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“It’s the first time I’ve felt like the whole thing might fall apart,” I admitted to my sister from a hotel room in Washington, D.C., last weekend.

“Just now, really?” she asked. Her exasperation and incredulity were apparent despite our patchy phone connection.

I’m not an optimist about most things, but when it comes to American democracy, I try my best to remain hopeful. But the last week has shaken my faith.

A former President is again on  on charges of conspiracy, having already been found liable for fraud. Meanwhile, the first of his co-defendants in the  will be on trial next week. Yet, sadly, that’s only a small part of my discomfort. Like the Jan. 6 insurrection, it pretty much tracks everything else Donald Trump’s done to this country.

Congress remains paralyzed as the ever-squabbling Republican Party fails to elect a speaker despite a looming government shutdown and commitments of military support to our allies. And, somehow, the Republican caucus’ failure to govern almost seems like a blessing since the speaker candidate with the most support so far  either an insurrectionist or, at least, a sympathizer to their cause.

That debacle inched me closer to disillusionment. But it was a bipartisan conference that I usually love that caused my long-simmering frustration to finally erupt. 

I was invited to join the Rodel Fellowship shortly before I was ousted from Republican leadership for my participation in the Hawaii Women’s March. The program, which brings a cohort of Republican and Democratic elected officials together for a two-year leadership program, was a lifeline as the world was shifting around me. It connected me to like-minded colleagues who turned into valuable friends. This weekend, the fellowship brought together every cohort of fellows to discuss how we can help strengthen democracy together.

But this time, for the first time, I found myself questioning the motives of most of the Republicans in the room. My back was up, and I struggled to listen. That’s what has me worried. If I can’t do it, how can I ask anyone else to try? And if we don’t try, how will we find our way out?

A panel on the final night, featuring former Democratic National Committee Chair Tom Perez and former Republican National Committee Chair Michael Steele, crystalized the anger that’s lingered in me since I left the GOP. Perez and Steele are poster children for our fellowship. Rivals who become friends through carefully curated relationship-building programs. Despite their policy differences, both party leaders hammered home the same points. Democracy is in trouble. The 2024 presidential election will be another inflection point. And political courage is in short supply.

Steele, a frequent Trump critic, pointed specifically to Republicans when he brought up the latter. I know a few Republicans who have taken difficult stands and faced the consequences. However, the vast majority have cowered in the corner while their leaders made a mockery of our democratic norms and institutions. When I heard those same people bemoan the state of civil discourse and the dangers ahead just minutes after the panel ended, I was uncharacteristically enraged.

I didn’t want to sit there and listen to people talk about the need for better civil discourse and protecting democracy when they couldn’t find the courage to confront their own party. More personally, they couldn’t even have my back when I finally worked up the courage to do it. It wasn’t easy to have my whole life turned upside down, and the worst part was the whispers and texts from Republicans who told me I was right but then let me fall alone. 

When Steele talks to Americans about fixing democracy, he asks what they’re willing to do about it. He asks what they’re willing to sacrifice. And, if the answer is nothing, he says they shouldn’t place the blame on anyone else. I feel the same.

How can someone talk about civility when they can’t condemn an insurrectionist? How can they talk about saving democracy when they can’t confront election denialism amongst their own supporters? How can they advocate for understanding when they punished me for contradicting the racist and sexist remarks of our former President? 

I haven’t been perfect. I’m guilty of my fair share of inconsistencies. Still, it took everything in me to stay in that room, bury my rage and listen, because we won’t get anywhere if we shut out the people we disagree with most.

I know the opinions I express in this column about finding common ground and strengthening democracy seem optimistic, bordering on delusion.  But it doesn’t come from blissful naivete. My faith in a form of government reliant on compromise comes from a constant, hard-fought personal battle to resist giving in to hate, keep an open mind and hope enough people will choose to do the same. 

Common ground is hard to find, and listening is not easy. It’s swallowing your deepest hurts and choosing not to scream. It’s keeping your ass in that seat at the table when all you want to do is shout, “you f*ing hypocrites!” while running out the door. It’s trying to feel someone else’s pain when every cell in your body wants to reject it. 

Because there’s something bigger at stake. And we can’t quit. Even when we really, really want to.