politics

Being a Democrat (But I Might Not Always Be One)By Kayla Sue Warner

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A woman wearing a red Alabama cap and sunglasses, smiling in the Cass County Courthouse, Logansport, IN, with a caption that says 'Time to vote!' and American flags.

Let me be clear: I call myself a Democrat. Right now. That doesn’t mean I always will.

Because honestly? I don’t pledge allegiance to a political party. I pledge allegiance to people. To truth. To what’s good and honest and actually makes life better for all of us. Let me say that again—ALL PEOPLE. Not just the wealthy. Not just straight white men. Not just whoever screams the loudest or fundraises the most. All people.

Right now, the Democratic Party lines up more with my values than the Republican Party does—by a mile. But I’m not a blind loyalist. I believe in calling out the hypocrisy, corruption, or cowardice wherever it shows up. And yes, that includes the left.

A close-up of a wrist wearing a bracelet that spells 'VOTE' with colorful beads, against a background of a green sweater.

The Republican Party Today: A Cult of Trump

Let’s not dance around it. The modern-day GOP has become less of a political party and more of a personality cult. They follow Donald Trump with such blind loyalty it’s terrifying. The man has been indicted on 88 criminal counts [NYT, April 2024], including trying to overturn a democratic election. He was recorded bragging about sexually assaulting women. He mocked a disabled reporter on national television. And somehow, that’s still not a dealbreaker for his base.

Republicans in Congress regularly echo his lies, deny election results, and block legislation that would help real people. They’ve fought against reproductive rights, LGBTQ+ protections, gun reform, climate action, education funding, and fair voting access. In some states, they’re banning books and threatening teachers. It’s giving fascism.

And yet, the GOP base follows. Not because it makes sense. But because it’s about loyalty to the leader, not loyalty to truth.

A man speaks into a microphone at an outdoor event, with a banner behind him that reads 'A New Voice for Florida's First.' Another person stands nearby, and tables are set up in the foreground.

Why I Identify with Democrats (For Now)

Democrats aren’t perfect. Far from it. But they’re the ones generally pushing for:

  • LGBTQ+ equality
  • Reproductive freedom
  • Racial justice
  • Climate action
  • Gun safety laws
  • Expanding health care access (affordable, available, and fair health care for all people)
  • Protecting voting rights (affordable, available, and fair education for all people)
  • Investing in public education
Two children in a classroom setting, one wearing a historical costume with a shimmering gold gown and the other dressed as a historical figure in a blue and white outfit, both posing for the camera.

Those are human rights issues. And I care deeply about them.

That said, the Democratic Party is not immune to criticism. Corporate money still influences too much. Messaging is often weak or out of touch. And at times, they act more interested in being “civil” than being brave. I get frustrated when they don’t fight harder. When they compromise too soon. When they forget who they’re supposed to be fighting for. The party has a long history of letting down marginalized groups too, including how they handled (or didn’t handle) mass incarceration and welfare reform in the 90s.

A group of children playing together on a playground, smiling and enjoying their time outdoors.
Some of the people who I fight for <3

What I Really Am: A Person Who Gives a Shit

At the end of the day, I’m not here for parties. I’m here for people. I want leaders who are honest, principled, and committed to building a more just, compassionate world. If the Republican Party actually did that someday, I’d consider switching. If a new major party emerged and fought for everyone with integrity, I’d be on board.

But let’s be real: we’re stuck in a two-party system. And one of those parties is openly trying to dismantle democracy.

So for now, I vote Democrat. I support policies that uplift communities, protect freedoms, and push for equity. But I will never be a party loyalist. I’ll always be someone who asks, “Is this making the world better for all people?”

Let me repeat that one more time. ALL PEOPLE.

Because I’m an American. I love this country—its people, its messy beauty, its potential. I believe we can do better. But only if we stop worshipping parties and start demanding better from them.

Country first. People first. Always.

A woman wearing a maroon Alabama visor and athletic attire is sipping from an iced drink through a blue straw while seated outside the Cass County Courthouse in Logansport, Indiana.
It should be federally legal and everyone agrees on that!
An elderly woman wearing sunglasses and a red jacket sits at a table outdoors, looking thoughtfully into the distance, with trees and other people in the background.

Burnout as a Lifestyle (Professionally Confused Since 1992)

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A group of elementary school students gathered around tables in a classroom, with a teacher standing and holding a folder, engaged in an interactive activity.

“Burnout as a Lifestyle”
 An essay from Professionally Confused Since 1992 — Entry Three

Things That Have Burned Me Out, In No Particular Order:

  • Student teaching. And then actual teaching. And then quitting. And then going back. And then quitting again.
  • Staying late at school to make the classroom feel like a home, only to be told by administration that I needed to improve my “time management.”
  • Getting COVID and teaching through it. Teaching during BLM. Teaching after Hurricane Sally. Teaching during everything and nothing.
  • Working in schools where we were told to make magic out of trauma. Where we were told to teach kids how to regulate before they’d even been given enough food or safety or sleep.
  • Helping other people regulate their nervous systems while mine was on fire.
  • Every single professional development session about “self-care” while being given fewer resources and more students.
  • Learning to love my students deeply and having to say goodbye over and over again.
  • Law firms that said “we’re like a family” and then made me talk to 90 people a day while smiling through panic attacks.
  • Being autistic and masking for so long I forgot what I actually wanted and who I was doing all this for.
  • Pretending to be okay so convincingly that no one noticed when I wasn’t.

Burnout doesn’t always look like collapse.
 Sometimes it looks like showing up every day with a smile you carved out of your own skin.
Sometimes it looks like organizing the fridge while dissociating.
Sometimes it looks like daydreaming about an illness just bad enough to force a pause.

You don’t just have burnout.
You become it.
You become the shell that keeps moving. The autopilot. The expert in pretending.

The Aftermath

  • The emptiness after quitting. The way silence hums louder when you’re no longer useful to someone else.
  • Staring at walls, wondering who I am without a job to orbit around. Without a crisis to manage. Without a fire to throw myself into.
  • People asking, “So what’s next?” like I didn’t just crawl out of a burning building.
  • The shame spiral of rest. Of stillness. Of needing time and not being able to earn it.
  • Trying to “get better” fast enough to make the burnout worth it. To justify the collapse.
  • Grieving the person I had to be to survive. And also grieving the people who still expect me to be her.
  • Losing access to joy because everything feels like it could become a job again if I’m not careful.
  • Forgetting what it feels like to want something. Not just tolerate it. Not just endure it. Want it.

The aftermath is quiet, but it isn’t peaceful.
It’s disorienting.
Like waking up in a stranger’s house with no memory of how you got there.
Like realizing you’ve been surviving on emergency mode for years, and now you can’t remember your own favorite color.

Recovery isn’t a glow-up.
 It’s crying because you finally feel safe enough to feel anything.
It’s staring at a blank calendar and feeling your nervous system twitch with withdrawal.
It’s learning to rest without bargaining.
It’s mourning all the years you pushed through instead of pausing.

But here’s what I know now:

Burnout is not a personal failure.
It’s not a weakness.
It’s not proof that you weren’t strong enough.

It’s the body’s last attempt at protection.
It’s your spirit throwing a wrench into the machine.
It’s your soul saying: This is not sustainable. This is not love. This is not life.

So no, I don’t have a five-year plan.
I don’t know what my next job title will be.
But I do know I don’t want to live a life that requires me to be exhausted in order to feel valuable.

I want to live slowly.
I want to rest without guilt.
I want softness without scarcity.
I want joy that isn’t mined from pain.

Maybe I won’t have a resume that makes sense.
Maybe I’ll never climb a ladder.
But I’m learning that surviving isn’t the same as living.
And I’m tired of surviving.

I want to build a life where I don’t have to burn out to belong.
Where I am allowed to be whole, even if I’m not productive.
Where warmth isn’t a job requirement—it’s just who I am, freely given, finally kept.

A classroom scene with several children raising their hands, and a teacher standing at the front. The room is decorated with educational materials, and an American flag is visible in the background.