Every August, we’re reminded that it’s National Civility Month. And every year, I find myself thinking the same thing:

I don’t think we’ve gotten civility quite right.

Somewhere along the way, we started treating civility like it’s about being polite. Don’t raise your voice. Don’t make anyone uncomfortable. Keep the peace.

But one of the most important lessons I’ve ever learned about civility came from someone who wasn’t polite at all.

Years ago, I sat at a kitchen table with a mother who was furious with me.

Not because of anything I had personally done, but because I represented a system that had already let her family down. She told me exactly how she felt. She didn’t hold back. She wasn’t worried about hurting my feelings.

And she was right.

As a social worker, I learned early that when people are angry, there’s usually something underneath that anger that deserves to be heard. Fear. Grief. Exhaustion. Disappointment. When you’ve spent years feeling like no one is listening, sometimes anger is the only thing that gets anyone’s attention.

So I listened.

And then I came back.

The next week. And the week after that.

I didn’t come back because I had all the answers. I came back because relationships aren’t built in one conversation. Trust isn’t earned by saying the perfect thing. It’s earned by showing people that you’re still there after the hard conversation is over.

That’s what civility means to me.

It’s not avoiding disagreement. It’s staying in the room long enough to work through it.

Over the last twenty years, I’ve sat with families experiencing some of the hardest moments of their lives. I’ve had to tell people things they didn’t want to hear. I’ve had to admit when the system couldn’t do what they needed it to do. Those conversations weren’t easy, but honesty builds trust in a way empty promises never will.

I’ve carried those lessons with me everywhere—from my work as a social worker, to serving as your Village Trustee, and now on the campaign trail.

One of my favorite parts of campaigning has been knocking on doors. People assume those conversations are about politics. Most of the time, they aren’t.

They’re about whether families can afford groceries. Whether parents can find child care. Whether someone can get an appointment with a therapist. Whether their parents can age with dignity. Whether anyone in government is actually listening.

I’ve talked with Democrats, Republicans, independents, and people who are completely fed up with politics altogether. We don’t always agree on every solution.

But we almost always agree on one thing: people want to feel heard.

That starts by showing up.
It continues by telling the truth - even when the answer isn’t easy.
And it means coming back.

That’s the kind of leadership I believe in, and it’s the kind of State Senator I want to be.

Not someone who only shows up when there’s a ribbon to cut or a camera in the room, but someone who’s willing to have the difficult conversations, to listen before speaking, and to keep showing up long after the headlines have moved on.

The mother at that kitchen table taught me something I’ll never forget.

People aren’t asking us to be perfect. They’re asking us not to leave.

That’s the kind of civility our communities deserve.

And that’s the kind of leadership I’ll bring to Springfield.

If that's the representation you want for District 27, I'd be honored to have your support.

Thank you to everyone who continues to show up, speak up, and invest in the work of shaping our shared future. I’m deeply grateful to be on this journey with you.

Let’s keep going—because together, we’re stronger.