If You Want Something Different, Run
The ballot isn’t a symbol. It’s a tool. And the fastest way to break their grip is to pick it up and use it.
The ballot isn’t a symbol. It’s a tool. And in too many places, it’s sitting untouched, but not because the fight can’t be won.
It’s being left on idle because no one was told they could pick it up.
Red districts get talked about like they’re lost causes. Concrete. Solid. Unmoving. But I’ve been in those places. They’re not solid. They’re frozen. And when you break the surface, even just a little, everything starts to move.
The only reason they’ve stayed red is because we stopped showing up. And when no one shows up, people stop expecting anything better.
I’ve seen it in towns where Democrats haven’t run in a decade.
Where people don’t just assume the Republican will win. They assume he’s the only one on the ballot. Where even the people doing the right work (those feeding neighbors, fighting for better schools, showing up when tragedy strikes) don’t think of themselves as political, because no one ever asked them to be.
If you’re waiting for someone else to run in these places, you’re waiting for no one. And if you’ve ever caught yourself thinking, Someone should do something, I’ve got news for you.
You’re someone.
There’s no cavalry coming. No big donor. No perfect candidate with a clean résumé and a built-in field team. It’s just us. Us with the clipboards and the printers that only work half the time. Us with the folding tables and the Sharpies and the group chats full of people trying to organize three counties from a borrowed office space in someone’s barn. That’s the real bench. And we are the ones who show up.
And every time I talk about this (whether it’s at a community forum, over coffee, or under a canopy at a county fair) someone always asks: But where are the good candidates? And I always ask back: What if it’s you?
At first, people kind of chuckle. Then they shake their heads. Then they say all the things they’ve been told for years. I’m not qualified. I’m not a politician. I wouldn’t know where to start. But the best candidates I’ve ever worked with didn’t come from politics. They came from classrooms. From union halls. From church basements and nursing shifts and town halls where they were the only one asking hard questions.
They ran not because they had all the answers, but because something broke their heart. They didn’t feel brave. They felt responsible.
If you’ve ever felt like you were the only one paying attention, you’re not alone. You’re just early. You don’t have to feel ready. You have to feel called. Because when you step up, it cracks something open. Someone files in a district nobody’s contested in years. At first, it’s quiet. Then someone posts about it. A neighbor texts a friend. A parent offers to host a house party. A sign goes up. And the silence breaks.
Even if that candidate doesn’t win the first time, they don’t leave empty-handed. They leave with a list. A map. A volunteer network. A plan for next time. They leave having proved the most important thing: that it can be done. That the seat doesn’t belong to the incumbent forever. That someone still gives a damn. And once people see that, they don’t unsee it.
Not everyone has to run. But someone in your circle should. Someone you trust. Someone who doesn’t talk like a press release. Someone who knows what’s broken and isn’t afraid to say it out loud. Maybe they don’t see themselves that way yet. That’s where you come in. Tell them they’re allowed to try. Offer to help. Drive them to file. Watch their kids. Knock the first door with them.
Campaigns start because someone in the room says, “I’ll go with you.” That’s how it spreads. We’ve built this myth that candidates are supposed to be polished, strategic, brilliant, and somehow untouched by fear. But voters don’t need perfect. They need real. They respond to humanity, to truth, to someone who sounds like their neighbor… not like a party memo. And when they see someone stand up and say, I’m running, and I’m doing it for us, it doesn’t just change the race. It changes what feels possible.
Not everyone who steps forward is met with applause. Some are met with silence. Or pushback. Or ridicule. Especially online where performative outrage gets more attention than real organizing ever will. The critics will come. The ones who’ve read all the right books and none of the room. The ones who say trying is weakness, and losing is proof you never should have tried. But they’re not knocking doors in the rain. They’re not printing flyers on their own dime because the state party still doesn’t know their county exists.
While they debate whether it’s worth trying, we’re out here building trust. Precinct by precinct. Town by town. Because organizing isn’t performance. It’s practice. It’s what happens when you do the work anyway. When you show up even if the odds say you’ll lose. When you run because someone has to go first.
People ask me all the time: What’s it going to take to turn things around? My answer is always boring… Time. Presence. And people willing to show up like it’s sacred even when it’s hard. Because every time we do, something shifts. Someone sees your face and realizes they’re not the only Democrat in town. Someone votes for the first time because you knocked their door. Someone decides to run next cycle because they watched you do it.
That matters. It adds up. And over time, it builds something no algorithm ever will: trust.
Think about the places you’ve been told are unwinnable. The towns the party gave up on. The counties where nobody votes because nobody ever knocks. Now imagine what happens when someone does. When we stop waiting for a perfect candidate and start organizing like the people here matter — because they do.
So yes… run. Run when the odds are long. Run when the party says it’s not worth it. Run when you’re scared. Run when you’re tired. Run anyway.
Because every time someone breaks the silence, it gets easier for the next one to believe they can, too. And that’s how we win. It’s one person deciding they won’t wait anymore. One person making it impossible to go back to the way things were.
You don’t have to believe the system is fair. You have to believe it can be beaten. And believe in the people willing to build something better… block by block, door by door, precinct by precinct.
That’s who I’m betting on. That’s who changes everything. And the next move is yours.
