Last week, I officially ended my campaign for U.S. Congress. Today, I want to talk about what led to that decision.
Ending my campaign wasn’t a decision I made lightly. I ran for a reason. I believe I would be an effective member of Congress. I believe in the platform I built: grounded in population health, early childhood education, and fiscal responsibility. I still believe in pragmatic, results-driven politics that puts people over profits, citizens over corporations, and courage over caution.
But I don’t believe – in this district, in this election cycle – that I have a viable path to victory.
Here’s why:
Money. Not enough of it. Need more.
I’ve said it before: since the Citizens United decision in 2010, the cost of running for federal office has exploded. By 2013, sitting members of Congress were spending up to half their time fundraising – not legislating. That was over a decade ago. Since then, federal campaign spending has risen from $4.8 billion to nearly $17 billion per election cycle.
Running for Congress is a sales job. Serving in Congress is a sales job. I’m not built for that. I’m built for the real work of the chamber: coalition building, legislating, and delivering results.
If I’d stayed employed, I could have self-funded more of the early-stage costs – including the staff I needed to build out a full fundraising operation. But, to restate, filing my Statement of Candidacy triggered the end of my employment at the University of Chicago.
I know what some of you are thinking: “if you needed your income to run, why file if it meant losing your job? Wasn’t that reckless/emotional/just plain bad planning?”
Maybe.
But look at this from my perspective: I spent months preparing this campaign — developing a platform, building infrastructure, and making financial plans.
On June 4th, a month before I planned to file my Statement of Candidacy, I notified the University, told them I intended to file with the FEC at the end of the month, and shared all my campaign materials.
On June 25th, I submitted a signed statement acknowledging the organization’s 501(c)(3) status, confirming I had reviewed all relevant policies (none of which prohibited University employees from seeking public office in their personal time), and expressing my good faith intent to find a way forward that allows me to run transparently while continuing to serve in my role at the University. I also updated them that I now planned to file during the week of July 7th.
And then, on the morning of July 7th, the University gave me two choices: take an unpaid leave of absence with no guarantee of reinstatement or be terminated.
I had given them more than a month’s notice, and they waited until the last minute and lowered the hammer.
The University provided two justifications for their decision.
First: the Office of Legal Affairs – not my supervisors – was concerned about my ability to perform my full-time job while campaigning.
That excuse doesn’t hold water.
People run for office while maintaining full-time jobs. It is routine. The University has employed – and continues to employ — people who hold public office.
I had no performance deficiencies. I had just received a glowing FY25 review. I had been promoted every year since joining the institution, from senior manager in 2022 to Chief of Staff of the Faculty Practice in 2023 to Chief of Staff of Clinical Affairs in 2024. I earned these progressive titles while being awarded Dean’s List honors at the University’s Business School – one of the most competitive MBA programs in the country.
That’s not the résumé of someone that drops the ball. All the evidence suggested I knew how to balance my commitments.
If performance had been a legitimate concern, there would have been a conversation about expectations. There wasn’t. If the unpaid leave of absence had been a good-faith offer, there would have been a dialogue. There wasn’t. No discussion about my time commitments. No question of a trial period to test the waters. No guarantee of job reinstatement.
If the baseline assumption is that working people can’t balance running for office with their employment responsibilities, then we don’t actually have representative democracy – we have a political class drawn almost entirely from the privileged and elite.
The second justification for the University’s ruling was that the University feared my views would be mistaken for those of the institution. The organization felt my campaign was incompatible with its best interests.
Let’s pause there.
The University has allowed staff to hold public office and express political views (contrary to my own) on the University’s own website.
My platform was neither frivolous nor incendiary. It focused on population health, early childhood education, and balancing the federal budget. It earned support from Democrats and Republicans.
So I asked the University for clarification:
What about the University staff that had been allowed to hold public office?
No response.
Could I have public opinions about policy if I were not a candidate?
No response.
What exactly about my views or candidacy was at odds with the University’s best interests?
No response.
It makes me wonder: did it have something to do with the fact that I’m transgender, and the current president has a bellicose stance on trans people?
Does Donald Trump’s presidency make me – and people like me – a liability to the University?
Did the University’s plan to cease transgender pediatric healthcare on July 18th factor into its decision about my candidacy and employment?
I don’t know. The representatives of the University never explained what made the institution perceive me as a threat.
So, I’m left to speculate.
Was my termination about my candidacy?
Or was it about my identity?
So there I was, believing I would be a strong congressional representative because I refuse to be ignored. Because I know how to pierce institutional gridlock. Because I believe we won’t fix a broken democracy without personal sacrifice.
And the University of Chicago put me in a position where I had to either give up or prove it.
So I proved it.
I filed my Statement of Candidacy on July 20th.
I chose to be the kind of person I believe this moment demands – someone willing to act on principle, even when it costs them. Especially when it costs them.
And on August 1, the University fired me.
I did my best to run a campaign for a fiercely contested seat – sixteen candidates at last count (including a physician that still appears to be employed by the University of Chicago). I chose to do it without a job. Without economic security. Without the resources needed to compete.
Even though I had to end my campaign, I wouldn’t do a thing differently. Because, yes, the outcome matters, but so does the example. Ordinary people need to stand up and show what it looks like to lead with conviction.
I’m proud I tried.
But now I have no job. I have personal bills to pay. And, while finding employment is painful under the best circumstances, it’s worse when you’re running for office.
I could have taken on debt to finance my campaign. A lot of candidates do. But I don’t think that’s the right move. It’s impossible to legislate effectively from a position of financial vulnerability. That’s the whole problem with politics today.
I’ve seen what happens when people fall so in love with their own potential that they bankrupt their future to prove it. This is how some candidates end up selling their donor lists to data firms – exploiting the people who believed in them, just to climb out of a financial hole.
I won’t do that. So I ended my campaign.
To everyone who supported me – with time, money, or encouragement – thank you. It matters more than I can express, and I’m sorry it didn’t end the way we hoped.
But this isn’t a surrender. It’s a tactical decision – to regroup, rebuild, and return stronger.
The 2026 election cycle showed me what’s broken, firsthand. The next cycle will be about building something better.
I still believe in this fight.
I still believe in what’s possible when regular people step up.
And I’m not going anywhere.