and what ideas you have for what else we can do.

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A few notes: First, as much as I am immersed in politics, I have very little interest in debate. It isn’t that I don’t want to know the counterargument – I do. Frankly it is because I am conflict adverse. I’m a Libra and whatever number on the Enneagram is the peacemaker.

Second, this Substack is a big swing for me. To be honest, I don’t even really understand Substack, but as far as I can tell it is like Medium meets Patreon? I do know that there are a number of writers here who I respect and fervently follow. Speaking of writing, I don’t consider it my strong suit, but I’m giving it a whirl.

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Joe Garofoli’s recent piece highlights legitimate concerns about a crowded Democratic field potentially catapulting two Republicans into California’s gubernatorial runoff. But there’s a pattern that troubles me more: the relentless scrutiny of Katie Porter’s temperament reveals a double standard that has stubbornly plagued women in politics—and threatens to undo decades of progress.

In 1992, California made history. In what became known as the “Year of the Woman,” Dianne Feinstein and Barbara Boxer were elected to the U.S. Senate, making California the first state to elect two women to the Senate simultaneously. That groundbreaking moment, sparked in part by anger over the all-male Senate Judiciary Committee’s treatment of Anita Hill, represented a fundamental shift in American politics. California led the way. I turned 18 the following year and was felt lucky to be able to exercise my new right to vote in a country where the tide was turning for women.

Now, more than three decades later, we’re watching that legacy crumble. Feinstein is gone. Boxer has long retired. Kamala Harris has stepped back from the gubernatorial race. Nancy Pelosi is on her way out of Congress. For the first time since moving to San Francisco almost 26 years ago, I’m facing the possibility of having no women representing me at the Federal level.

We are hemorrhaging women’s leadership at the exact moment we should be fighting to preserve it.

Yet Porter—currently the Democratic frontrunner with the experience and qualifications to lead—faces calls to drop out over videos showing her being testy with a reporter and swearing at a staffer during a 2021 video call. Rival Betty Yee called it “embarrassing” and demanded Porter exit the race. Are these Porter’s finest moments? No. Do they remotely rise to the level of disqualifying? Only if you apply a standard that men in politics never face.

Let me be clear: This isn’t about supporting Porter simply because she’s a woman. It’s about recognizing that she is immensely qualified for this role. Porter graduated from Yale University and Harvard Law School, where she studied under Elizabeth Warren and graduated magna cum laude. She’s a nationally recognized expert in bankruptcy and consumer protection law, authored multiple textbooks, and founded the Consumer Protection Clinic at UC Irvine School of Law where she was a tenured professor. She was appointed by then-Attorney General Kamala Harris to serve as California’s independent monitor of banks in a $25 billion mortgage settlement. In Congress, she flipped a Republican district in Orange County and earned national acclaim for holding corporations accountable. Her whiteboard became iconic not because of theatrics, but because she has the expertise to break down complex financial malfeasance in ways ordinary people can understand.

This is a resume that would make any male candidate a presumptive frontrunner. Which raises a critical question: If a man with Porter’s credentials were leading the polls, would we be having endless conversations about waiting to see who else might enter the race? Would pundits be wringing their hands about whether he’s “likable enough”? Would a testy interview moment or a curse word to staff be framed as disqualifying?

We know the answer. Male politicians routinely use anger as a political tool—it’s often celebrated as strength and authenticity. Research shows that angry politicians effectively mobilize voters, with Trump’s emotional communication style cited as a key factor in his electoral success. Even within California’s current race, this double standard is glaring. Tom Steyer just entered with a campaign video where he says “Bulls–t, man!” while criticizing the wealthy (despite being worth $2 billion himself). His profanity is framed as refreshing candor. Porter says a curse word to her staff in 2021? Career-ending character flaw.

The weaponization of minor behavioral missteps against women candidates while male candidates survive actual scandals isn’t just unfair—it’s a deliberate barrier to women’s political advancement. Women must be twice as competent, twice as composed, and absolutely flawless to be considered half as qualified.

But here’s what should concern every California Democrat: the mathematics of our jungle primary. With Steyer, Swalwell, Villaraigosa, Becerra, Thurmond, and others fragmenting the vote, we risk what happened in 2003—two Republicans advancing to the general election in the bluest state in the nation. Every additional candidate who stays in the race increases that risk.

We can debate Porter’s campaign strategy or her approach to constituent outreach. Those are fair game. But the pearl-clutching over her temperament—framed as disqualifying—reveals more about our double standards than about her fitness for office.

California is at a crossroads. We can either rally behind qualified women leaders, imperfections and all, or we can watch our state’s pioneering legacy of women’s political leadership disappear into a sea of male candidates who somehow escape the microscopic scrutiny applied to their female counterparts. The state that made history in 1992’s Year of the Woman now risks becoming a cautionary tale about how progress can be lost when we hold women to impossible standards.

The choice should be obvious. And for those genuinely concerned about two Republicans advancing in 2026, the solution isn’t demanding Porter drop out—it’s consolidating support behind the Democratic frontrunner who can actually win.

Katie Porter deserves to be evaluated on her record, her policies, and her vision for California—not held to an impossible standard that no male candidate would ever be required to meet. California led the nation once before in shattering glass ceilings. We can do it again—if we’re willing to check our double standards at the door

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