How a Biden ‘Dead-Ender’ Found Common Ground With Leftists

You can be a Democrat and still build bridges with the left.

This past week, I attended a conference in Washington, D.C. alongside over 150 other social media content creators—brought together in our nation’s capital to explore how, why, and when to use our platforms to create meaningful change.

The group was incredibly diverse. Creators came from all corners of the internet—fashion, lifestyle, photography, politics, and beyond. It wasn’t about reaching every corner of the Democratic Party; it was about reaching every corner of the culture.

For the last five years, I’ve been a political content creator—explicitly and unapologetically. As I’ve grown older, my ideology has evolved based on lived experience. One part of that evolution included defending the Democratic Party and its elected leaders, even when others on the left were quick to criticize. I also became quick to challenge those further left than me—leftists whose anti-capitalist, anti-institutional politics clashed with my staunch liberalism.

I picked fights. I posted videos. And I earned backlash. Many leftist creators—some with platforms even larger than mine—have taken public shots at me for supporting Democrats or for being, in their view, too aligned with the party’s talking points (a bootlicking sellout.)

I’ve long understood my unique (and often isolating) position on the internet. I’m someone who manages to draw ire from both the far left and the far right. As one of the most visible Gen Z women in political media—with over a million followers and more than a billion total views—I’ve become a lightning rod.

That sense of isolation deepened in 2024, when I continued to support President Joe Biden and Vice President Kamala Harris, even as more voices began urging the President to step aside. From my perspective, stepping down didn’t seem likely—and publicly pressuring him to do so felt more likely to fracture trust within the party than to strengthen it. So, I chose to stay the course, even as some began labeling those of us who did as “Biden dead-enders”—a term often used dismissively online.

Later that year, I had the honor of speaking at the Democratic National Convention. In my speech, I quoted former Texas Governor Ann Richards, saying: “If you’re not at the table, you’re on the menu.” I meant it as a message of empowerment—especially for young people like me who are often told they don’t belong in politics. But the response to that line was more intense than I anticipated.

Criticism came from many directions. On the right, it was personal—attacks on my appearance, identity, and presence at the convention. From parts of the left, some felt the quote was tone-deaf or dismissive, particularly given the lack of visible Palestinian representation on the DNC stage—something entirely outside my control. What I had intended as an invitation to step into political power was, for some, heard as a statement of exclusion.

That moment gave me a lot to reflect on. Not because I regretted speaking—but because I realized how differently words can land depending on people’s pain, perspective, and position. It was difficult to know that something I meant to inspire could be interpreted as harmful. But it also reminded me of the responsibility that comes with having a platform—and the importance of listening, especially when the feedback is hard to hear.

However Instead of taking time to reflect, I doubled down. In the heat of election season and the looming threat of another Trump presidency, I kept fighting. I kept attacking Republicans—and I kept picking fights with people on the left. I called them out for “hurting Democrats” or for “distracting from the real threats.”

Then came the election. Kamala lost. And I spiraled.

Not just politically, but personally. I fell into a deep mental health crisis—so intense I finally admitted I needed professional help. Not just because of the election results, but because I realized my emotional highs and lows weren’t normal. My reactions to everything had become unsustainable.

I was diagnosed with a mood disorder and prescribed medication. Within days, I noticed a shift. For the first time in years, I felt like I could breathe. I realized I’d been operating in a constant emotional swing—driven by rage, fear, and pressure.

As 2025 began, I made a resolution: to approach politics—and people—with more compassion and discipline. As a Christian, I’d already been on a journey to strengthen my faith. But this year, I wanted more than prayer. I wanted change. I wanted peace.

So when Lent arrived—a 40-day period of reflection and preparation—I committed to something unexpected: letting go of the urge to fight leftists online.

I stopped provoking. I stopped jumping into controversies that didn’t need my voice. And in that silence, I started to reflect. I realized how much of my previous content had been reactive, unnecessary, and even counterproductive.

When I walked into that first day of the conference and saw so many faces I recognized—creators who had called me out, critiqued me, or painted me as a bigoted liberal hiding behind good intentions—I braced for tension.

But the week played out differently than I expected.

I had conversations with leftist creators who told me they respected me—even if they didn’t always agree. Some mentioned my on-the-ground organizing in Texas. Others brought up fundraising I’d done for advocacy groups. A few even said they’d defended me to others because, as one person put it, “I know you’re just a young person trying to do good.”

But one moment stood out above all.

I sat down with two Indigenous women, both creators, and we began talking—really talking. About infighting, identity, intersectionality, the trauma of the last election, and the ways our cultural experiences shaped how we show up in political spaces. It was raw. It was honest. And it was the first real sense of community I’d felt in a long time with people further left than me.

What struck me most was that none of us were trying to win the conversation. We were trying to understand.

In that hour-long conversation, I felt something release—a weight I’d been carrying for five years. Frustration. Misunderstanding. Resentment. I let it go.

The truth is, most of us on the left are grounded in the same core values: decency, kindness, and compassion. But too often, we’ve turned that energy inward—fighting one another while right-wing extremism advances largely unchallenged.

Just as some leftists may view liberals as performative or ineffective based on the actions of a few, liberals can also fall into the trap of dismissing all leftists because of online voices who critique without engaging in real-world organizing. But broad generalizations don’t serve us. We can’t afford to write off entire groups within our movement because of a vocal minority more focused on calling out power than building it.

If we truly want progress, we have to see each other more clearly—and treat each other less like opponents and more like potential partners in the work ahead.

We are at a moral and constitutional inflection point. We don’t have time for purity tests or petty fights. We can’t afford to villainize people who want the same outcomes at this moment just because they use different messaging or follow different strategies.

This isn’t moderates versus progressives. It’s not liberals versus leftists.

It’s fight versus flight.

You can either fight back against right-wing extremism, or you can retreat into cynicism. You can choose to build power, or you can watch it slip away. It isn’t just liberals who have to make that choice, its people of ALL ideologies. Because to beat back that extremism it will take a coalition of all of us who see that Donald Trump and his allies are wrong.

I choose to fight. And I’ll fight alongside anyone who sees the threat clearly,

Because the stakes are too high for anything else.

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