It’s hard to believe I’ve become a completely different person than I was four years ago. Not only am I a Trump supporter now, which in and of itself is hard to grasp. But I’m also a Swiftie. Who would have ever thought it? Not me.

In March of 2020, my one and only daughter was sent home to live out the last few months of her senior year at college. She would end up having her graduation on my balcony in Burbank. Everything shut down. Half of the restaurants would eventually go out of business.

No parties, funerals, church, movies, or school. The clouds rolled in, and the darkness came, which never lifted because, for the Democrats in power, they liked it dark. How else to justify their endless manufactured crisis, their “existential threat” of a man who doesn’t exist?

After the Summer of protests and riots literally unmasked the lockdowns for what they were—social justice was more important than a global pandemic, said the experts—I followed the yellow brick road into the belly of the beast. When the curtain was pulled back for me, I could finally see the deception, the delusion, the lies.

But that’s only part of the story. That’s how I found my way to Trump and MAGA. I did it because I needed to know if it was true. Was Trump the next Hitler? Were his supporters “Brown Shirts” and frothing, angry “white supremacists.” By then, I’d already been swarmed online and called a “white supremacist” myself by my colleagues for reasons that are too absurd to recount.

It would be easy to say that “what happened to me” was that I was isolated for too long and gravitated toward the wrong kind of people. That’s probably how my friends and family explain it. Or maybe they think I had some kind of mental breakdown, that the trauma of lockdowns broke my brain.

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