It’s been five years since the world changed.
Five years since the streets went quiet and our living rooms turned into classrooms, offices, and daycares. Five years since face masks became political symbols, since neighbors grew suspicious of one another, since we lined up for toilet paper and logged into Zoom funerals. Five years since we waited for a clear path forward that never quite arrived.
Back then, I remember thinking: This will pass. We’ll get through this. Life will return to normal.
But it didn’t. Not really.
We lost lives, yes—but we lost other things too. Some of them tangible. Some of them harder to name. We lost rhythm. We lost connection. We lost trust—in institutions, in each other, and sometimes in ourselves.
There was so much we didn’t know in those early days, and I’m not here to judge the fear or the caution. When a storm rolls in, you board up the windows. You don’t sit around debating the odds. The immense uncertainty of the moment demanded action. Conservative action. So we took it. We shut down. We masked up. We distanced. We waited.
And while we waited, something happened. Something slow and creeping and hard to reverse.
Isolation took hold. Our social fabric began to tear. Depression rates skyrocketed, especially among children. Drug use surged. Homelessness exploded. The center of our cities—once vibrant and alive—went dark. Small businesses shuttered while massive retailers thrived. And a deep, festering mistrust took root: in public health, in government, in one another.
Today, we are living in the long tail of COVID—not just the virus, but the choices we made in response to it. I’m not here to claim I had a better solution. No one can say for certain what the “right” path was. But I do believe this: we need to acknowledge what went wrong.
We need accountability.
Not blame. Not punishment. Just honesty. Some reflection. A willingness to say: We got some things right—and we got some things wrong.
But that acknowledgment never came. Not from our leaders. Not from our institutions. Not from the people who made the calls, drafted the policies, or issued the mandates. We moved on—faster than we should have, I think—without really looking back. Without asking what it all cost.
So in the absence of that reflection, I’ll go first.
I’m sorry for everything.
I’m sorry if you lost someone you love to this brutal, unforgiving virus.
I’m sorry if your child suffered in silence, struggling through isolation, missing milestones they’ll never get back.
I’m sorry if you lost your business—or watched your life’s work vanish while corporate giants stayed open, protected by rules written in their favor.
I’m sorry if you felt unseen, unheard, or uncared for by the very systems that were supposed to protect you.
I’m sorry if we silenced your questions, mocked your hesitation, or dismissed your very real fears.
I’m sorry we forced millions to take a vaccine that was fast-tracked through regulatory channels and then refused to have honest conversations about side effects or risk tradeoffs.
I’m sorry that “follow the science” became a slogan instead of a discussion.
I’m sorry that we made public health political, that we turned neighbors against each other, that we let fear drive wedges too deep to simply wish away.
I’m sorry for all the people who turned to drugs because they felt like there was no other way to cope.
I’m sorry that our schools became battlegrounds and our kids became collateral damage.
I’m sorry that we called frontline workers heroes but didn’t treat them like it when it mattered most.
I’m sorry for the pain. All of it. Even the pain we still don’t know how to name.
Saying “I’m sorry” doesn’t fix any of it. But it’s a start.
Because until we name what was lost, we’ll never learn from it. And if we don’t learn from it, we’ll repeat it. Maybe not in the same way. Maybe not in a pandemic. But the next time a crisis comes—and it will come—we’ll respond with the same instincts. The same blind spots. The same tribal politics. The same failure to lead with clarity and compassion.
And that would be a tragedy.
We can do better. We must do better.
That begins by changing how we define leadership—and who we choose to follow.
We don’t need more partisan warriors or culture war celebrities. We don’t need more technocrats hiding behind data or ideologues doubling down on their worldview. We need something different.
We need serious people.
People with the intellectual horsepower to navigate complexity and the emotional maturity to admit when they got it wrong.
People who lead with humility and courage—who don’t pander, posture, or polarize.
People who love this country—not just the people who agree with them, but all Americans.
People who don’t see leadership as performance, but as responsibility.
People who don’t chase headlines, but pursue solutions.
And we—you and I—need to stop voting for parties. Stop voting for slogans. Stop voting with fear or vengeance or the identity politics of the moment. We need to stop pretending that tweeting harder or yelling louder is a substitute for thoughtful governance.
This isn’t about red or blue anymore. It’s about competence. It’s about character. It’s about compassion.
It’s about the America we leave behind when the next crisis comes.
Every day, I walk through the streets of Portland and see the aftershocks of the last five years. Tent encampments on sidewalks. Shuttered businesses. Empty towers. People struggling just to get by, numbing the pain however they can. And I wonder how long we’ll pretend not to notice.
We cannot wish our way out of this. We have to work our way out.
It starts with truth. Then with healing. Then with choosing better leaders—and being better citizens.
COVID changed the world. Now it’s up to us to decide what kind of world we build in its aftermath.
If this message hit home—if you felt seen, challenged, or encouraged—make sure to follow on Substack, Apple Podcasts or Spotify. And if you know someone who’s been asking hard questions about where we go from here, send it their way.
I’m publishing five to six of these each week—always short, always real—and I promise you this: if you keep showing up, you will feel more motivated, more hopeful, and more ready to lead in your own life.
Until next time—stay grounded, stay courageous, and let’s build something better, together.
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