My hometown
I grew up in Ottumwa, Iowa—a blue-collar city with struggles, scars, and stories. A place where not many people are handed opportunities, but where strength isn’t optional—it’s how you survive.
I’ve seen firsthand what happens when people are forgotten. I’ve watched the scourge of drugs and mental illness devastate loved ones and tear through communities that were already struggling. Not because people were weak—but because the support they needed simply wasn’t there.
Ottumwa taught me what it means to push through. I saw friends and neighbors work their fingers to the bone just to keep food on the table. I saw families scraping by while politicians promised help that never came. And I saw something else too—resilience. The kind you don’t see on campaign ads. The kind that gets up every day and keeps going.
These experiences shaped who I am. It’s why I believe that real change doesn’t come from empty promises or photo ops—it comes from listening, caring, and actually showing up for the people who’ve been left behind.
I’m not a career politician. I wasn’t born into connections or money. But I was born into a community that knows how to fight, how to survive, and how to rise even when the odds are stacked against you.
I’m running for Congress because people like us—people from towns like Ottumwa—deserve better. We deserve leaders who don’t just show up for photo ops, but who live the struggle and carry it with them into every vote they cast. I want to be that kind of leader—for my town, for my state, and for everyone who’s been told to settle for less.
My life
I’ve had a job nearly every day of my life since I turned 13. Not because I wanted extra spending money—but because I had to.
My family didn’t have a lot—but we had each other. We weren’t privileged with wealth or connections, but we were rich in love. Most of my childhood and teenage years were spent in a single-mother household, and that’s where I learned what hard work really looks like.
I watched the strongest person I know—my mom—work herself to the bone to keep food on the table and give us the best life she could. It wasn’t always easy. In fact, it rarely was. But she never gave up. And watching her, I couldn’t either.
So I started working at 13. And I haven’t stopped since.
I tried working two jobs to afford college. I did my best to keep up. I heard from teachers that I was “too smart not to fulfill my potential.” But I didn’t know how to say: How am I supposed to fulfill my potential when I was on my feet until midnight the night before your class?
That wasn’t lack of ambition—it was exhaustion. It was survival.
I’ve lived paycheck to paycheck. I’ve counted change at the gas station. I’ve skipped doctor appointments because I couldn’t afford the bill. I know what it feels like when the system doesn’t see you—when it tells you to “work harder” while it rigs the game against you.
Now, I watch my mom—the same woman who sacrificed everything—worry about her future. Worry about whether Social Security will still be there. Worry about whether she’ll ever be able to stop working. And to me, that says everything about what’s broken in this country.
No one who’s worked their entire life should have to keep working just to survive.
That’s why I’m running. For her. For families like mine. For the students trying to climb out of poverty with no safety net. For every person who’s been told to pull themselves up by bootstraps they were never given.
