Today Was Hard.

There Are Days when Trump Is Just Too Damn Much.

^that’s my big brother, Nick.

Yesterday, I put out my Memorial Day essay, and at the time, I truly believed I’d said everything I needed to say—that I’d found the words to capture what mattered most. I wanted to honor the fallen, to take my anger and transform it into something dignified. I told myself I was managing, that I’d kept the ache at a distance. But the truth is, I never really let myself feel how personal all of this is for me. Then I watched Trump speak at Arlington, and every wound I thought had finally scabbed over was torn open again.

He arrived late—because of f’ng course he did. Reverence means nothing to a man for whom nothing is sacred. Not the hush of the cemetery, not the weight of sacrifice, not the families clutching flowers and memories. No apology. Not even a flicker of shame. He ambled to the podium, eyes glazed, mouthing lines he hadn’t bothered to learn, rambling about the World Cup and the Olympics—anything to avoid genuinely recognizing the names or truths of those who sleep beneath that grass.

He turned a field of heroes into a stage for his grievances, his self-pity, his endless, exhausting need to be the center of every story. He lashed out at his enemies, wrapped himself in God and the flag, as if either would claim him. Every word, every gesture, dripped with the arrogance of a man who has never given a goddamn for anyone but himself.

And I gotta tell you, all of this—coupled with the West Point madness of the other day—gutted me in ways I didn’t expect. All day, I’ve been wrestling with this inescapable sadness. Not just the old grief—the missing, the longing, the empty chairs that never fill—but a sadness that feels so much bigger. Sadness about where we are as a nation. Sadness about where we’re heading.

It’s not unbearable, but it is relentless—a sorrow that refuses to fade. There’s a persistent ache in knowing that a man so unworthy, so shameless in his cruelty, depravity and deceit, has been handed the keys once again. It’s heartbreaking to witness someone who once tried to steal the office he holds through violence and lies now welcomed back, as if the wounds he inflicted have simply been forgotten, as if truth itself no longer matters.

You see, beneath all of this, there’s a quieter sorrow that lingers for me—a gentle ache that never truly fades. My family’s story is woven into the tapestry of this nation. My father gave his life to public service, laboring in quiet dedication at the Department of Defense, guided by a steadfast belief in duty and in the promise of America. For him, every sacrifice was a tribute to the country that shaped him. My older brother Nick, too, answered that call—enlisting in the Marines the moment he left high school, compelled by the same devotion, longing to serve something larger than himself, to defend the ideals that shaped our childhood and gave our family meaning.

Their choices, their sacrifices, and their unwavering faith in this country shaped the person I’ve become. For so long, I felt protected by their presence—like as long as my dad and my brother were here, I would always have someone standing between me and whatever darkness might come. Now, with both of them gone, I find myself facing the world without their shield. And in their absence, I realize it’s my turn to be that protector, that source of strength, for my own children.

I miss the way my hands felt impossibly small, cradled in my father’s—how, in his grasp, I was sheltered and safe. In these relentless days, when the world feels so dark and unforgiving, I find myself returning to that little girl inside me, longing for a steady hand to hold. Sometimes, I kiss my loved ones knowing my big brother would stare down a shotgun in my honor—his silent promise of protection a thread I cling to when the world feels too much.

Most days, I press my sorrow down, hiding it in the deepest, quietest corners of my heart, hoping no one will see how much it aches. But today, the sadness refused to stay hidden. It surged up, raw and relentless, overwhelming me until I could barely breathe beneath its weight. The grief was louder than the hope and heavier than the pride. Today, I let myself feel it all—the rage, the heartbreak, the fear, the longing. I let myself remember what it was to feel protected, to believe in something better, to trust that the people I loved would always stand between me and the darkness.

In those moments, I miss my dad. I miss my big brother. I think of all the men and women who gave everything—who believed in something bigger than themselves, who served with honor and hope—only to have their sacrifices dismissed by someone who treats this country like a stage for his own ego. They should be here. My father should be here. My big brother Nick should be here. I wish, with everything in me, that I could turn to them now.

But even in my lowest moments, even when I am afraid, my belief in us is unshakable. I know we’ll find a way to weather this storm. When we share our truth with each other, when we dare to be vulnerable, we connect in a way those who seek to destroy us never can. There is a power in our honesty, a strength in our shared pain, a hope that is born in the spaces between our broken places. That is how we endure. That is how we win—not with bluster or cruelty, but with the quiet, stubborn courage of showing up for each other, again and again.

It’s okay to feel overwhelmed. It’s okay, in the mix of all the rage and anxiety and advocacy, to feel down sometimes. We’re human. We’re allowed to feel it all. Today I’m allowing myself to be sad, to feel betrayed by my country—but I am never hopeless. I will never, ever feel hopeless.

Tomorrow I’ll wake up, rub dirt into my palms, put my fists up, and fight with everything I have and every breath in my chest. We have to give ourselves the grace, to walk through it all, to let ourselves stumble and get back up. We have to help each other every step along the way, because that is the only way through.

I hope everyone reading this can share their truth with someone, especially when you’re not feeling your strongest, your brightest, your boldest, or your most fearless. It’s okay. We’ve got you, just like you’ve got me.

All of this—the cruelty, the chaos, the endless attempts to divide us—is meant to overwhelm. It’s engineered to press us down, to drive us apart, to make us feel isolated in our grief and anger. But in those moments, when the burden feels heaviest and the world most unkind, we must reach for each other’s hands. We were never meant to carry this alone.

When we choose connection over isolation, compassion over cynicism, hope over despair, we find the strength to rise. This is not only how we survive the darkest chapters—it is how we write a brighter one together. Our unity, our willingness to lift one another up, is how we endure. And in the end, it is how we prevail.

I love you guys.

I mean that from the bottom of my heart in ways I’ll never, ever be able to express with mere words.

Please, stay safe, stay strong, stay connected to each other.

I love you and miss you Nick and Dad. ❤️

And with that, todays song:

💙 Jo