The unanimous Declaration of the thirteen united States of America, When in the Course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.--That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, --That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that Governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience hath shewn, that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed. But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same Object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such Government, and to provide new Guards for their future security.--Such has been the patient sufferance of these Colonies; and such is now the necessity which constrains them to alter their former Systems of Government. The history of the present King of Great Britain is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute Tyranny over these States. To prove this, let Facts be submitted to a candid world.

He has refused his Assent to Laws, the most wholesome and necessary for the public good.

He has forbidden his Governors to pass Laws of immediate and pressing importance, unless suspended in their operation till his Assent should be obtained; and when so suspended, he has utterly neglected to attend to them.

He has refused to pass other Laws for the accommodation of large districts of people, unless those people would relinquish the right of Representation in the Legislature, a right inestimable to them and formidable to tyrants only.

He has called together legislative bodies at places unusual, uncomfortable, and distant from the depository of their public Records, for the sole purpose of fatiguing them into compliance with his measures.

He has dissolved Representative Houses repeatedly, for opposing with manly firmness his invasions on the rights of the people.

He has refused for a long time, after such dissolutions, to cause others to be elected; whereby the Legislative powers, incapable of Annihilation, have returned to the People at large for their exercise; the State remaining in the mean time exposed to all the dangers of invasion from without, and convulsions within.

He has endeavoured to prevent the population of these States; for that purpose obstructing the Laws for Naturalization of Foreigners; refusing to pass others to encourage their migrations hither, and raising the conditions of new Appropriations of Lands.

He has obstructed the Administration of Justice, by refusing his Assent to Laws for establishing Judiciary powers.

He has made Judges dependent on his Will alone, for the tenure of their offices, and the amount and payment of their salaries.

He has erected a multitude of New Offices, and sent hither swarms of Officers to harrass our people, and eat out their substance.

He has kept among us, in times of peace, Standing Armies without the Consent of our legislatures.

He has affected to render the Military independent of and superior to the Civil power.

He has combined with others to subject us to a jurisdiction foreign to our constitution, and unacknowledged by our laws; giving his Assent to their Acts of pretended Legislation:

For Quartering large bodies of armed troops among us:

For protecting them, by a mock Trial, from punishment for any Murders which they should commit on the Inhabitants of these States:

For cutting off our Trade with all parts of the world:

For imposing Taxes on us without our Consent:

For depriving us in many cases, of the benefits of Trial by Jury:

For transporting us beyond Seas to be tried for pretended offences:

For abolishing the free System of English Laws in a neighbouring Province, establishing therein an Arbitrary government, and enlarging its Boundaries so as to render it at once an example and fit instrument for introducing the same absolute rule into these Colonies:

For taking away our Charters, abolishing our most valuable Laws, and altering fundamentally the Forms of our Governments:

For suspending our own Legislatures, and declaring themselves invested with power to legislate for us in all cases whatsoever.

He has abdicated Government here, by declaring us out of his Protection and waging War against us.

He has plundered our seas, ravaged our Coasts, burnt our towns, and destroyed the lives of our people.

He is at this time transporting large Armies of foreign Mercenaries to compleat the works of death, desolation and tyranny, already begun with circumstances of Cruelty & perfidy scarcely paralleled in the most barbarous ages, and totally unworthy the Head of a civilized nation.

He has constrained our fellow Citizens taken Captive on the high Seas to bear Arms against their Country, to become the executioners of their friends and Brethren, or to fall themselves by their Hands.

He has excited domestic insurrections amongst us, and has endeavoured to bring on the inhabitants of our frontiers, the merciless Indian Savages, whose known rule of warfare, is an undistinguished destruction of all ages, sexes and conditions.

In every stage of these Oppressions We have Petitioned for Redress in the most humble terms: Our repeated Petitions have been answered only by repeated injury. A Prince, whose character is thus marked by every act which may define a Tyrant, is unfit to be the ruler of a free people.

Nor have We been wanting in attentions to our Brittish brethren. We have warned them from time to time of attempts by their legislature to extend an unwarrantable jurisdiction over us. We have reminded them of the circumstances of our emigration and settlement here. We have appealed to their native justice and magnanimity, and we have conjured them by the ties of our common kindred to disavow these usurpations, which, would inevitably interrupt our connections and correspondence. They too have been deaf to the voice of justice and of consanguinity. We must, therefore, acquiesce in the necessity, which denounces our Separation, and hold them, as we hold the rest of mankind, Enemies in War, in Peace Friends.

We, therefore, the Representatives of the united States of America, in General Congress, Assembled, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the Name, and by Authority of the good People of these Colonies, solemnly publish and declare, That these United Colonies are, and of Right ought to be Free and Independent States; that they are Absolved from all Allegiance to the British Crown, and that all political connection between them and the State of Great Britain, is and ought to be totally dissolved; and that as Free and Independent States, they have full Power to levy War, conclude Peace, contract Alliances, establish Commerce, and to do all other Acts and Things which Independent States may of right do. And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor.

Georgia

Button Gwinnett

Lyman Hall

George Walton

North Carolina

William Hooper

Joseph Hewes

John Penn

South Carolina

Edward Rutledge

Thomas Heyward, Jr.

Thomas Lynch, Jr.

Arthur Middleton

Massachusetts

John Hancock

Maryland

Samuel Chase

William Paca

Thomas Stone

Charles Carroll of Carrollton

Virginia

George Wythe

Richard Henry Lee

Thomas Jefferson

Benjamin Harrison

Thomas Nelson, Jr.

Francis Lightfoot Lee

Carter Braxton

Pennsylvania

Robert Morris

Benjamin Rush

Benjamin Franklin

John Morton

George Clymer

James Smith

George Taylor

James Wilson

George Ross

Delaware

Caesar Rodney

George Read

Thomas McKean

New York

William Floyd

Philip Livingston

Francis Lewis

Lewis Morris

New Jersey

Richard Stockton

John Witherspoon

Francis Hopkinson

John Hart

Abraham Clark

New Hampshire

Josiah Bartlett

William Whipple

Massachusetts

Samuel Adams

John Adams

Robert Treat Paine

Elbridge Gerry

Rhode Island

Stephen Hopkins

William Ellery

Connecticut

Roger Sherman

Samuel Huntington

William Williams

Oliver Wolcott

New Hampshire

Matthew Thornton

Note: This text is taken from the National Archives and represents a transcription of the Stone Engraving of the parchment Declaration of Independence (the document on display in the Rotunda at the National Archives Museum). The spelling and punctuation reflect the original.

As we celebrate the 250th anniversary of American independence, we have the opportunity to reflect on the extraordinary nation that began with a simple but revolutionary idea: that our rights come not from government, but from our Creator.

For 250 years, America has been a beacon of freedom, innovation, entrepreneurship, and opportunity. Our history has not been perfect, but it has been remarkable. Time and again, Americans have met adversity with courage, strengthened our institutions, expanded liberty, and renewed our commitment to self-government.

American exceptionalism is not rooted in the belief that we are better than others. It is rooted in the conviction that the principles upon which our nation was founded—individual liberty, equal justice under law, limited government, and personal responsibility—remain worthy of our gratitude, our defense, and our continued pursuit.

As South Carolinians, we hold a unique place in that story. Ours was one of the original thirteen colonies, and our state has played a defining role in every chapter of our nation’s history. The responsibility to preserve the blessings of liberty now rests with our generation, just as it did with those who came before us.

As your State Senator, thank you for the trust you place in me to represent our district and to work every day to preserve the freedoms and institutions that make South Carolina and America exceptional.

To every resident of District 38, whether we agree on every issue or not, thank you for your commitment to our community, our state, and our country. It is an honor to serve you.

May God continue to bless you, the great State of South Carolina, and the United States of America.

Happy Independence Day,

In less than two weeks, America will celebrate her 250th birthday.

Here in South Carolina, that anniversary carries special meaning.

Long before there was a United States, there was a people willing to risk everything in pursuit of liberty. South Carolinians fought some of the bloodiest battles of the Revolution. They endured occupation, imprisonment, confiscation of property, and the uncertainty that comes whenever ordinary people challenge a powerful government. The generation that secured American independence did not know how the story would end. They only knew that some principles were worth sacrifice.

That reality is worth remembering because we live in an age that increasingly seeks comfort over sacrifice, convenience over responsibility, and ease over duty.

The men and women who built this country would find that strange.

Not because they were somehow better than we are. They were imperfect people confronting many of the same human weaknesses we face today. But they understood something we too often forget.

Liberty is not free.

More importantly, liberty is not easy.

That truth is woven throughout the American story.

When fifty-six men signed the Declaration of Independence, they pledged their lives, their fortunes, and their sacred honor. George Washington held together an army that often lacked food, shoes, and pay. Benjamin Franklin crossed an ocean in his seventies to secure support for a cause many considered hopeless.

None of them expected freedom to be comfortable.

In fact, they assumed the opposite.

The Constitution they later produced was not designed for a people seeking maximum comfort and minimum responsibility. It was designed for citizens capable of governing themselves. Washington, Adams, and Franklin all understood that self-government begins with self-discipline. Liberty was never intended to eliminate responsibility. It was intended to place responsibility where it belongs: in the hands of free people.

That understanding remained a defining feature of the American character for generations.

Alexis de Tocqueville observed it in the 1830s when he traveled the young republic. What impressed him most was not the government but the people. Americans built churches, charities, civic organizations, businesses, schools, and communities. They did not wait for distant authorities to solve every problem. They assumed ownership of the places they called home.

Yet Tocqueville also offered a warning.

He feared that free people might gradually trade responsibility for comfort. That they would become increasingly focused on private convenience and increasingly disconnected from the obligations of citizenship. Liberty, he warned, could be lost not only through force but through complacency.

His warning feels remarkably contemporary.

Today, we are surrounded by tools and technologies designed to keep us focused on the present moment. Every notification demands attention. Every controversy demands reaction. Every algorithm encourages us to consume rather than create.

But America has never been a people defined by the present.

We are, at our best, an aspirational people.

The generation of 1776 did not fight for the world they inhabited. They fought for a world they hoped future generations would inherit. The pioneers who settled frontiers, the soldiers who preserved the Union, the Americans who endured depression and defeated fascism all accepted hardship because they believed tomorrow could be better than today.

That is one of the great strengths of the American character.

We look forward.

But we also look backward.

Not to live in the past. Not to pretend previous generations were flawless. But to draw inspiration from people who confronted difficult circumstances and overcame them. We study Washington’s perseverance, Lincoln’s resolve, Roosevelt’s vigor, and Franklin’s discipline because they remind us what free citizens are capable of becoming.

A people without memory loses its identity.

A people without aspiration loses its purpose.

America has always drawn strength from the space between the two.

We honor what we have inherited while striving to leave something better behind.

That is why the concerns raised by Ben Sasse in The Vanishing American Adult deserve serious consideration. Sasse argues that America faces a coming-of-age crisis in which too many young people are protected from challenge, insulated from responsibility, and deprived of opportunities to develop resilience. The result is not merely a personal problem. It is a civic problem. A republic depends upon citizens capable of initiative, self-government, and responsibility.

Theodore Roosevelt would have understood the concern immediately.

His call for “The Strenuous Life” was not merely advice for individuals. It was a prescription for citizenship. Roosevelt believed that strong citizens create strong communities and that strong communities sustain free institutions. Character is forged through difficulty, not comfort.

That lesson seems particularly relevant today.

Many of the greatest threats facing our republic are not foreign armies or hostile powers. They are passivity. Dependency. Cynicism. The temptation to become spectators rather than participants in the American experiment.

Russell Kirk warned that institutions cannot survive without virtue. The Founders would have agreed. Constitutions matter. Laws matter. Elections matter. But none of them can substitute for the character of the people themselves.

As we approach America’s 250th birthday, we should celebrate.

We should celebrate the courage of those who came before us. We should celebrate the blessings of liberty they secured. We should celebrate the remarkable fact that a nation founded on an idea has endured for two and a half centuries.

But anniversaries are not merely occasions for gratitude.

They are invitations to stewardship.

The Founders were not preserving a nation. They were building one. They looked beyond the fleeting concerns of the moment and toward generations they would never meet. They planted trees under whose shade they knew they would never sit.

The question before us is whether we are willing to do the same.

If America is to celebrate a 300th birthday, it will not be because our generation enjoyed unprecedented comfort. It will be because we chose responsibility over passivity, service over self-interest, and stewardship over consumption.

It will be because we remembered that liberty is not an inheritance to be consumed.

It is a trust to be preserved.

And there has never been any ease in that responsibility.

There is, and has never been, No Ease in Liberty.

There is a temptation, especially among those who care deeply about ideas, to believe that the American experiment was won in argument.

That liberty triumphed because the case was made persuasively.

That truth, once spoken clearly enough, naturally prevails.

But the United States Declaration of Independence tells a different story—if we are willing to read to its final line.

The most important sentence is not the famous second paragraph. It is the last.

“…we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes, and our sacred Honor.”

That is not philosophy. That is a decision.

And it is a decision most modern Americans admire—but are rarely forced to make in its full weight.

Historian Gordon S. Wood reminds us that the American Revolution was not merely a triumph of Enlightenment thought. It was a lived rebellion—one that required ordinary men to accept extraordinary personal risk. The ideals mattered, but only because men were willing to act on them.

That distinction is where modern civic life often falters.

We have not lost the language of liberty. If anything, we have refined it. We debate it, publish it, and perform it. We quote the founders with precision. We refine arguments into sharper and more elegant forms.

But as Clarence Thomas observed, none of it matters without the final sentence. Without that pledge, the Declaration is “mere words on parchment paper.”

We have preserved the words. We have neglected the decision.

There is a reason for that neglect.

The final sentence strips away complexity. It leaves no room for abstraction or intellectual distance. It asks a question so simple it is uncomfortable:

What are you willing to give up for what you claim to believe?

Not what you are willing to say. Not what you are willing to post. What you are willing to lose.

This is where the American founding becomes less about philosophy and more about discipline. Less about being right—and more about doing right. And doing right is rarely the easier path.

This is not a new concern.

Gertrude Himmelfarb warned that liberty depends not merely on systems or structures, but on moral character—on citizens capable of restraint, duty, and sacrifice. A free society cannot survive on rights alone. It requires virtues that rights cannot enforce.

Similarly, Yuval Levin has argued that institutions endure only when individuals are willing to give more than they take. They require submission to something larger than oneself.

That is the quiet echo of the founders’ pledge.

Not self-expression, but self-command. Not entitlement, but obligation. Not ease, but effort.

Arthur Brooks frames the problem plainly: a society that loses its commitment to service will eventually lose its freedom.

Because freedom, properly understood, is not the absence of difficulty. It is the willingness to choose difficulty when it is right.

The founders understood this instinctively. They did not pledge vague support or symbolic allegiance. They pledged their lives—risking execution. Their fortunes—risking ruin. Their sacred honor—risking permanent disgrace.

They did not choose what was safe. They chose what was right.

And in doing so, they revealed a truth that applies far beyond revolution: the survival of liberty depends on a citizenry willing to reject the easy path when it conflicts with the right one.

Justice Thomas describes a familiar pattern in public life: individuals who speak eloquently about principle until principle demands something of them. In public life, I’ve learned that most decisions aren’t between right and wrong—they’re between right and easier.

Pragmatism.
Moderation.
Institutional caution.

Language that sounds responsible—but often serves as a substitute for courage. As he notes, many “know what is right,” but too few are willing to endure the consequences of doing it.

This is not primarily a failure of intellect. It is a failure of will. A quiet preference for what is easier over what is right.

We often speak of threats to liberty in structural terms—overreach, centralization, bureaucratic expansion. Those threats are real. But they are not the beginning of the problem. The beginning is personal. It is the moment when an individual recognizes what is right—and calculates the cos—and then chooses something less. No constitutional framework can compensate for that decision.

Because liberty is not sustained by systems alone. It is sustained by people who repeatedly, often quietly, choose principle over comfort.

It is tempting to view the founders’ courage as something extraordinary and distant. But that instinct lets us off too easily. The real test of liberty is rarely dramatic. It is rarely visible. It does not usually come with applause. It comes in smaller moments:

Speaking when silence would be safer…

Standing when agreement would be rewarded…

Refusing when compliance would be easier…

Not grand gestures—but accumulated decisions. Each one a choice between what is right and what is easy.

We are not asked, at least for now, to pledge our lives in the literal sense. But we are asked something just as revealing: What are our principles worth? Convenience? Reputation? Security? Or something more?

Justice Thomas once asked himself that question directly—and answered that those principles were worth life itself.

Most of us will never face that exact test. But we face its smaller versions every day.

The genius of the American founding is not that it produced perfect men or perfect outcomes. It is that it revealed something enduring about liberty. It demands something from us.

The final sentence of the Declaration is not a relic. It is a standard.

It does not ask whether we understand liberty. It asks whether we will live it—especially when doing so is costly. Especially when it is inconvenient. Especially when it is not easy. Because in the end, the choice is not between belief and disbelief.

It is between doing what is right—

and doing what is easy.

Again, we are reminded that there is No Ease in Liberty.

Since publishing my original statement on redistricting, I’ve received hundreds of emails, calls, and messages. Many came from constituents here in South Carolina. Quite a few came from outside our state entirely. Many were supportive. Many were deeply frustrated. A few were outright furious.

I understand why.

Washington has become exhausting. Congress lurches from crisis to crisis. Executive power continues to expand regardless of which party controls the White House. National media—both legacy outlets and the newer click-driven outrage industry online—profits from keeping Americans angry at one another. Many people no longer feel represented, heard, or respected by the institutions that govern them.

I share many of those frustrations.

But frustration alone cannot become our governing philosophy.

A number of people have written me essentially arguing that because the political left has aggressively used power when available, conservatives should do the same without restraint. Fight as hard. Fight as dirty. Ignore process. Ignore precedent. Ignore constitutional guardrails. Win at all costs.

I reject that view.

Not because I lack conviction, but because I have conviction.

Over the years, my constituents have consistently asked me to approach difficult issues thoughtfully, consider all angles, and ultimately do what I believe is right for South Carolina—even when the decision may not immediately appear politically advantageous or emotionally satisfying in the moment. I take that responsibility seriously. Whether people agree with every vote or not, I hope they know that I approach each issue with the well-being of my constituents and the future of South Carolina at the very top of mind.

The American system was intentionally designed to frustrate concentrations of power. The Founders distrusted centralized authority—not just when controlled by their opponents, but when controlled by their allies. Federalism, separation of powers, and checks and balances were not flaws in the system. They were the system.

South Carolina especially has long possessed an independent streak rooted in the belief that decisions closest to the people are generally the best decisions. Strong states make a strong nation. Weak states dependent upon Washington create exactly the type of nationalized political warfare we are now living through.

That is why I opposed reopening a redistricting process South Carolina already completed following the census.

From an operational standpoint, quite simply, the request from the governor arrived too late in the election calendar. Due to Senate debate rules and the procedural realities surrounding a matter of this magnitude, there was insufficient time to fully complete the process before early voting had already begun. There is no meaningful precedent in the country for stopping or substantially altering an election after voting has already started. And frankly, there should not be.

The stability and legitimacy of elections require clear rules and predictable processes. Regardless of party, once ballots begin being cast, the public should have confidence the election itself will proceed uninterrupted.

Additionally, as legislators and local officials took a closer look at some of the proposed maps circulated from Washington, additional concerns emerged regarding the practical integrity of the maps themselves. In several cases, precincts were unnecessarily split. In other cases, some precinct references no longer even existed due to local election updates and changes.

That may sound technical, but election maps are not theoretical exercises. They have real-world consequences for county election officials, poll workers, and ultimately voters themselves. Accuracy matters. Stability matters. Administrative functionality matters.

Our maps were challenged in court. They were scrutinized extensively. And ultimately, in Alexander v. South Carolina NAACP, the United States Supreme Court upheld the constitutionality of South Carolina’s congressional map. Importantly, the Court’s later decision in Louisiana v. Callais did not invalidate South Carolina’s map. In fact, Callais cited Alexander approvingly as an example of how states may pursue political objectives in redistricting without crossing constitutional lines on race.

That matters.

Because if every election cycle becomes an endless effort to redraw maps whenever political winds shift nationally, then representation itself becomes permanently unstable. Eventually, every state legislature becomes little more than an extension of national partisan warfare.

And candidly, I believe some of the anger surrounding this issue reflects a larger and legitimate concern: many Americans increasingly feel disconnected from the federal government itself.

I believe there may be better ways to address that problem.

One serious reform worth discussing is expanding the size of the United States House of Representatives. Today, individual members represent far larger populations than the Founders ever envisioned. George Washington himself argued during the Constitutional Convention that congressional districts should remain small enough to maintain a meaningful connection between representatives and the people.

At the founding, representation was intended to be personal and localized—not mass-scale representation where one member speaks for nearly 800,000 people.

A larger House would not solve every problem. But it could help restore responsiveness and reduce the sense many Americans have that Washington is distant, insulated, and disconnected from everyday life.

Second, our political culture desperately needs leaders in both parties willing to restrain their own extremes.

I work daily with Democrats here in South Carolina with whom I strongly disagree philosophically, yet who still understand the importance of institutional stability, civil discourse, and coexistence within a constitutional system.

Frankly, many conservatives fear the direction of the modern national Democratic Party. But I would also argue that social media outrage merchants, online grifters masquerading as “truth tellers,” and algorithm-driven political entertainment are inflaming division for profit while contributing little of substance themselves. In the process, they increasingly elevate the loudest and most extreme voices to celebrity status, rewarding performance over governing and helping send people into public office with little genuine desire to legislate, solve problems, or build consensus—only to provoke, posture, and perform.

Legacy media bears responsibility as well, having long abandoned any serious pretense of neutrality in favor of activism, narrative-building, and conflict-driven coverage that often amplifies the same dynamic.

The result is a country increasingly driven by anger rather than judgment.

And anger, while understandable, is rarely a reliable architect for durable public policy.

Some have called me a RINO over this vote.

That term has become so overused that it often serves less as political analysis and more as a substitute for one. I would simply encourage anyone evaluating my record to evaluate the whole record.

Over my time in the Senate, I have consistently supported lower taxes, regulatory reform, protection of constitutional rights, public safety, school choice expansion, protection of life, and reducing the size and scope of government in South Carolina.

I have also consistently pushed back against massive corporations—particularly powerful technology and social media companies—that seek to exploit our communities, use our resources for their benefit, and design products that profit from harming the mental and emotional well-being of our children.

My position on redistricting was not a rejection of conservative principles.

It was an application of them.

I recognize that some will disagree with me and may choose to base their future political support on this issue alone. That is their right, and I respect it.

But I will continue trying to govern based not merely on what is politically advantageous in a particular moment, but on what preserves the integrity of the constitutional system over the long term.

I also recognize that for some who are passionately inflamed by the current state of national politics, my position here will never be satisfying. No procedural argument, constitutional citation, or institutional defense will fully answer the anger many feel toward Washington and the direction of the country.

I understand that.

But I genuinely believe this position is not a surrender of your rights or liberties. I believe it is a defense of them.

Because the same constitutional limits, separation of powers, and federalist principles that restrain political opponents today are the very protections that preserve your liberty tomorrow.

Once we abandon principles whenever they become inconvenient, we should not be surprised when we eventually discover the principles themselves are gone.

Throughout the 2026 legislative session, in celebration of the upcoming 250th anniversary of America’s founding, members of the South Carolina Senate shared daily stories on the Senate floor, drawing from the events of the Revolutionary War and the years surrounding it. Some highlighted pivotal battles and famous figures, while others brought attention to lesser-known moments from communities across our state.

It is widely recognized that the Revolutionary War was ultimately won in South Carolina. These stories served as reminders of the extraordinary role our state played in securing American liberty. This is one such story.

On the final day of the Legislative Session I thought it appropriate to discuss the last day for the British in South Carolina. On December 14, 1782 the British evacuated Charleston.

For South Carolina, this was not merely the end of an occupation. It was vindication.

It was the moment when the last major British foothold in the South finally slipped away and the long struggle for independence, sacrifice, and self-government came into full view along the Cooper and Ashley Rivers.

Today, when Americans think of the Revolutionary War, their minds often drift northward—to Lexington, Concord, Saratoga, or Yorktown. Yet historians now widely acknowledge a truth South Carolinians have long known:

The American Revolution may have begun in Massachusetts… but it was won in South Carolina.

And nowhere was that struggle more bitter, more personal, or more consequential than here.

By the time the British evacuated Charleston in 1782, this state had endured nearly every hardship imaginable. Charleston had fallen in 1780 in what remains the single largest surrender of American troops until the Civil War. Thousands were captured. Families were divided. Plantations burned. Neighbors became enemies. South Carolina quite literally descended into a civil war within the Revolution itself.

And yet—even after Charleston fell—the spirit of resistance did not.

Francis Marion, Thomas Sumter, Andrew Pickens, Henry “Light Horse Harry” Lee, and countless unnamed militiamen waged a relentless war of attrition against British and Loyalist forces across swamps, rivers, and backcountry roads.

The British expected South Carolina to return gratefully to the Crown.

Instead, they found a people who became harder to subdue the longer they occupied them.

In fact, one British officer reportedly lamented that controlling South Carolina was like “holding a wolf by the ears.”

Why? Because South Carolinians had developed something deeper than opposition to a particular tax or policy. They had developed a culture of resistance to distant power imposing its will upon local communities.

The southern campaign hardened that instinct.

Men here watched royal officials dictate terms from afar. They watched outside authorities attempt to reorder local government, commerce, property, and even personal allegiances. They saw what happened when decisions affecting their homes and families were made by people insulated from the consequences of those decisions.

And after years of occupation, confiscation, military rule, and coercion, South Carolinians emerged with a deeply rooted suspicion of concentrated power—whether exercised by a king an ocean away or, later, by any far-removed central authority convinced it knew better than the people closest to the matter at hand.

That spirit became part of the political DNA of the South.

Not hostility to union.
Not rejection of national purpose.

But a persistent belief that free people govern best when government remains closest and most accountable to them.

Even after the victory at Yorktown in October of 1781, the British still occupied Charleston for more than a year. Why? Because Charleston mattered. It was one of the wealthiest and most strategically important ports in North America. The British did not want to surrender it lightly.

So when evacuation finally came in December of 1782, it was a moment of extraordinary symbolism.

Charlestonians awoke that December morning not to the thunder of battle, but to the sight of British sails preparing to disappear beyond the harbor—an image many surely believed they might never live to see.

British troops boarded ships and departed Charleston Harbor while General Nathanael Greene and patriot forces prepared to re-enter the city. Imagine that scene: the same harbor through which British power had flowed now witnessing its retreat.

One fascinating detail often forgotten is that the evacuation was not only military—it was human. Thousands of Loyalists fled with the British, many never to return. Equally significant, thousands of formerly enslaved people also departed with British forces because the Crown had promised freedom to those who opposed the Patriots and aided the British cause.

That reality reminds us that the Revolution was not simple. It was noble in its ideals, yes—but deeply complicated in its human consequences.

Another intriguing fact: for many years afterward, Charlestonians celebrated December 14th as “Victory Day.” Parades, speeches, militia displays, church bells, and public commemorations marked the occasion. In many ways, it was Charleston’s own Independence Day.

And perhaps it should be again.

Because the evacuation of Charleston represented more than military success. It represented endurance.

South Carolina suffered immensely during the Revolution. Some estimates suggest more battles and skirmishes occurred in this state than anywhere else in the colonies. Homes were destroyed. Commerce collapsed. Entire communities were scarred for generations.

Yet from those hardships emerged something enduring: a fierce commitment to self-government, local liberty, and independence from distant authority.

There is a reason the spirit of liberty took such deep root here.

South Carolinians had paid dearly for it.

And that sacrifice mattered not only for our state, but for the nation itself.

Had the British succeeded in pacifying the South—had they fully subdued South Carolina and secured the Carolinas and Georgia—the Revolution may well have failed. The southern campaign drained British resources, shattered British assumptions, and ultimately helped set the stage for Yorktown and final victory.

In many respects, Charleston’s evacuation was the final acknowledgment that the American experiment would survive.

But it also left behind a permanent warning woven into the character of the South: concentrated power, no matter how confident in its righteousness, should never become too comfortable assuming obedience from free people hundreds of miles away.

As we remember this extraordinary moment, we should do so not merely with nostalgia, but with gratitude.

Gratitude for those who endured occupation.

For those who fought in swamps and fields few Americans today could name.

For those who sacrificed fortunes, comfort, safety, and in many cases their lives.

And perhaps most importantly, gratitude that they believed liberty was worth the cost.

Because history teaches us something important about freedom:

It is rarely preserved by those seeking ease.

It is preserved by those willing to endure hardship in defense of principle.

South Carolina’s role in the Revolution stands as enduring proof of that truth.

May we always remain worthy stewards of the liberty they secured.

There are moments in public service when the easy vote and the right vote are not the same thing.

This week, I joined four fellow Republicans in opposing the rushed midcycle redistricting proposal being pressed upon South Carolina. I understand many good and decent Republicans disagree with that decision. I respect their motives. Most are driven by a desire to strengthen conservative representation in Washington and to stop the continued advance of progressive policies that many of us believe are harmful to the country.

I share those concerns.

But conservatism worthy of the name cannot simply become a philosophy of power acquisition. If we abandon our principles the moment they become inconvenient, then they were never principles at all.

For generations, Republicans — particularly Southern conservatives — have defended federalism, the separation of powers, and the rights of states to govern themselves free from coercion by Washington. We have rightly argued that states are not administrative districts of the federal government, but sovereign partners in our constitutional system. We have quoted Madison and Federalist 51 when warning against the concentration of power. We have insisted that process matters, not just outcomes.

Those beliefs cannot suddenly disappear because the pressure is now coming from people wearing our own jersey.

I have also been consistent throughout my adult life in defending the principles of federalism and the rights of states to govern themselves. I believed it when Democrat administrations in Washington attempted to coerce states through mandates, executive overreach, or threats tied to federal funding, and I believe it now. My position does not change based on which party controls the White House or who may politically benefit in the short term. The Constitution established a system of divided authority precisely because the Founders understood that concentrated power — even when exercised by people we support — eventually becomes dangerous. If we only defend states’ rights when the opposing party is in power, then we are not defending principle at all. We are defending a preference.

South Carolina already completed redistricting following the census, as the Constitution contemplates. States that have recently been redistricted are catching up to South Carolina not leading the way. Our maps are already drawn without racial consideration and have been scrutinized and upheld by both the South Carolina Supreme Court and the United States Supreme Court. We did our work, we defended it in court, and we prevailed.

Importantly, the United States Supreme Court’s recent decision in Louisiana v. Callais did not require South Carolina to redraw its districts. In fact, the Court cited Alexander v. South Carolina NAACP approvingly, holding South Carolina’s post-2020 congressional map as an example of how states may pursue political redistricting objectives without crossing constitutional lines regarding race.

What we were asked to do now was something entirely different: redraw congressional districts in a matter of days, with virtually no meaningful citizen input, mere days before voting begins, using maps developed outside the normal South Carolina process and heavily influenced from Washington.

That is not conservative governance.

The normal redistricting process takes months, often years, and includes extensive public testimony and local involvement because communities matter. Counties matter. Precincts matter. Shared economic and cultural interests matter. Under the proposed maps, Charleston and Myrtle Beach — communities with vastly different priorities and infrastructure demands — would be forced into the same district. Clemson and Columbia would be paired despite having little in common. Rock Hill would be unnecessarily divided. Most important to me, Dorchester County would lose equal representation to distant coastal interests.

These are not small concerns. They affect how communities are represented for years to come.

And beyond the substance is the timing.

Military ballots have already been distributed and are being returned. As have those for tens of thousands of seniors who enjoy our secure absentee voting procedures. Early voting is rapidly approaching. Other states that undertook redistricting efforts did so with far longer lead times — many months before elections, not mere days. Conservatives used to be the people who argued that election integrity and voter confidence matter. We should still believe that.

It also should not go unnoticed that if a Democratic administration in Washington were attempting to pressure South Carolina into adopting policies contrary to our state’s judgment and interests, Republicans across this state would be rightly apoplectic. We would call it federal overreach. We would denounce the heavy hand of Washington interfering in the sovereign affairs of the states. And we would be correct to do so. Our principles cannot change simply because the pressure now comes from people we more often agree with politically. Federalism is either a real conviction, or it is merely a convenient talking point. Conservatives should be the first to say that South Carolina’s decisions belong to South Carolinians — not political strategists in Washington, D.C.

I also reject the growing belief that every political disagreement must end in total elimination of the opposition. Politics in a republic is the competition of ideas. Competition makes us sharper. It makes us better advocates for conservative principles. Republicans should be sellers of ideas, not fearful custodians of maps.

Even the Constitutional Convention of 1787 — which produced the greatest governing document in human history — was filled with disagreement and ardent opposition. Debate is not weakness. Blind obedience is not strength.

Some have framed this vote as disloyalty to the party, or more importantly to the people. I would argue the opposite.

A party that truly believes in constitutional government must occasionally prove it is willing to restrain itself even when restraint comes at political cost. Otherwise, our commitment to federalism, limited government, and states’ rights becomes nothing more than rhetoric deployed only when convenient.

I remain a conservative. I remain a Republican. I remain committed to advancing policies that defend liberty, encourage opportunity, protect life, strengthen families, and preserve the constitutional order that made this nation exceptional.

And precisely because I believe those things, I could not support this effort.

There is no courage in defending principles only when it benefits you politically. The real test comes when defending them costs you something.

That is the vote I cast.

Update: Redistricting Effort in South Carolina Ends

Since publishing my original statement on redistricting, I’ve received hundreds of emails, calls, and messages. Many came from constituents here in South Carolina. Quite a few came from outside our state entirely. Many were supportive. Many were deeply frustrated. A few were outright furious.

I understand why.

Washington has become exhausting. Congress lurches from crisis to crisis. Executive power continues to expand regardless of which party controls the White House. National media—both legacy outlets and the newer click-driven outrage industry online—profits from keeping Americans angry at one another. Many people no longer feel represented, heard, or respected by the institutions that govern them.

I share many of those frustrations.

But frustration alone cannot become our governing philosophy.

A number of people have written me essentially arguing that because the political left has aggressively used power when available, conservatives should do the same without restraint. Fight as hard. Fight as dirty. Ignore process. Ignore precedent. Ignore constitutional guardrails. Win at all costs.

I reject that view.

Not because I lack conviction, but because I have conviction.

Over the years, my constituents have consistently asked me to approach difficult issues thoughtfully, consider all angles, and ultimately do what I believe is right for South Carolina—even when the decision may not immediately appear politically advantageous or emotionally satisfying in the moment. I take that responsibility seriously. Whether people agree with every vote or not, I hope they know that I approach each issue with the well-being of my constituents and the future of South Carolina at the very top of mind.

The American system was intentionally designed to frustrate concentrations of power. The Founders distrusted centralized authority—not just when controlled by their opponents, but when controlled by their allies. Federalism, separation of powers, and checks and balances were not flaws in the system. They were the system.

South Carolina especially has long possessed an independent streak rooted in the belief that decisions closest to the people are generally the best decisions. Strong states make a strong nation. Weak states dependent upon Washington create exactly the type of nationalized political warfare we are now living through.

That is why I opposed reopening a redistricting process South Carolina already completed following the census.

From an operational standpoint, quite simply, the request from the governor arrived too late in the election calendar. Due to Senate debate rules and the procedural realities surrounding a matter of this magnitude, there was insufficient time to fully complete the process before early voting had already begun. There is no meaningful precedent in the country for stopping or substantially altering an election after voting has already started. And frankly, there should not be.

The stability and legitimacy of elections require clear rules and predictable processes. Regardless of party, once ballots begin being cast, the public should have confidence the election itself will proceed uninterrupted.

Additionally, as legislators and local officials took a closer look at some of the proposed maps circulated from Washington, additional concerns emerged regarding the practical integrity of the maps themselves. In several cases, precincts were unnecessarily split. In other cases, some precinct references no longer even existed due to local election updates and changes.

That may sound technical, but election maps are not theoretical exercises. They have real-world consequences for county election officials, poll workers, and ultimately voters themselves. Accuracy matters. Stability matters. Administrative functionality matters.

Our maps were challenged in court. They were scrutinized extensively. And ultimately, in Alexander v. South Carolina NAACP, the United States Supreme Court upheld the constitutionality of South Carolina’s congressional map. Importantly, the Court’s later decision in Louisiana v. Callais did not invalidate South Carolina’s map. In fact, Callais cited Alexander approvingly as an example of how states may pursue political objectives in redistricting without crossing constitutional lines on race.

That matters.

Because if every election cycle becomes an endless effort to redraw maps whenever political winds shift nationally, then representation itself becomes permanently unstable. Eventually, every state legislature becomes little more than an extension of national partisan warfare.

And candidly, I believe some of the anger surrounding this issue reflects a larger and legitimate concern: many Americans increasingly feel disconnected from the federal government itself.

I believe there may be better ways to address that problem.

One serious reform worth discussing is expanding the size of the United States House of Representatives. Today, individual members represent far larger populations than the Founders ever envisioned. George Washington himself argued during the Constitutional Convention that congressional districts should remain small enough to maintain a meaningful connection between representatives and the people.

At the founding, representation was intended to be personal and localized—not mass-scale representation where one member speaks for nearly 800,000 people.

A larger House would not solve every problem. But it could help restore responsiveness and reduce the sense many Americans have that Washington is distant, insulated, and disconnected from everyday life.

Second, our political culture desperately needs leaders in both parties willing to restrain their own extremes.

I work daily with Democrats here in South Carolina with whom I strongly disagree philosophically, yet who still understand the importance of institutional stability, civil discourse, and coexistence within a constitutional system.

Frankly, many conservatives fear the direction of the modern national Democratic Party. But I would also argue that social media outrage merchants, online grifters masquerading as “truth tellers,” and algorithm-driven political entertainment are inflaming division for profit while contributing little of substance themselves. In the process, they increasingly elevate the loudest and most extreme voices to celebrity status, rewarding performance over governing and helping send people into public office with little genuine desire to legislate, solve problems, or build consensus—only to provoke, posture, and perform.

Legacy media bears responsibility as well, having long abandoned any serious pretense of neutrality in favor of activism, narrative-building, and conflict-driven coverage that often amplifies the same dynamic.

The result is a country increasingly driven by anger rather than judgment.

And anger, while understandable, is rarely a reliable architect for durable public policy.

Some have called me a RINO over this vote.

That term has become so overused that it often serves less as political analysis and more as a substitute for one. I would simply encourage anyone evaluating my record to evaluate the whole record.

Over my time in the Senate, I have consistently supported lower taxes, regulatory reform, protection of constitutional rights, public safety, school choice expansion, protection of life, and reducing the size and scope of government in South Carolina.

I have also consistently pushed back against massive corporations—particularly powerful technology and social media companies—that seek to exploit our communities, use our resources for their benefit, and design products that profit from harming the mental and emotional well-being of our children.

My position on redistricting was not a rejection of conservative principles.

It was an application of them.

I recognize that some will disagree with me and may choose to base their future political support on this issue alone. That is their right, and I respect it.

But I will continue trying to govern based not merely on what is politically advantageous in a particular moment, but on what preserves the integrity of the constitutional system over the long term.

I also recognize that for some who are passionately inflamed by the current state of national politics, my position here will never be satisfying. No procedural argument, constitutional citation, or institutional defense will fully answer the anger many feel toward Washington and the direction of the country.

I understand that.

But I genuinely believe this position is not a surrender of your rights or liberties. I believe it is a defense of them.

Because the same constitutional limits, separation of powers, and federalist principles that restrain political opponents today are the very protections that preserve your liberty tomorrow.

Once we abandon principles whenever they become inconvenient, we should not be surprised when we eventually discover the principles themselves are gone.

I have always loved baseball.

Not in the casual way one appreciates a pastime, but in the deeper, quieter way one comes to respect something that reveals more of itself over time. Baseball does not demand your attention—it earns it. It does not overwhelm—it unfolds. And if you stay with it long enough, it begins to teach.

As Leo Durocher once observed, “Baseball is like church. Many attend, few understand.”

I have come to believe that is exactly right.

Because baseball, like liberty, is easy to watch and far harder to truly grasp.

There is a reason the game resists the clock.

In an age that demands immediacy—instant results, instant judgments, instant victories—baseball remains stubbornly indifferent. It unfolds on its own terms. There is no buzzer to save you, no ticking countdown to excuse you. The game ends only when it is earned. And in that quiet defiance lies something more than sport. It offers a reflection of a deeper truth: freedom, like baseball, requires patience, structure, and discipline to endure.

Writers like Roger Angell have long captured the subtle beauty of the game—not in its highlights, but in its stillness. The long pauses between pitches. The anticipation that builds not through noise, but through silence. In The Summer Game, Angell does not describe baseball as spectacle, but as experience. It is a game that rewards attention, that invites reflection.

That is what first drew me in—and what has kept me there.

Because to understand baseball, you must engage it. You must watch closely. You must appreciate what is not obvious. And in doing so, you begin to see something familiar: participation is not passive. To understand the game, you must invest yourself in it. To preserve liberty, the same is true.

Baseball is often described as simple. Throw, hit, catch. But simplicity in description masks complexity in execution. As George F. Will observes in Men at Work, mastery in baseball is the product of relentless discipline. The pitcher’s control, the hitter’s timing, the fielder’s positioning—none are accidental. They are earned.

That, too, is part of what I admire most about the game.

The beauty of baseball is not that it is easy, but that it is exacting.

A hitter who succeeds three times out of ten is considered exceptional. Failure is not just common—it is expected. And yet the game does not lower its standards to accommodate that failure. The strike zone remains fixed. The distance between bases does not shrink. The rules do not bend to comfort the player.

Instead, the player rises—or does not.

Here, the parallel to liberty becomes unmistakable. A free society does not guarantee success. It guarantees opportunity within a framework of rules. Those rules, like the foul lines and base paths, are not constraints on freedom; they are the very conditions that make freedom meaningful. Without them, there is no game—only chaos.

This is a truth often misunderstood. We are tempted to believe that freedom expands as constraints diminish. Baseball teaches the opposite. The integrity of the game depends on the consistency of its rules. Remove the boundaries, and you do not liberate the players—you render their actions meaningless.

In Take Time for Paradise, former commissioner of Major League Baseball - and professor of English Renaissance literature - A. Bartlett Giamatti reflects on this tension with clarity. Baseball, he argues, is a form of “ordered freedom.” It is a space where creativity flourishes not in the absence of rules, but because of them.

This is one of the reasons I return to the game again and again.

There is something reassuring—almost grounding—about a system where the boundaries are known, where excellence must operate within structure, and where achievement is measured not by exception to the rules, but by mastery within them.

The same is true of a constitutional republic. The rule of law is not an obstacle to liberty; it is its foundation. The Constitution does not restrict the American experiment—it defines it. It establishes the strike zone within which the game of self-governance is played.

And like baseball, that game requires discipline to sustain.

But discipline alone is not enough. Baseball also demands endurance.

There is no clock to hasten resolution. A rally cannot be rushed. A deficit cannot be erased by urgency alone. The game requires patience—not just from players, but from those who watch and care about it.

If you love baseball, you come to appreciate this.

The long summer. The slow accumulation of wins and losses. The understanding that even the best teams lose—often. There is a humility in that rhythm. A recognition that excellence is not defined by perfection, but by persistence.

In Why Baseball Matters, Susan Jacoby highlights how this rhythm reflects something distinctly American. Baseball teaches us how to live with imperfection. It normalizes failure without celebrating it. It encourages persistence without promising reward.

That is not just a lesson for sport. It is a requirement for liberty.

Self-governance is not a short game. It does not produce clean victories or final resolutions. It is iterative, often frustrating, and occasionally disheartening. It requires citizens who are willing to endure setbacks and remain engaged even when outcomes fall short.

There is, too, a moral dimension to baseball that deepens my appreciation for it.

The game is built on a quiet code of conduct. There is an expectation—sometimes broken, but widely understood—that the integrity of the game matters. That it is bigger than the individual player.

This ethic mirrors the demands of a free society. Liberty depends not only on laws, but on the character of those who live under them. No system of rules can compensate for a citizenry unwilling to act with restraint, honesty, and responsibility.

Baseball assumes these virtues.

So does freedom.

And yet, perhaps the most striking lesson baseball offers—one that has only become clearer to me over time—is this: there is no guarantee of ease.

The game is difficult by design. It resists perfection. It exposes weakness. It demands adjustment. There is no moment when a player can simply rely on what worked before. Each at-bat is new. Each inning, uncertain.

This is not a flaw in the game. It is why I love it.

Because it reflects something true.

A free society is not meant to be easy. It is meant to be worth it. It asks more of its citizens than passive agreement. It requires participation, vigilance, and a willingness to accept responsibility for outcomes that are shared, not assigned.

There is no clock to end the game for us. No external force to preserve what we are unwilling to sustain ourselves.

Like baseball, liberty continues only so long as those within it are willing to play by the rules, to endure the failures, and to strive—again and again—for something better.

Between the lines of a baseball field, I have found more than a game. I have found something instructive—something enduring.

A model of what it means to live freely within structure, to fail without surrender, and to persist without promise of ease.

Many attend. Few understand.

After all, there is No Ease in Liberty.

There is a temptation, especially in unsettled times, to look for a figure—someone strong, someone clear, someone decisive—who can set things right. It is an old instinct. When institutions feel slow, when debate feels endless, when outcomes feel uncertain, the appeal of personality grows. We begin to believe that what we lack is not structure, but leadership. Not process, but force of will.

It is precisely at that moment that a free people must be most careful.

Alexis de Tocqueville saw something in America that many Americans themselves often overlook. Traveling the young republic in the early 19th century, he did not attribute its success to a class of exceptional leaders. He did not marvel at singular personalities or heroic figures, though there were plenty to choose from. Instead, he found the source of American liberty in something quieter, more durable, and far less glamorous: its institutions, its habits, and its associations.

In Democracy in America, Tocqueville observed that Americans were constantly forming associations—civic, religious, economic, and local. They gathered not because they were told to, but because they believed it was their responsibility to do so. Townships governed themselves. Churches shaped moral formation. Civic groups addressed local needs. These were not merely features of American life; they were the very scaffolding of American freedom.

But Tocqueville’s observation carried an implicit warning: these institutions do not sustain themselves.

They require citizens who are willing to participate in them, to sacrifice for them, and at times, to be frustrated by them. They require a people who understand that self-government is not simply a right to be enjoyed, but a responsibility to be carried.

This insight echoes the wisdom of James Madison, who wrote in The Federalist Papers that government must be designed to account for the imperfections of human nature. If men were angels, no government would be necessary. But because they are not, liberty depends on a system where power checks power—where ambition counteracts ambition. The Constitution was not drafted with the expectation of virtuous rulers. It was drafted with the expectation that rulers would be as human as the rest of us.

That design, however, assumes something else: that citizens themselves will remain engaged enough to make the system function.

A Constitution cannot enforce itself. Institutions cannot animate themselves. Associations cannot gather themselves. They depend on the active participation of a free people. And when that participation wanes, the structure remains—but its strength begins to fade.

It is in that vacuum that personality rises.

The appeal of the strong leader is not merely a failure of leadership—it is often a failure of citizenship. When individuals withdraw from the work of self-government, when they grow weary of deliberation, when they begin to see civic participation as burdensome rather than essential, they create the very conditions that invite concentrated power.

Because if citizens will not govern themselves, someone else will.

Friedrich Hayek warned in The Road to Serfdom that the concentration of power—even in the hands of well-intentioned leaders—inevitably erodes freedom. Systems that rely on discretion rather than rules invite abuse, not because leaders are uniquely malicious, but because the structure itself makes abuse possible. Over time, power attracts those most willing to use it.

What begins as a desire for efficiency becomes a surrender of responsibility.

Modern observers have noted the same danger. The rise of personality-driven politics is not just a shift in leadership style—it is a shift in civic expectation. Citizens begin to look upward rather than outward. They expect solutions to come from individuals rather than institutions, from directives rather than deliberation.

And in doing so, they unknowingly trade participation for dependence.

This is where the true danger lies—not merely in the strength of the leader, but in the weakness of the citizen.

Share No Ease In Liberty

Because freedom requires something of us. It demands engagement, patience, and a willingness to live within systems that are imperfect by design. It requires us to attend meetings we would rather skip, to engage in debates we would rather avoid, to invest in communities that do not always reward our effort.

It requires us, in short, to govern.

Tocqueville understood that America’s genius was not that it produced better leaders, but that it produced better citizens—citizens formed by their participation in local institutions, shaped by the habits of association, and accustomed to the responsibilities of self-rule.

When those habits weaken, freedom does not collapse all at once. It erodes gradually. Associations thin out. Local institutions lose relevance. Civic participation declines. And in that slow unraveling, the desire for simplicity grows.

A strong leader promises to replace what has been lost. To cut through complexity. To act where others hesitate.

But what is gained in speed is lost in restraint.

And what is surrendered in that exchange is not merely process, but principle.

The American system was never meant to be easy. It was designed to require effort—to demand participation—to frustrate those who would prefer efficiency over deliberation. Its complexity is not a flaw; it is a safeguard. Its slowness is not a weakness; it is a protection.

But those protections only hold if citizens are willing to uphold them.

If we abandon the field of self-government, we should not be surprised when others step in to occupy it.

If we neglect our institutions, we should not be surprised when they weaken.

And if we elevate personality over principle, we should not be surprised when freedom becomes contingent on the character of those in power.

The answer is not to search for better personalities. It is to become better stewards.

To re-engage in the quiet work of self-government. To rebuild the habits of association. To strengthen the institutions that, in turn, strengthen us. To accept that liberty is not something we inherit fully formed, but something we must continually sustain.

Because in the end, the question is not whether strong leaders will emerge. They always will.

The question is whether a free people will remain strong enough to govern themselves without needing one.

The architecture of liberty is not built in moments of inspiration. It is constructed over time, through habits, norms, and institutions that shape both leaders and citizens alike.

It is quiet work. It is demanding work. And it is work that cannot be delegated without consequence.

After all, there is No Ease in Liberty.

There is a quiet assumption in modern political life that liberty, once secured, will sustain itself. That if we build the right institutions, pass the right laws, and defend the right rights, freedom will take care of the rest.

But that assumption is wrong.

We see it in subtle ways every day. In debates where freedom is reduced to preference. In conversations where responsibility is treated as optional. In a growing belief that the only thing required for a free society is the absence of restraint.

That is not how this works. And it never has been.

The American experiment did not begin with a belief in human perfection. It began with a clear-eyed understanding of human nature—capable of great good, yes, but also prone to excess, error, and self-interest. The Founders drew heavily from a tradition that understood this tension and designed a system to account for it. But even they knew the system had limits.

John Adams said it plainly: our Constitution was made “only for a moral and religious people.” Not as a matter of preference—but of necessity. Because liberty requires limits, and in a free society, many of those limits must come from within.

Charles Carroll of Carrollton, the only Catholic signer of the Declaration, offered a similar warning: “Without morals a republic cannot subsist any length of time…”—a reminder that liberty rests on foundations deeper than law.

That kind of internal discipline—what we might simply call conscience—is not automatic. It does not emerge on its own. It is formed over time, shaped by families, reinforced in communities, and strengthened through traditions that ask something of us.

And that is where modern thinking begins to drift.

We increasingly define freedom as the ability to choose anything, at any time, for any reason. But a life governed only by impulse is not free—it is reactive. It is shaped by appetite, not judgment. And a society built on that understanding will not remain stable for long.

Real freedom requires something harder. It requires the ability to choose well.

That is not just a philosophical statement—it is a political one.

A republic depends on citizens who can govern themselves. Laws can draw boundaries, but they cannot build character. Regulations can prohibit certain actions, but they cannot produce virtue. At some point, the success of self-government depends not on what is written in law, but on what is written in the lives of the people.

This is not a new insight.

Saint Augustine warned that when a society loses its sense of ordered purpose—when it no longer agrees on what is worth loving—it will begin to turn inward. Freedom becomes self-serving. Public life becomes fragmented. And what follows is not liberty, but decline.

Centuries later, Thomas Aquinas made a similar point from a different angle: that law itself only holds together when it reflects something deeper than power—when it aligns with a moral order that is not created by the state, but recognized by it. When that connection weakens, law becomes less about justice and more about force.

We are not immune to that drift.

We see it in the growing discomfort with limits of any kind—moral, cultural, even institutional. We elevate autonomy above all else, as if the highest good is simply the ability to choose, regardless of what is chosen. And in doing so, we separate liberty from its purpose.

The result is predictable.

A society that cannot agree on what is good will eventually struggle to agree on what is allowed. And when persuasion fails, the temptation is to replace it with coercion—to regulate what can no longer be reasoned.

That is the quiet trade being made in modern life: less formation, more regulation.

And it rarely ends the way people expect.

Faith—often quietly, and without much recognition—has long played a role in forming the kind of people a free society depends on. Not by directing public policy, but by shaping private character. Not by imposing authority, but by teaching restraint, responsibility, and the reality that we are not the center of everything.

That formation does not happen all at once. It is built slowly. In families that teach right from wrong. In communities that expect something of their members. In practices that require reflection, discipline, and humility.

Long before a person ever casts a vote, they are being shaped into the kind of citizen they will become. That is easy to overlook. Especially in a culture that prizes independence above all else.

We are told that freedom means autonomy—self-definition without reference to anything beyond the self. But history suggests otherwise. The most enduring free societies have not been those that rejected all authority, but those that recognized the right authority—and chose to live within it.

That is the tension at the center of liberty.

It requires independence, yes—freedom from coercion, from arbitrary power. But it also requires a kind of dependence—on truth, on virtue, on a moral framework that we do not invent, but discover.

Without that, freedom does not expand. It unravels.

There is an older understanding of liberty that is worth recovering. It sees freedom not as boundless, but as ordered. Not as the ability to do anything, but as the ability to do what is right. It recognizes that limits are not the enemy of freedom—they are what make it possible.

But that kind of liberty asks something of us.

It asks for discipline. For restraint. For the humility to admit that we are not entirely self-sufficient. And for the willingness to be formed—over time—into people capable of sustaining the freedom we claim to value.

The alternative is easier, at least at first. It promises freedom without responsibility. Rights without restraint. Choice without consequence.

But it does not last.

Over time, it gives way either to disorder or to control—often both. Because when people cannot govern themselves, something else eventually will.

There is no shortcut around that reality.

There is no system that can fully compensate for a lack of character. No policy that can replace a missing sense of responsibility. No law that can carry the full weight of a people unwilling to carry it themselves.

There is no ease in liberty.

But there is a path.

It runs through the quiet work of formation. Through habits that shape judgment. Through disciplines that build character. Through a recognition that freedom is not something we simply possess—it is something we must be prepared to sustain.

It asks more of us than we often want to give.

And that is precisely why it matters—because after all, there is No Ease in Liberty.

In moments of political frustration, a familiar sentiment surfaces:

“Government doesn’t listen to the people.”

It is an understandable concern. In an age where political coverage focuses almost entirely on conflict, the public is exposed to a constant stream of outrage, division, and partisan theater. From that vantage point, government can appear distant, unresponsive, and insulated from the citizens it is meant to serve.

But the reality of self-government looks very different from the spectacle.

Representative government is not designed to echo a single voice. It is designed to reconcile many. And that work depends entirely on strong institutions—and on the judgment of those entrusted to serve within them.

More than two centuries ago, Edmund Burke explained this relationship between citizens and their representatives in his famous Speech to the Electors of Bristol. He told his constituents:

“Your representative owes you, not his industry only, but his judgment; and he betrays, instead of serving you, if he sacrifices it to your opinion.”

That sentence captures something essential about the nature of representative government—something that is often lost in modern political debate.

Listening to citizens is not an occasional event in public service. It is the routine work of governing.

Constituents call, write, and stop by the office. Community leaders request meetings. Business owners explain how regulations affect their employees. Parents describe the challenges facing their schools. These conversations happen constantly and shape how legislators approach public policy.

But the most structured listening occurs inside legislative committees. Committees are where citizens, experts, advocates, and ordinary residents testify about proposed legislation. They explain how a bill would affect their community, their business, or their family. Legislators ask questions. Amendments are proposed. Language is revised. Ideas are refined.

This process is not glamorous, and it rarely makes headlines. But it is where much of the real work of governing takes place. It is also where citizens most directly influence the laws that govern them.

Of course, listening to citizens does not mean every citizen receives the outcome they prefer. Free people rarely agree about everything. In fact, disagreement is the natural condition of a free society.

One group may strongly support a regulation that another group believes will harm their livelihood. One citizen may call for government to act more aggressively while another argues government should step back.

When elected officials weigh these perspectives and make a decision, the result will inevitably satisfy some people and disappoint others.

One citizen may leave believing their concerns were ignored. Another may feel the process worked exactly as it should.

That does not mean government failed to listen. It means representative government must balance competing interests rather than simply ratify whichever voice is loudest.

Listening is essential. But governing requires judgment.

History offers a stark contrast to Burke’s vision of representation.

In the Gospel accounts, Pontius Pilate is presented with a decision he does not believe is just. By his own admission, he finds no fault warranting punishment. Yet faced with a growing and insistent crowd, Pilate yields.

He does not lack information. He does not fail to hear the voices before him. He capitulates to them.

In that moment, Pilate does what Burke warned against. He substitutes judgment with pressure. He exchanges responsibility for expediency.

The result is not justice. It is the failure of it.

The lesson is not theological alone—it is institutional. A system that rewards capitulation to the loudest voices, rather than the exercise of reasoned judgment, cannot sustain liberty for long.

This is precisely why strong institutions matter.

Liberty has never depended on perfect leaders or unanimous agreement among citizens. It depends on institutions capable of managing disagreement without allowing society to fracture.

Committees, legislatures, courts, and administrative processes exist because free people will not always agree. These institutions slow down decision-making, introduce deliberation, and require competing ideas to be tested before they become law.

Deliberation can feel frustrating. It is certainly slower than the instant certainty offered by political commentary or social media.

But it is far safer for a free society than a system driven purely by impulse or popular passion.

Strong institutions ensure that power moves through procedures rather than personalities—and that decisions are shaped by reasoned judgment rather than momentary pressure.

Today it has become fashionable to treat institutions themselves as the problem. Cynicism spreads easily, especially when the loudest voices in politics benefit from convincing people that the system is irreparably broken.

But a free society cannot function if its citizens lose confidence in the structures designed to represent them.

The answer to imperfect institutions is not to weaken them further. It is to strengthen them by participating in them—by speaking, testifying, writing, voting, and insisting that the process remain open and accountable.

In other words, the answer to skepticism about whether government listens is not withdrawal.

It is engagement.

Self-government is not effortless. It requires citizens willing to speak, institutions strong enough to listen, and representatives prepared to exercise judgment in the public interest.

Listening to citizens is part of the duty of representation.

But so is judgment.

A representative who simply repeats whatever opinion is most loudly expressed may appear responsive in the moment. But he would not be fulfilling the responsibility entrusted to him.

As Burke reminded his constituents long ago, the duty of a representative is not merely to hear the people—but to deliberate carefully and act according to the best judgment he can bring to the public good.

Strong institutions exist to make that deliberation possible. They gather competing voices, slow the rush to judgment, and allow reason to guide decision rather than impulse.

That work can be slow. It can be frustrating. It will rarely satisfy everyone.

But it is the price of self-government.

Liberty was never meant to be easy. It requires institutions strong enough to carry the weight of disagreement, representatives willing to exercise judgment in service of the people they represent, and citizens patient enough to let deliberation do its work.

There is, after all, No Ease in Liberty.

Federalism has always been an inconvenient doctrine. It frustrates urgency. It disperses authority. It insists on limits where politics prefers momentum, and patience where power longs to act. For that reason alone, federalism is rarely loved for what it is. More often, it is defended when useful—and quietly abandoned when it becomes an obstacle.

This pattern is not confined to one party, one moment, or one ideology. But it is especially visible today among those who speak most often of limited government. Federal overreach is treated as a grave constitutional threat when it arrives from an unfriendly administration, yet becomes far more tolerable—sometimes even welcome—when exercised in service of preferred outcomes.

The temptation is understandable. Centralized power is efficient. It promises uniformity, speed, and decisiveness. It flatters those who wield it by offering the illusion that complex social problems can be solved from a single desk in a distant capital. Modern governance increasingly operates through executive action and administrative agreement rather than legislation: requests made without warrants, compliance offered without resistance, authority exercised through “partnership” rather than law.

Consider how easily this accommodation now occurs. A federal agency seeks expansive access to sensitive state-held data, asserting a general interest in oversight and compliance. The request is broad, the justification vague, the precedent significant. Yet instead of insisting on formal process or constitutional limits, state leadership signals assent—emphasizing cooperation over caution, alignment over autonomy. What might once have triggered concern about federal intrusion into a core state responsibility is treated instead as routine.

At the same time, resistance to federal power is not always paired with respect for local authority. In other contexts, state governments themselves move to compel uniformity downward, stripping discretion from counties and locally elected officials. Decisions historically entrusted to sheriffs or local governments—officials accountable directly to their communities—are proposed to be replaced by statewide mandates that effectively require participation in federal enforcement programs. Local judgment is no longer tolerated; compliance becomes compulsory.

Here the contradiction becomes harder to ignore. Federal power is suspect when it presses from above, yet acceptable when invoked indirectly through state law. Local autonomy is praised in theory, but constrained in practice when it produces outcomes deemed insufficiently aligned. The language of federalism remains, but its substance is selectively applied.

None of this turns on the merits of election administration or immigration enforcement themselves. Reasonable people can disagree vigorously on both. The issue is not policy preference, but constitutional posture. Federalism was not designed as a rhetorical shield to be raised or lowered depending on who occupies the White House. It was meant as a durable structure—a safeguard against the concentration of power regardless of whose hands hold it.

The traditional American constitutional understanding of federalism rejects the notion that power is safe simply because it is wielded by the “right” people. The Founders did not divide authority simply because they distrusted one faction in particular; they divided it because they distrusted power itself. Federalism, like separation of powers, assumes that good intentions are temporary and incentives endure.

When authority expands through executive action rather than legislation, it weakens not only states, but the habits of self-government itself. Congress avoids responsibility. Courts struggle to review what was never clearly authorized. States drift from sovereign actors into administrative partners. Citizens are left unsure who decides—and therefore whom to hold accountable.

Federalism at its best allows states and localities to be oppositional. To say no—not as defiance, but as part of a constitutional dialogue. That dialogue collapses when opposition is principled only in opposition, and forgotten in alignment. A doctrine invoked selectively is not a doctrine at all; it is a convenience.

History reinforces this lesson. Arguments for state resistance and local control have always shifted with political circumstance. They are rediscovered when power feels distant, and quietly shelved when power feels familiar. The result is cynicism among citizens and fragility in institutions. What begins as tactical inconsistency ends as structural decay.

The deeper problem is philosophical. Federalism is not about protecting states for their own sake. It exists to protect persons. It limits the accumulation of authority because power, once consolidated, rarely remains restrained—especially when convinced of its own righteousness.

There is also a cultural cost. As national authority crowds out state and local decision-making, it erodes the importance of place, responsibility, and civic participation. When decisions migrate upward, citizens disengage. Every disagreement becomes national. Every election becomes existential. Federalism was meant to prevent precisely this condition.

None of this denies the need for federal action in defined spheres. The Constitution anticipated national challenges. It did not authorize national convenience. The distinction matters.

Fidelity to federalism demands consistency precisely when it is least rewarding. It requires resisting overreach even when it advances outcomes we favor. It requires defending local autonomy even when local choices frustrate us. And it requires humility—the recognition that no party, movement, or administration can be trusted indefinitely with consolidated power.

Liberty has never been preserved by good intentions alone. It survives through structure, limits, and the discipline to uphold them when doing so is uncomfortable.

The true test of limited government is not who wields power, but whether we still insist on limits when it does.

There is, after all, No Ease In Liberty.

Self-government is not sustained by emotion alone.

It requires judgment, restraint, and a willingness to accept limits.

As I prepare to return to Columbia for the 2026 legislative session, I’ve been reflecting on what public service looks like away from speeches and floor debates — in the quieter spaces where citizens encounter government not as an abstraction, but as authority exercised in real time.

What follows is not a catalog of accomplishments. It is a brief reflection on the character of service, and the responsibilities it imposes on those who wield power.

Service is often procedural, not dramatic

Much of constituent service involves helping citizens navigate institutions that already exist. The task is rarely to invent new authority, but to ensure existing authority is exercised as intended — lawfully, carefully, and with respect for the people affected by it.

This work is largely invisible. It happens in follow-ups, clarifications, and persistence rather than proclamations. It is unglamorous by design, and that is often its virtue.

When government functions properly, it is not felt as dominance, but as order.

Power demands restraint

There are moments when constituent service intersects with matters of serious consequence — including cases in which families find themselves wrongly accused within the child welfare system.

In such moments, two obligations must be held together without dilution:

children must be protected, and families must be treated with fairness and due process.

The purpose of due process is not delay. It is restraint — a recognition that power, once exercised, must be bounded by law and humility. Public officials are not called to prejudge outcomes, but to insist that procedures are followed carefully and lawfully, even when doing so is inconvenient.

This is not softness. It is discipline.

Accountability is not hostility

Holding government accountable does not require hostility toward institutions. It requires clarity about their purpose.

There are times when elected officials must push back on agencies — not to weaken them, but to remind them whom they serve. Authority exists for the benefit of the citizen, not the convenience of the administrator.

In a moment of widespread frustration, skepticism of government is healthy. But skepticism curdles when it becomes a search for simple villains or a belief that volume can substitute for judgment.

Self-government cannot be sustained by outrage alone. It depends on seriousness — and on leaders willing to tell hard truths rather than flattering ones.

The necessity of limits

One of the hardest truths in public life is that not every problem can — or should — be solved by government.

A constitutional system depends on limits not because government is irrelevant, but because it is powerful. Many of the most important functions of a healthy society are carried out by institutions that predate the state — families, churches, communities — and are weakened when government attempts to replace them.

Restraint is not abdication. It is recognition.

The work that rarely draws notice

Beyond these reflections, much of constituent service remains ordinary: resolving licensing issues, untangling benefit interruptions, addressing local infrastructure concerns, or helping someone find the right door when they do not know where to knock.

This work rarely draws attention. It does not lend itself to spectacle. But it matters precisely because it reflects a belief that citizens deserve to be treated as participants in self-government, not subjects of administration.

Carrying responsibility forward

As I return to Columbia, these experiences shape how I approach legislation and oversight. Public office is not a platform for expression alone. It is a responsibility that demands judgment, restraint, and respect for the limits of authority.

There is no ease in liberty.

But there is dignity in taking its obligations seriously.

And I will continue working to ensure that government remembers who it exists to serve — the people of South Carolina.

There is a predictable cycle in American politics. A president acts abroad—sometimes boldly, sometimes ambiguously—and the reaction follows on cue. Commentators warn of executive overreach. Members of Congress express grave concern. The Constitution is invoked, usually in fragments. What is almost never confronted is the uncomfortable antecedent: the presidency is exercising authority that Congress has been quietly relinquishing for decades.

The recent U.S. operation aimed at Nicolás Maduro has provoked this familiar anxiety. Critics argue that such an action, falling somewhere between law enforcement and war, demands clear legislative authorization. On the merits, they may be right. But moral clarity about constitutional design requires more than pointing at the last actor in the chain. The deeper failure lies upstream, with a legislature that has steadily weakened itself and then feigns surprise when others fill the vacuum.

The American system was designed to force responsibility into the open. Decisions of consequence—war, peace, commerce, public expenditure—were deliberately lodged in a representative body, precisely because they were weighty, divisive, and prone to abuse if handled by one set of hands alone. The slowness, friction, and public accountability of Congress were features, not flaws. Power would be shared, contested, and justified, or it would not be exercised at all.

That design has been eroding for a long time. On matters of force abroad, Congress has largely abandoned the habit of saying yes or no. Instead, it relies on aging authorizations, elastic statutory language, or studied silence. Presidents notify. Lawyers interpret. Operations proceed. What was once an extraordinary exception has become normal practice, not because the Constitution changed, but because congressional expectations did.

The same pattern appears across domestic policy. Faced with hard choices and political risk, Congress increasingly writes laws that gesture toward goals while outsourcing the real decisions. Agencies are instructed to regulate in the “public interest,” to ensure “fairness,” to promote “equity” or “stability,” with little definition and less accountability. The details—often the substance—are left to administrators insulated from voters. Rules are issued, revised, and rescinded as administrations change, producing volatility without ownership. Legislators complain about bureaucracy while continuing to feed it.

Oversight, too, has suffered a similar fate. The power to investigate and restrain the executive remains formidable on paper, but its exercise has grown sporadic and theatrical. Hearings are held for the cameras. Subpoenas are issued and ignored. Contempt is discussed but rarely enforced. The goal too often is political advantage rather than institutional correction. In the absence of sustained discipline, the executive learns what it can safely disregard.

Even the power of the purse—the most direct means of control—has been dulled by congressional habit. Continuing resolutions and massive omnibus bills replace regular appropriations. Deadlines are manufactured crises. Leverage is surrendered in exchange for temporary peace. When everything is negotiated at the last minute, nothing is meaningfully shaped.

Against this backdrop, outrage over a presidential decision to act against Maduro risks becoming performative. It treats the symptom while ignoring the disease. A presidency accustomed to initiative is not an accident; it is the logical consequence of a legislature that prefers avoidance to responsibility. The executive did not seize these authorities in a single dramatic moment. It inherited them piecemeal, as Congress repeatedly declined to exercise its own.

None of this is to say that presidential action should go unscrutinized. Power, once exercised, always demands justification. The use of force—especially in ambiguous legal and moral territory—ought to be carefully judged and honestly accounted for. Yet this is precisely where Congress has failed most conspicuously. Its present dysfunction makes such judgment nearly impossible. Debate has collapsed into signaling, oversight into spectacle, and deliberation into a series of talking points calibrated for social media rather than the gravity of decision. When Congress cannot sustain good-faith argument or accept responsibility for outcomes, it forfeits the very role that would allow it to check the executive meaningfully.

Self-government was never meant to be comfortable. It requires representatives to take visible positions, to accept blame as well as credit, and to make decisions that cannot be delegated without cost. When legislators refuse that burden, they do not preserve liberty; they hollow it out. Authority does not vanish when unused. It migrates.

If Congress wishes to restrain the executive, it must first reclaim itself. That means voting on war and peace. Writing laws that bind rather than suggest. Funding the government deliberately rather than by default. Conducting oversight with the intent to enforce, not merely to posture. These are not radical demands. They are the ordinary duties of a legislature that takes its role seriously.

Until that happens, indignation over presidential action will remain misplaced. The more pressing question is not why a president acted, but why Congress has spent so long making such action unsurprising.

Liberty rarely disappears by force; more often, it is set aside by those who decide its care is too hard.

Myths endure not because they recount historical fact, but because they illuminate deeper truths about who we are. They help us make sense of our longings, failures, and hopes—truths expressed through story rather than chronology. Among the many myths humanity carries, the First Thanksgiving remains one of our most cherished. We know that one shared meal could not reverse the painful centuries that followed. Yet we hold onto this story not to sanitize history, but because it captures an impulse central to our humanity: the desire—almost the need—to give thanks.

This yearning for gratitude runs deeper than culture or custom. It is, in many ways, primal. It appears in small, unexpected moments of joy: a warm sunbeam, a child’s embrace, the quiet realization that we are alive for another day. These impulses suggest that wonder, reverence, and even religion itself may have sprung not from fear, as Freud argued, but from awe. Early humans, stepping from their caves, were likely moved more by the world’s beauty than its dangers, and their earliest instinct may well have been a simple expression of thanks.

Yet gratitude is more than an emotion—it is a discipline, a way of seeing. When we receive the world as gift, life expands; when we take it for granted, life shrinks into resentment. This is why thankfulness is a foundation of virtue. A grateful people tends to be humble in good fortune, patient in hardship, and generous in spirit. A community shaped by gratitude naturally cultivates the habits that sustain character and strengthen bonds. As Meister Eckhardt observed, “If the only prayer you ever said in your whole life was thank you, that would suffice.” In quiet moments, such words remind us of how transformative a simple posture of gratitude can be.

This is why the Thanksgiving myth continues to resonate so deeply. It reminds us that gratitude is both memory and hope—an affirmation that peaceful coexistence is possible, however fleeting. We celebrate not only what once happened, but what might still be: the belief that a people rooted in thankfulness can better nurture compassion, resilience, and fellowship.

Thanksgiving, then, transcends history and nation. It speaks to something universal: the enduring truth that gratitude enriches life, ennobles the human spirit, and gently encourages us toward the better angels of our nature.

James Madison warned that liberty itself would always carry the seeds of its own undoing. “Liberty is to faction what air is to fire,” he wrote in Federalist 10, recognizing that the freedom that sustains self-government also feeds its most destructive passions. His remedy was not repression but structure: a large republic capable of dispersing ambition, refining public views through representation, and teaching citizens the discipline of disagreement.

Two and a half centuries later, Madison’s republic is choking on the very air that gives it life. The factions he feared have hardened into tribes. Our parties—once, in George Will’s phrase, “the cockroaches of our political system,” resilient and adaptive—now behave more like rival faiths competing for moral purity. Each sees the other not as loyal opposition but as existential threat. The civic machinery built to channel conflict toward compromise now amplifies it to fever pitch.

This is not simply a failure of politics; it is a failure of formation. As Daniel DiSalvo and Carlo Invernizzi Accetti observe inthere essay - Civics, Partisanship, and the Academy - democracy depends upon citizens who can “agree to disagree.” That deceptively simple phrase hides a complex moral achievement: the ability to recognize an adversary as a fellow participant in a shared constitutional project. Without that baseline of mutual legitimacy, the alternation of power—the beating heart of the republic—becomes unthinkable. Each election then feels like a coup narrowly averted.

Madison foresaw this danger and placed his hope in scale and representation. A republic, he argued, would “refine and enlarge the public views” through leaders chosen for wisdom and virtue. But the refinement he envisioned was moral as much as mechanical. Representation was supposed to filter passion through reason—not to reflect our worst impulses in high definition. That requires a culture capable of producing citizens who value persuasion over purity, and institutions willing to educate for that task.

Here the university once stood as Madison’s unacknowledged ally. Its purpose was not merely to transmit knowledge but to civilize it—to teach what DiSalvo and Accetti call “the art of bounded disagreement.” Yet in recent years, higher education has become another theater for factional war. When classrooms become campaign rallies and commencement speeches become manifestos, we are no longer refining public views; we are manufacturing them. The result is a generation fluent in protest but illiterate in persuasion.

George Will sees the same decay at the cultural level. In a recent conversation with Mitch Daniels, he laments a society “burned over politically,” exhausted by outrage and incapable of calm. The founders, he reminds us, believed that a virtuous people would be immune to what they called “popular arts”—the demagoguery that flatters our passions while degrading our judgment. Virtue, in their vocabulary, was not piety but restraint: the civic habit of placing reason above resentment. Without it, freedom degenerates into license, and politics becomes the management of animosities.

What unites Madison, Will, and today’s civic reformers is the conviction that republican self-government is a moral enterprise before it is a mechanical one. Laws can structure debate, but they cannot teach the forbearance that debate requires. That must be cultivated—in homes, schools, and legislatures alike—through what Montesquieu called the “principle” of a republic: virtue. In modern terms, civility. It is the animating spirit that keeps liberty from collapsing into chaos.

Rebuilding that spirit will require more than nostalgia for lost manners. It demands deliberate civic education: instruction not in what to think but in how to think together. Universities, especially public ones, can model this by restoring forums for disciplined dialogue and by teaching the constitutional grammar of disagreement—the difference between contesting an idea and condemning its speaker. As DiSalvo and Accetti put it, the goal is “structured, principled disagreement,” the kind that keeps democracy dynamic rather than destructive.

Madison’s insight still stands: factions cannot be eliminated without destroying freedom itself. The task is to control their effects—to turn contention into conversation, rivalry into renewal. That work begins with recovering the virtue of calm that George Will calls for, the patience to let persuasion do what coercion cannot. It continues with civic institutions willing to teach that freedom and restraint are not opposites but partners.

The founders did not expect perfection; they expected effort—a continuous education in the habits that make liberty possible. “Decline,” Will reminds us, “is a choice.” So too is renewal. The question before us is whether we will choose to be, once again, a people capable of disagreement without disunion—citizens who understand that the republic we inherited will endure only if we relearn how to breathe its air without igniting it.

ABC’s suspension of late-night host Jimmy Kimmel after his crude remarks on the murder of Charlie Kirk was greeted by some with applause. Even President Donald Trump called it “great news for America.” I cannot agree. Whether one finds Kimmel funny or offensive is beside the point. What matters is that the government, by way of the Federal Communications Commission, exerted pressure on a television network in order to silence a voice. That is fundamentally illiberal and deeply unhealthy.

Kimmel has since been reinstated after a short suspension, yet in many markets his program still does not air. This halfway measure illustrates the precariousness of free expression in today’s culture. It is not outright censorship, but it is a reminder that speech rights are increasingly subject to political winds, corporate risk calculations, and the moral fashions of the moment.

A century ago, Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr. defended what he called “the freedom to express the thought that we hate.” Holmes understood that liberty has little meaning if it protects only speech that pleases the majority. It is precisely the unpopular, the irritating, and even the offensive speech that tests our constitutional mettle. That principle has been echoed by jurists across the spectrum — by Justices Scalia and Alito, who have reminded us that the First Amendment does not yield to fashion or convenience, and by liberals who still recall that free speech is the precondition for dissent.

Yet in today’s culture, whether its “Owning the Libs” or “Dunking on MAGA”, we too often cheer when those we dislike are punished. Kimmel’s suspension may feel like a moral victory to some, just as conservative speakers being chased off campuses is celebrated by others. But each incident chips away at the culture of open argument on which a free society depends. Increasingly, young people — and not only the young — lack the skills of conflict resolution, the ability to debate, disagree, and reconcile without resorting to personal destruction. That deficit makes the defense of free speech even more urgent, because without those skills, disagreement turns easily into silencing.

This is where a deeper problem reveals itself. As Professor James Hankins of Harvard argued in a recent Law & Liberty podcast, one of the gravest losses in American higher education is the abandonment of serious instruction in Western Civilization. For much of the twentieth century, students encountered the ideas of Plato and Aristotle, Augustine and Aquinas, Locke and Montesquieu, Madison and Lincoln. They wrestled with texts that explained not just how government functions, but why liberty matters. Today, many universities have relegated those studies to the margins, if they exist at all.

Hankins warns that when students no longer encounter these voices, they inherit freedoms without understanding the struggles and achievements that produced them. They are left unmoored, prone to see free speech not as the hard-won fruit of centuries of conflict and reflection, but as just another tool to be distributed according to taste or ideology. That impoverishment of education has real political consequences. It encourages us to think of rights as negotiable, traditions as disposable, and civilization as a hollow slogan.

Western civilization, of course, is not beyond critique. It has produced injustices as well as triumphs. But to dismiss it is to forget that it also gave the world constitutional government, the scientific method, and the very ideals of liberty that allow us to disagree in public without fear of prison or exile. As Hankins put it, without instruction in those achievements, we risk hollowing out the cultural foundations of our republic.

This is why Holmes’ defense of hated speech, and Scalia and Alito’s insistence on constitutional fidelity, remain urgent today. They are not abstract doctrines. They are the living expression of a civilizational tradition that prizes argument over coercion, persuasion over censorship, liberty over control. If we forget that lineage, we will treat free speech as a partisan weapon rather than as a civilizational inheritance.

The Kimmel episode may seem trivial compared with the great constitutional debates of our time. But it is a symptom of something larger: a society forgetting why it values freedom in the first place. Our politics increasingly rewards outrage, our universities shy away from demanding curricula, and our media trades in spectacle. Amid that noise, the hard lessons of Western Civilization — that liberty is fragile, that rights must be defended even for our opponents, that truth emerges from debate rather than decree — are drowned out.

The choice before us is not whether we enjoy Jimmy Kimmel’s humor or recoil at his cruelty. The choice is whether we will remember and preserve the intellectual achievements that allow both Kimmel and Trump to speak freely at all. That requires more than invoking the First Amendment when it suits us. It requires renewing the teaching of Western Civilization in our schools and universities, instilling in young citizens an appreciation for the ideas that built our republic.

Free speech will not survive on sentiment alone. It needs citizens who know why it matters, leaders who will defend it even when unpopular, and institutions that will teach its roots in our civilization. Holmes saw that truth a century ago. Hankins warns of its neglect today. If we cannot recover that appreciation, then the freedom to express even “the thought that we hate” will slip away — not with a bang, but with a cheer from those who think silencing an opponent is victory.

Sean M. Bennett is a South Carolina State Senator and Chairman of the Senate Ethics Committee. He represents Dorchester and Charleston Counties. He is deeply concerned with the erosion of civility in America and the dangers posed when partisan factions undermine the rule of law and the shared framework of liberty that sustains the common good.

The ease of liberty is a myth. True freedom is not the absence of responsibility but the presence of it. We live in a time when convenience often masquerades as progress, and when shouting has replaced persuasion. Yet, liberty endures only when citizens are willing to wrestle with hard ideas—to seek what is right, not simply what is comfortable. Self-government is work. It means listening to opposing views, questioning our own assumptions, and resisting the urge to reduce complex issues to slogans or sides.

That’s the spirit behind No Ease in Liberty. This newsletter continues my commitment to Do Right. Not Easy. It’s not a campaign slogan - although I do use it - or a moral platitude—it’s a challenge. In an age of division and distraction, doing right often means taking the longer, harder path. It means thinking through policy not for how it polls, but for how it strengthens the people it serves. It means defending principle even when it’s unpopular.

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Each edition of No Ease in Liberty will focus on a single issue, connecting today’s debates to the enduring philosophy that built our republic. Whether the topic is education, the economy, or civic virtue itself, the goal is the same: to apply a steady moral compass to the shifting tides of public life.

But this can’t be a one-way conversation. The health of our republic depends on dialogue—honest, thoughtful, and civil. I invite you to take part: share these essays with friends and neighbors, discuss them at your dinner table, your church, or your coffee shop. Challenge the ideas here, offer your perspective, and keep the conversation going. Liberty’s work is shared work, and together, through conversation and engagement, we can continue to do the hard and necessary work of self-governance.

Because there truly is—and must always be—no ease in liberty.