Caffeinated Politics

As today approached, I realized my life had wandered far from where it began. Not so much in miles, I guess, but certainly in perspective and outcome.

I was born in Hancock, Wisconsin, a small rural Wisconsin town in Waushara County. Growing up in such a place means learning early how to live with a secret that hums under those power lines in the country. Everyone knows everyone, and everyone thinks they know you—your family, your future, your place in the order of things. But when you know you’re different, when you feel that continuing, insistent truth about who you are, the whole town becomes a kind of stage set. It all looks nice, from church outings to gas‑station gossip, but there came a time, as a teenager, when I knew it was not built for me. I became fluent in a new language, mastering the art of dodging questions and shaping myself just enough to pass, even after being asked more questions. And yet, even in that tight little world, there’s a stubborn hope. I knew, at some level inside, that even though I could not say it out loud, I was leading my own kind of rebellion, and it has been explained to me that it was like a small flame I kept lit to protect myself until I was somewhere I could let it burn bright.

I have thought about that part of life a lot over the past few weeks, and it is from that sea of uncertainty that some viewed my improbable leap to a radio station job in Sturgeon Bay—WDOR. I never saw it as anything but where I needed to be. Some close to me thought my lack of awareness of the world might limit my hopes. But I have to say that there’s something about radio that makes a young man feel like he’s part of the world’s heartbeat, even if he’s just reading the farm report at 6:15 in the morning or Mac’s Fishing Report at 10:00 PM. Suddenly, that kid from the quiet town was behind a microphone, sending my voice across Door County like I owned the airwaves. I learned how to speak clearly, think quickly, be a professional, and, for a time, show up at the station even earlier than the farmers I was to wake up with news and weather. But for me, the best part, the most important part of the job was the confidence that the job instilled within me. I never again took a back seat to anyone.

Politics pushed me like a gust of wind off Lake Michigan, and I couldn’t ignore it. I became the Chairperson of the Door County Democratic Party, which led to a decade of work in the Wisconsin legislature. I loved public service, how to fight for things that matter, how to compromise without losing your spine, and how to walk out of the statehouse each day knowing I did my best. Those years weren’t always easy, but they were honest times when I worked for what I hoped would yield the best outcomes.

Then came 2000, and love with James Wilson. The real kind, the meaningful kind, the kind that doesn’t ask you to be anything other than who you’ve become. It took me a long time to reach that point in life. Falling in love widened horizons and reminded me that the best parts of living aren’t found in election results but in the quiet, shared moments that make two people feel like one story.

Now, another birthday arrives, and I find myself smiling at the absurd, wonderful arc of it all. A rural kid. A radio voice. A statehouse worker. A man in love. A man who has learned, at times slowly and, yes, at times stubbornly, that life’s lessons aren’t handed out in neat packages. They come through experiences, through mistakes, and through the people who stay in my life to share this journey.

I get to say it. I am proud of the man I’ve become, not because the path was perfect, but because it was lived. Fully. Honestly. And if birthdays are for anything, they’re for recognizing that the years haven’t just passed—they’ve built something. Something sturdy. Something joyful. Something that still has a big dose of curiosity about what comes next.