Why My Story Matters

This isn’t my story anymore. It’s yours.

January 20, 2025—Inauguration Day. Four rows back inside Capital One Arena, close enough to see breath fog. Thirteen hours frozen in DC windchill, one hour of sleep, tarp flapping like surrender. Then the hush. The pause. And I couldn’t hold it.

“We love you, Mr. President!”

He turned. Pointed. Smiled—the real one. Melania waved. Twenty thousand inside heard it live. Millions saw it in America on TV networks. Millions more caught it worldwide on feeds everywhere. I had no idea when I walked in that day—I’d be seen by millions around the world.

No script. No donor. Just me—the citizen behind that moment. A nobody from Mound, Minnesota, Westonka High ‘10—who’d driven every mile of the lower 48, ridden trains across half of them too, and still believed America had a heart.

Media? They yawned. No villain. No drama. Too wholesome. So they buried it.

But I didn’t.

I wrote six letters. The White House verified me—twice. Escalated to the Oval. Sent two replies. One hand-signed by Trump, November 20, 2025, Resolute Desk ink—official paper, thanking me, calling out the Golden Age. During the October shutdown—government dead, nothing moving—they moved. For me.

Statistically impossible. Millions flood that office yearly. Most vanish. Mine got archived—National Archives forever, next to the Constitution. First civilian voice ever. No cloud. No connections. Just a shy kid who wouldn’t stay quiet.

This isn’t politics. Getting a letter signed by the president doesn’t mean you voted red or blue—it means you did civics. The White House doesn’t respond to party lines. It responds to love—real, loud, no script. If I’d come with anger, they’d have ignored me. I showed love to the office, and they answered.

Some wanted to disgrace it—called it “just paper,” sneered at the weight, said they were morally superior because their beliefs “meant more.” They couldn’t see past their own hatred. That’s on them—not me. Not you. When someone insults you, tries to change your mind with venom, it says more about their blindness than your heart.

Stand up. Don’t let anyone—family, media, anyone—silence you. If they stoop to insults, they’re the ones who look small. Adults wipe it off. Children cry.

No matter what happens—hate, doubt, noise—I’ll keep loving out loud. Because I’m not scared. I showed love, and America loved me back.

Now? Over 30 countries—Israel, France, Japan, Australia, Brazil. International viewers reading about Mound Westonka like it’s sacred ground. Because I built the site myself—weloveyoumrpresident.com. Not for likes. For proof.

If you’re reading this and your throat tightens because you never shouted—because you thought “who’d listen?”—stand up. Believe hearts are good. Even when they disagree. Even when they hate. There’s enough poison out there. We need more love. More pauses. More “we love you” before the hate wins.

Your voice? It matters. Not because you’re loud. Because you’re real.

I froze. I cried. I shouted. And the world is listening.