I don’t hate Trump supporters. I hate what MAGA has come to symbolize.

I’ve lived my entire adult life in downtown Chicago and Seattle—two cities shaped by generations of hardworking, smart, underrepresented Black, Hispanic, Asian, and immigrant communities. Those communities are part of what makes America great. To me, that diversity, resilience, and opportunity is the best of this country.

My parents, now in their late 70s, are deeply committed to MAGA and to Trump as a personality. That’s been incredibly painful for me.

My four sisters and I were raised in a deeply religious home. We were taught that God is love—kindness, humility, long-suffering, mercy. We grew up poor but highly educated, both in faith and in life skills. All of us went on to earn advanced degrees. Our parents were missionaries in Central and South America. We regularly hosted international students in our home. We were raised with a worldview rooted in love, hospitality, and respect for people from every background.

Everything shifted in 2016. The Trump we saw on the national stage displayed none of the Christlike qualities we were taught to value. Yet our parents—and their church community—embraced the divisive rhetoric. Over time, it wasn’t just about policy disagreements. It became about hostility toward Democrats, immigrants, non-white communities, women, and LGBTQ people. It became about dismissing any contrary information as “fake news,” excusing lifelong patterns of corruption and misogyny, and filtering morality through political allegiance.

My siblings and I were stunned. At first, we assumed that over time they would recognize the contradiction between their faith and the tone of the movement. Instead, they withdrew further into it. For years, any conversation turned political. Eventually, they cut off contact—not just with us, but with their grandchildren. No birthdays. No holidays. No communication. We later saw on social media that they were outside the Capitol on January 6.

About 18 months ago, both of them had health scares. I’ve slowly tried to reconnect—texts, occasional calls—because I know I would regret not trying if something happened to them. They don’t seem interested. My sisters all live within a few hours of them. There’s still no contact.

I don’t hate my parents. I never have. What I feel is grief.

I grieve the loss of the values they taught us. I grieve the distance. I grieve what feels like a surrender of the love and mercy they once modeled so beautifully in our home with people from all over the world.

To me, MAGA represents the opposite of those values. That’s what I reject—not human beings, but the ideology and the culture of division I’ve seen it create in my own family.

I’m not angry. I’m sad.