On listening, belonging, and finding a voice in polarized times
Recently, I listened to a two-hour interview between Tucker Carlson and his brother.
This is not something I would normally do.
Their views lean far more conservative than my own. His brother has written speeches for Trump. By most cultural measures, this is not “my side.”
And yet, I found myself listening.
Not to agree.
Not to argue.
But to understand.
At times, I noticed something unexpected: I wasn’t reacting.
I wasn’t bracing.
I wasn’t preparing a counterpoint.
I was simply… listening.
And in that listening, something opened.
The conversation moved through familiar terrain—politics, Trump, war, disillusionment. At one point, they spoke about why they no longer support him: broken promises, a turn toward war.
But what stayed with me wasn’t their position.
It was the memory of something we seem to have lost:
A time when people could disagree—and remain in relationship.
As I listened, I became aware of something closer to home.
I don’t fully belong to either side.
I hold values that lean liberal.
Others that resonate with more conservative perspectives.
And still others that don’t fit either.
In today’s climate, that can feel like standing nowhere.
Or worse—like being exposed.
There is a particular loneliness in not choosing a side.
Because sides offer protection.
Identity.
Language.
Belonging.
When you step outside of that, you risk becoming unintelligible.
Or unacceptable.
At some point, I realized something I hadn’t fully named before:
I have silenced myself out of fear.
Not fear of conservatives disagreeing.
But fear of being rejected by those closest to me.
Fear of saying something that doesn’t fit the expected script.
Fear of being quietly—or loudly—pushed out.
Cancel culture is often framed as something happening “over there,” on the other side.
But I’ve felt it here, too.
And I’ve responded in the way many of us do:
By staying quiet.
And yet, something is shifting.
Not toward certainty.
Not toward a new position.
But toward a different kind of commitment.
A commitment to listen—without collapsing into agreement or rejection.
A commitment to speak—without the protection of a tribe.
A commitment to remain human in the presence of difference.
I’m not trying to find the right side.
I’m trying to find the place from which I can truly speak.
This doesn’t resolve the tension.
If anything, it deepens it.
Because there is no guarantee of belonging here.
Only the possibility of integrity.
Only the risk of being misunderstood.
Only the quiet sense that this is the work.
Perhaps the real question is not:
Which side am I on?
But:
What would it mean to meet another human being—across difference—without needing them to be the same?
I don’t have an answer.
But recently, for a moment, I caught a glimpse of what that might feel like.
And it felt like something worth risking.
~Chuck Craytor
The Work of Being Human