Dorian Hartwood

I remember the moment the compass moved.

Not an election night or a summit handshake, but a morning in early spring when a friend in manufacturing—an honest man with calloused hands and a calendar nailed to the wall—forwarded me a spreadsheet that didn’t care about anyone’s feelings. It was the kind of document...

I used to believe purpose was something you stumbled into. A career path. A calling. Maybe something your parents prayed over you, or your mentors saw in you before you ever did. But one morning — just before dawn, in the muted blue hour of a San Diego winter — I realized that wasn’t true.

I was sitting at my kitchen table, hands wrapped around a chipped mug of black coffee, staring blankly at my laptop screen. Work emails blinked in unread red. Bills collected in a slow-motion avalanche on my co...

America’s cultural rollback isn’t about values—it’s about erasure. And it’s happening right under our noses.

It was a Tuesday afternoon — September 9, 2025 — and Fox News did something unusual. They cut off a segment mid-air to broadcast Donald Trump speaking live at the Museum of the Bible. The words that followed weren’t new, but they hit differently this time:

“The woke agenda is practically gone.”

The camera lingered. Not because it was historic. Because it was confirmation: The dismantling wasn’t theoretical anymore — it...

The last time I saw *Marcus before the silence stretched too long was at a bar in San Diego. I was babysitting my whiskey, neat. He was two beers deep, his laugh a little looser than usual. I remember that night because we both pretended we were fine. He joked about his job, about his ex, about how he couldn’t keep plants alive. I nodded, smiled. I said something about needing a vacation. Neither of us said what needed saying.

That was three years ago.

There was no big fallout. No betrayal. Just l...

When tiny moments crack open the truths we’ve been avoiding.

It was Chick-fil-A.
Three minutes.

That's all it was. Three damn minutes standing at the counter with no acknowledgment, no “be right with you,” not even a nod. Just me, half-dead without coffee, tired as hell, waiting. And I felt it — the heat rising in my chest, the sharp edge of anger pressing against my throat.

I was about to lose my shit over chicken nuggets.

The thing is, I’m not proud of this. Rationally, I know three minutes isn’t...