The Fist Went Up

a reflection on courage

July is coming to a close.

I spent a good part of it reflecting on the one-year anniversary of the Butler, Pennsylvania assassination attempt—and how profoundly different the world would look if it had succeeded.

Or even if it hadn’t, but the intended target had chosen to bow out.

If President Trump had died that day, history would have bent on a hinge.

But if he had dropped out, it still would have turned.

I think about that more than I should—less like a political analyst and more like a girl sitting alone with a Coke Zero, staring too long at a fixed point on the wall.

And what’s strangest of all: no one seems to talk about it.

Not in the media. Not in our national memory.

Not with the reverence—or even horror—we’d see if it had been someone else.

If it had been Obama, or Reagan, or even a governor with the right academic credentials, there would be monuments. Documentaries. Candlelight vigils. National reflection.

But this? This just… disappeared.

And that’s a shame. Because what happened in the minutes after the shot is one of the most exemplary displays of courage we have ever witnessed.

I think about courage a lot.

Of all the virtues I lack, my lack of courage is the easiest to rationalize.

Yes, I say things here on Substack that many people wouldn’t. But almost never do I say everything I want to say.

It’s easy to excuse. I’m a deaf girl who lives alone. I’ve had stalkers. I’ve had messages—detailed, chilling—from men who developed parasocial attachments and decided that an enjoyable comment thread meant destiny.

Cowardice is awfully easy to rationalize when you literally wouldn’t hear a bad guy coming.

And writing, at least for me, is often little more than carefully crafted hesitation.

So it’s understandable cowardice…but it’s still cowardice.

I’ve criticized Donald Trump—on policy, on style, on substance. I’ve called out his narcissism, his chaotic messaging, his failure to grow into the emotional and psychological maturity the job demands.

He’s not the man I’d choose as a father, a mentor, or a spiritual guide.

But none of that matters when it comes to respecting the depths of his astonishing courage.

Because when it mattered most—when the stage became a kill zone, when blood streaked his face and the Secret Service swarmed in a blur of guns and shouted commands—he didn’t duck. He didn’t flee.

He didn’t collapse into the armored SUV and vanish into a night of press releases and spin.

He rose.

He raised his fist.

And in that moment—before he was even off the stage, before anyone knew if he’d been fatally hit, before his own brain had time to sort signal from shock—his body, his nervous system, his gut instincts, and the part of the self that takes over in crisis answered with a reflex that wasn’t about optics.

It was about instinct. Identity. Will.

And beneath all of that—what makes that kind of reflex even possible—is love.

Love of country. Love of the people he’s standing for.

That kind of courage doesn’t come from ego. It comes from devotion.

FIGHT.

Not a slogan. Not a performance.

A primal response from a man who’s been called every name in the book—and who, in that instant, became a message louder than any rally speech.

He fought.

That image—wounded, defiant, unbowed—doesn’t just speak.

It roars.

And what it says is something you don’t have to like the man to recognize:

This man is profoundly courageous.

And he didn’t have to be. He’s nearly 80 years old. He’s a billionaire. A former President. He could have stepped away gracefully. Issued a statement. Cited “medical complications.” Let the party reorganize without him.

He didn’t.

He stayed in the race. With a hole in his ear and death behind him.

And I still stand by most of my criticisms. He’s vain. He’s undisciplined. He’s impulsive and sometimes petty.

But he is not a coward.

He may be the bravest President we’ve ever had.

And if we want to be the kind of country that teaches our children to be brave, to hold the line, to face danger without flinching—then we’d better be the kind of country that knows courage when we see it.

Because this? This is what courage looks like.

The Drawing

I draw the things that won’t let go of me.

The image you see is now available as a limited-edition print. It’s black-and-white graphite, with selective coloring: just the blood and the flag.

Because those are the things that matter here.

Injury and defiance.

Sacrifice.

Will.

I drew it to help myself contemplate the moment—and what it means—more deeply.

It took many tries to get the composition right: the defiant pose, the raised fist, the flag draped behind at just the right angle to show its richness without overpowering the man.

I’m selling this print to try to pay down my student loans. The page with payment links, shipping info, etc., is here.

Do I feel a little weird about making money off what happened? Yes. But let’s be honest—if there’s any President who’d support a capitalistic effort to claw one’s way out of debt—instead of waiting for the taxpayers to bail one out—by selling iconic images of his finest hour, well, it’s this one.

So if this moment moved you—if you, too, saw the fist go up and felt your throat catch—this is for you.

Even if you’re not interested in a print, thank you for honoring that act of courage simply by remembering it here, with me, for a few minutes.

Courage doesn’t erase flaws.

But in a President—in the year 2025, in the world we actually live in—it outweighs them, by orders of magnitude.

FIGHT.