Why Me? Why Minnesota? Why Now?”

Some people assume I moved to Minnesota simply to run for governor.

The truth is, I came to Minnesota for the same reason many people come here — the hope of building something better for myself and my future.

I came here for a job opportunity in the airline industry. Like many people who relocate for work, I took a chance on a new beginning and hoped it would lead somewhere better.

Unfortunately, that job did not work out.

At that point, I had a choice.

I could have packed up, relocated somewhere else, and started over again somewhere new.

Or I could stay.

I chose to stay.

As somebody who was not born or raised in Minnesota, I understand what it feels like to arrive somewhere unfamiliar and slowly try to build a life, a community, and a sense of belonging there.

Minnesota may not be a foreign country, but when you first arrive here from somewhere else, it can still feel like an entirely different world with its own culture, traditions, expectations, and communities.

That experience gave me a deeper appreciation for many of the immigrant and refugee families I now worship beside at church here in Minnesota.

During the recent ICE operations and unrest across the Twin Cities, I was not simply watching events unfold on television from a distance.

I was seeing fear, uncertainty, and anxiety firsthand in people I personally knew and spoke with regularly.

Some families feared separation.

Some feared instability.

Some feared losing the life they had worked hard to build here.

And sitting beside those families reminded me of something important:

Most people come to Minnesota for the same basic reason.

They are searching for opportunity, stability, community, and the chance to build something better than what they left behind.

Working as a Metro driver also gave me a very different perspective on Minnesota than many politicians ever experience.

I was not seeing communities through campaign stops, press conferences, polling data, or television cameras.

I was seeing ordinary people up close every single day.

Working people.

Elderly people.

Disabled people.

Immigrant families.

People trying to get to work.

People trying to get to medical appointments.

People simply trying to hold their lives together.

During periods of unrest and uncertainty across the Twin Cities, I saw firsthand how quickly fear spreads through communities when people no longer feel stable or secure.

At church, I saw genuine fear in families I personally knew and worshipped beside.

Not political talking points.

Not television debates.

Real human fear.

Fear of instability.

Fear of separation.

Fear of losing the life they had worked so hard to build.

And at the same time, I was driving through neighborhoods where ordinary Minnesotans were increasingly feeling unsafe themselves.

That is something many people outside these communities fail to understand.

Fear does not only exist in one neighborhood, one political group, or one type of family.

Ordinary people across Minnesota increasingly feel anxious, unstable, overworked, financially strained, and uncertain about the future.

I was not watching these tensions unfold from a distance on television.

I was living around them.

Driving through them.

Speaking directly with people affected by them every single day.

That changes your perspective on leadership very quickly.

Because eventually public safety stops being a political talking point and starts becoming something deeply personal to ordinary people trying to live ordinary lives.

Public safety is not just an abstract political issue to me.

For me, it became personal.

It became real.

It became fear.

It became hurt.

It became anger.

It became frustration.

It became grief.

Just like it did for many other Minnesotans after the tragedy at the Church of the Annunciation school.

At the time, I had gotten myself into a very consistent morning walking routine.

Part of it was trying to stay healthy and lose weight.

Part of it was simply trying to keep my mind active, clear, and focused.

That routine regularly had me walking directly in front of the school between roughly 8:15 and 8:45 almost every morning.

But that morning was different.

I overslept and got a much later start to my day than usual.

By the time I finally went outside to begin my normal walk later that morning, the area around the school had already been taped off.

Police vehicles were everywhere.

News crews had already gathered.

Streets were blocked.

I knew something serious had happened, but I did not yet fully understand what.

I stopped at Kowalski’s like I normally would during my walk to grab my usual soda water, and that was when somebody told me about the shooting.

I remember changing direction and continuing my walk toward Lake Harriet trying to process what I had just heard.

Later, when I passed back through the area again, people had already started placing flowers near the scene.

It struck a very personal nerve with me.

I have a son.

If he had been living here with me at the time, there is a very real possibility he could have been attending that school.

Mentally and emotionally, it forces you into a realization very quickly:

That could have been my child.

I also spent a great deal of time around Catholic churches and Catholic schools growing up myself.

That could have been me as a child.

That could have been your child.

Your family.

Your school.

Your normal morning routine suddenly turned into tragedy.

Public safety is not simply about physical objects or crime scene tape after tragedy has already happened.

Public safety is also about mental health.

It is about intervention.

It is about recognizing when people are struggling before they reach a breaking point.

It is about creating environments where people are not left isolated, ignored, bullied, abandoned, or forgotten until crisis finally erupts.

Because by the time yellow tape goes up, something has already gone terribly wrong long before that moment.

My views on mental health and public safety are also shaped by personal experiences growing up.

When I was sixteen years old, I personally experienced having a firearm pointed directly at my head by somebody experiencing severe mental and emotional instability.

Experiences like that stay with you.

They change how you look at fear.

They change how you look at trauma.

They change how you look at intervention.

Because once you have personally experienced that kind of fear yourself, these issues stop becoming political talking points and start becoming deeply human realities.

As somebody who was bullied growing up, I also understand what it feels like to feel isolated, misunderstood, or unsupported while trying to figure out your place in the world.

But I was fortunate in one very important way:

I had teachers, counselors, principals, and school staff who refused to give up on me.

Looking back now, I realize many of them were doing far more than simply educating me academically.

In many ways, they were quietly helping hold my life together during some very difficult years.

Some made sure I had food.

Some made sure I had clothes.

Some made sure I had emotional support and stability when life outside of school became difficult.

Some stepped in when bullying became a serious problem.

Some simply made sure I knew somebody cared.

Over the years, teachers quietly left Christmas presents and birthday presents in my locker.

One teacher, Mrs. Ross, bought me brand-new clothes and shoes with the tags still attached because she knew I needed them.

My ninth-grade principal personally intervened when bullying on the school bus became a serious problem.

He moved me to a designated seat near the front of the bus, bought me a radio headset, and created a safer environment for me when I needed one.

My counselors spent countless hours helping me emotionally navigate difficult situations growing up.

There were times in high school where I probably spent more time sitting in a counselor’s office trying to work through life than I did sitting in an actual classroom.

And near graduation, several teachers secretly came together and purchased my high school class ring for me as a Christmas gift.

They gave me a handwritten card with a picture of the ring inside.

I still have the paper.

I still have the ring.

Moments like that stay with you.

Looking back now, I realize those educators were not simply teaching subjects from textbooks.

They were stabilizing lives.

They were mentoring struggling kids.

They were quietly protecting children in ways the outside world often never sees.

I am living proof that teachers do not just educate children.

Sometimes they help save them.

Those experiences stayed with me long after graduation.

They shaped how I viewed teachers, schools, mentorship, and public service for the rest of my life.

They are a major part of the reason I later became a substitute teacher myself.

Because after everything teachers did for me growing up, I wanted to give some of that same support back to other students.

They are also part of the reason I eventually married a teacher as well.

Because I have seen firsthand the kind of sacrifice, compassion, patience, and emotional labor educators quietly carry every single day.

Teachers are doing far more than simply teaching lessons from a textbook.

They buy classroom supplies.

They buy art supplies.

They buy snacks and food for students who may not have enough at home.

They mentor.

They counsel.

They help emotionally stabilize children during some of the hardest years of their lives.

Sometimes they become the closest thing a child has to structure, consistency, encouragement, or safety.

They are also mandatory reporters.

They are often the very first adults to recognize when something is seriously wrong in a child’s life long before the rest of society notices.

That is why I will always believe teachers deserve more respect, more support, and more recognition for what they truly do every single day.

If a police officer does not have to pay for the lead in his bullet, why should a teacher have to pay for the lead in her pencil?