A Letter to Those Who Will Carry It Forward

Even if I won’t see the harvest, I trust in the planting...

I am 69 years old. I've lived long enough to see this country rise to great moments of courage, and fall into painful moments of fear, greed, and division. I've watched the slow erosion of trust—in each other, in our institutions, in the promise that democracy can hold if we care for it like a living thing.

And now, in these later years of my life, I am faced with a truth I can’t ignore: I may not live long enough to see the damage repaired.

The damage to our democratic principles, to the Constitution so many swore to uphold, and to the idea that government should be of, by, and for the people—this damage is real.

But what frightens me most is not the speed at which it happened. It’s the silence. The resignation. The belief that maybe it’s too late. That maybe the rot has gone too deep.

Maybe I'm hopelessly naive, but I can't believe it's too late. It will take time—more time than I may have. But that’s always been the way of progress. This country has never truly belonged to any one generation. It’s been handed down, again and again, each time broken and repaired in new ways.

So I write this for those younger than me. For those just stepping into their power,

and for those weary but still walking forward.

And this is where it sticks or doesn’t. School boards. County supervisors. State houses. Ballots and budgets and broadband. Our work in Alleghany matters. That market, that rally, those kids—this is the mortar that holds the republic together.

It is a noble thing, this idea that all are created equal, and that government should reflect the will and wellbeing of the people it serves. It was never perfect. But it has always been possible.

So if I leave anything behind, let it be this: My hope lives in those who come next and those we haven't met yet. Even if I won’t see the harvest, I trust in the planting.

The republic always waits to be made new.