Life has a way of presenting moments that spark significant personal transformation. The recent presidential election was one such moment for me. By the summer of last year, I found myself venting at my television every night, which I eventually swapped for putting my thoughts into writing—because honestly, the alternative seemed like a one-way ticket to insanity. This shift proved beneficial in two ways: it allowed me to channel my frustrations into a constructive outlet, and it also made my 2-year-old less likely to drop a surprise curse word. (Kids really do say the darndest things, right?)
After experiencing some success with my writing, I continued to delve into politics. As a stay-at-home mom, my previous definition of success had revolved around basic hygiene, so receiving accolades for my essays on domestic policy felt incredibly rewarding. I felt rejuvenated—ambitious, curious, and brimming with energy. It was as if I hadn’t spent years being subjected to the sleep deprivation trials that come with parenting young children. I was on top of the world!
But then, the internet police emerged, clad in oversized T-shirts and eye-catching leggings, to inform me that I was guilty of serious social media infractions. Between promoting their home-based businesses every fifteen minutes, these self-appointed enforcers took time to express their disdain for my political musings.
I understand the exhaustion stemming from the chaotic events of the 2016 election. However, I firmly believe in being politically engaged, especially now that I’m a mother. While I recognize that many are burned out on news topics, I don’t see the harm in simply scrolling past content you dislike. It’s not like I’m bombarding my followers every few minutes with political rants.
Yet, I should have anticipated that this wouldn’t satisfy the internet police.
Initially, their warnings resembled those of a traffic officer who reminds you of your responsibilities without issuing a ticket. Sure, it could be worse, but their condescension was palpable. I faced passive-aggressive posts, a sudden lack of interest in neutral conversations, and the dreaded “unfollows.” How does one discover these unfollows, you ask? See the aforementioned passive-aggressive posts.
While this was all mildly annoying, it was nothing compared to phase two: community service. At this point, the legging-clad enforcers morphed into an unsettling mix of judge, jury, and perpetual infomercial.
Despite being publicly scolded and socially shunned for my political commentary, I suddenly found myself inundated with incessant invitations to attend live Facebook events. I was added to enthusiastic groups without my consent (think “flamingos-on-your-pants-should-be-your-life-goal” weird). I became paranoid that a box of overpriced leggings would soon arrive on my doorstep. It felt like I was being coerced into investing my time and money into endeavors that contradicted my own beliefs. All of this because, apparently, money knows no political boundaries.
It’s not that I hadn’t experienced aggressive marketing via social media before, but this was different. I had been dismissed for my views and essentially deemed worthless by individuals who once enjoyed my company—except when it came to my wallet. Previously, I could overlook such marketing tactics, but now I felt exploited. Each formulaic sales pitch reeked of insincerity that became increasingly hard to ignore.
As a pro tip: those leggings enthusiasts are as omnipresent as Tupperware parties were in the ’90s. It’s almost impossible to avoid them, so being judgmental will quickly get you replaced. You are expendable.
Regardless of my disagreements with their approach, I hear their perspective. I understand that they view social media as a platform for motivational quotes, lighthearted anecdotes, and, of course, selling products. They consider political discussions (especially those that don’t echo their own views) to be distasteful—a remarkable lack of self-awareness from a group eager to model clothing that seems to have a pot of gold misplaced in the fabric.
Setting fashion differences aside, I’m ready to find common ground. So here’s my apology, friends: I’m sorry if my political views make you uncomfortable… but perhaps a little discomfort could be beneficial for you.
Given that your livelihood revolves around selling soft pants, it’s understandable that you’d want to avoid any form of discomfort. Your life should be full of rainbows and butterflies, especially with the price tag on that polyester blend.
However, as you focus on the latest seasonal prints, remember those who don’t have the luxury of such choices. Their needs can’t be resolved with an “unfollow.” Their struggles can’t be alleviated with a simple angry emoji. Ignoring their plight doesn’t make it disappear; in fact, your aversion to discomfort only prolongs their suffering.
So resist the urge to roll your eyes the next time political conversations invade your feed. Allow yourself to experience discomfort. Embrace it, because that’s where growth occurs (and also because someday, you’ll need to fit into denim again).
Rest assured, I don’t write to provoke you. I don’t aim to be insufferably annoying. I write because I feel a responsibility to advocate for change, no matter how small it may seem.
At the end of the day, we’re all doing our best. So here’s my proposal: I’ll refrain from discussing politics if you stop imposing your leggings on me.
Sound fair?
Let’s be real though: this compromise is as futile as launching a missile at a Syrian airfield without addressing the runway (What? Too soon?). It’s unlikely to happen. We’re both passionate about our pursuits, and that’s perfectly fine—social media can accommodate us both. So perhaps it’s time to shelve those internet police badges. They’re divisive, unnecessary and honestly clash with your outfit.
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In summary, we all have our passions and beliefs. While we may not always agree, there’s room for dialogue. Compromise isn’t always possible, but understanding can go a long way.