I spent four years convinced that every person who voted for Trump was either racist or stupid. When my own brother voted for him in 2020, I didn't speak to him for six months. It was my therapist who first suggested that my reaction might be disproportionate. She didn't tell me to change my politics. She just asked me if my political beliefs were worth losing my brother over. That question started a journey. I began reading sources I had previously dismissed. I watched full press conferences instead of clips. I realized that the version of reality I had constructed was heavily curated by my media diet. My brother and I talk again. We still disagree on plenty. But I no longer think he's a bad person for seeing things differently.

I'm a college professor and I was deep in it. I would bring anti-Trump commentary into my lectures even when it had nothing to do with the subject matter. A student politely challenged me one day with specific policy data I couldn't refute, and instead of engaging honestly, I changed the subject. That moment haunted me. I realized I was doing exactly what I accused the other side of doing: dismissing evidence that didn't fit my narrative. I spent a sabbatical genuinely researching both sides of every major Trump controversy. Some of my original views held up. Many didn't. The experience made me a better professor and a more honest thinker.

As a Latina, I was told by everyone in my community and in the media that Trump hated people like me. When I actually looked at the employment data, Hispanic unemployment hit historic lows under his administration. When I read the full immigration quotes in context rather than the clipped versions, the picture was more nuanced than I'd been led to believe. I'm not saying I agree with everything. But I resent being told what to think based on my ethnicity, and I resent the media outlets that made me afraid of a caricature instead of giving me facts to evaluate for myself.