Standing at the intersection of Meheula Parkway and Ainamakua Drive, my eyes brimmed with tears on my last day as Mililani’s state representative. My dad stood next to me, waving at cars passing by. We wanted to end the way we started, just the two of us holding signs on a corner. 

I let the tears roll down my face as soon as the sun fell behind the trees. Drivers couldn’t see my face anymore. When my dad noticed, I tried to laugh it off. He just shook his head and moved closer, putting his arm around my shoulders. There were tears in his eyes too.

“It’s OK. I know why you’re crying,” he said, softly. “You’re saying goodbye.” We stayed until all the sunlight had gone, holding on as long as we could.

Leaving the Legislature was heartbreaking, even if it was the right thing to do. I loved representing Mililani. Whether it was rallying the community against little fire ants or finding funds for school buildings, I felt like a part of something that was making people’s lives better.

But, in the year before I left, I said a few things that made Republicans very angry. And then I said more things that landed me on white nationalists’ radars. Eventually, the social media trolls, angry partisans, threatening voicemails, and nasty rumors about my personal life became a distraction from doing the job I was elected to do. My district needed someone who wasn’t caught up fighting national demons.

I left politics believing I’d taken the heat well. I felt resilient and unafraid. A year later, while watching political speeches in public narrative class, I had my first panic attack. I struggled to speak up in large classes and got anxious in social situations. The threats and criticism that I experienced in my last term were scarier than I admitted.

As it turns out, there are only so many times a person can be called a “worthless whore” or “lying bitch” or “complete disgrace” who is “better off dead” without internalizing it a little. It took time and a strong support system to reconcile that the same events that made me feel tough also left me feeling vulnerable and full of self-doubt.

My experience was isolating, but I’ve since learned it’s alarmingly common.

Last year, I joined a group of former elected officials working with an organization to support current elected leaders who attempt to reach across the aisle. When the conversation turned to mental health, the moderator asked who in the room had received a death threat. Every person around the table raised their hand. One by one they told stories about how the stress had torn apart their families, caused serious physical health problems, and driven them to seek counseling in different counties and states just so reaching out for help wasn’t used against them in a campaign. I walked away feeling like one of the lucky ones.

Nearly one-third of local public officials reported being harassed in a December 2022 nationwide survey. Fifteen percent said they received threats. The numbers are significantly higher for people of color with 53% of policymakers experiencing harassment and 37% receiving threats. Women are targeted 3.4 times more often than men. I would venture to guess that the number is even higher for public servants who challenge the status quo or defy partisan expectations.

In a study that focused on mayors, 94% said they experienced some form of violence, including psychological harm. Of those who reported violence, 41% said they suffered from increased levels of irritability, sleep disturbance, and exaggerated startle responses, which are all warning signs of PTSD. Over two-thirds of mayors said they knew someone who chose not to run for office because of these concerns and nearly one-third said they thought about leaving themselves.

There are policy options and mental health resources and a host of other “solutions” that we can and should talk about to try to protect and support public servants. But, for now, I think it’s important that we sit with the problem and consider how we’re contributing to it.

In an interview for the National League of Cities, former Atlanta Mayor Keisha Lance Bottoms summarizes one of the main consequences of our toxic civil discourse well, explaining: “People are choosing emotional and mental health and well-being over public service, and that is a dangerous point for us to be in as a country.”

From politicians to elections officials to public health workers, people are walking away anxious, burned-out, and compassion fatigued. According to Harvard Kennedy School’s People Lab, one of the main causes of public servant burnout is that workers don’t believe they can make a difference in government. Nani Medeiros’ recent resignation appears to be a sad yet important reminder that Hawaii isn’t immune to these trends.

Government innovation isn’t easy, especially when we don’t give innovators room for any trial and error. From my perspective, Nani was brave to try to change things whether you liked her changes or not. She was also brave to publicly walk away when the personal price she paid got too high.

Public service shouldn’t cost so much. It will always require some sacrifices, but it shouldn’t come at the expense of people’s mental and physical safety. Collectively, we must find a way to fix it.

I know that I am too quick to dismiss politicians I don’t like and too eager to revel in their misfortunes. Despite my own experiences, I’m still guilty of contributing to the problem. Most of us are.

But, if we don’t self-correct and stop normalizing incivility, we won’t just lose good people in government. We’ll attract bad ones.