I thought this platform was for free thinkers

I lost about 100 subscribers yesterday for doing what this platform supposedly celebrates: thinking out loud.

I wrote a short piece about Florida rolling back its vaccine mandate—a policy reversal that, to me, felt like a clear example of what makes America interesting: states get to run different programs, essentially A/B testing everything from taxes to education to public health. I framed it as an experiment in state-level governance—not an argument about vaccines themselves, not a political rant, not even a defense of the decision. Just an observation: when different states try different things, we get data. That’s how federalism works. That’s the point of having 50 states in the first place.

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Some readers thought I was undermining vaccine efficacy (I wasn’t—vaccines work). Others assumed I was defending DeSantis (I wasn’t—I didn’t even name him). Some just didn’t like that I didn’t bash Florida.

And that’s kind of the point. I wasn’t arguing for anything. I was arguing to watch what happens. To me, that’s the most intellectually honest position you can take. Observe, withhold premature judgment and let the experiment run. But nuance doesn’t seem to translate well anymore—especially not here.

What really drove it home, though, was how the backlash came. Hardly anyone left a public comment. Instead, they emailed me. Privately. Despite me leaving the comments open to everyone, they felt the need to take it offline to accuse me of having some hidden agenda—but didn’t want to be caught standing by their own words. Uh huh… Even the outrage had to happen in the dark.

We’re at a place where withholding criticism is interpreted as endorsement. Where asking questions is mistaken for having an agenda. Where even centrist, curiosity-driven writing gets filtered through a partisan lens. There is so little tolerance for dissent that even ambiguity is read as betrayal.

It’s exhausting. And worse—it’s boring.

Our culture has become allergic to intellectual ambiguity. People want you to pick a side. Immediately. Aggressively. Publicly. They want you to condemn the “bad state” or cheer for the “good governor.” They want signals that you belong to the correct tribe—whether or not your actual analysis has anything to do with that tribe’s interests.

It’s wild how often I’ll write something that’s genuinely nonpartisan, only to be met with hyperpartisan responses from both sides.

You say: “Maybe we should question how this policy is playing out.”

They hear: “You’re a Trump voter.”

You say: “This system is clearly broken.”

They hear: “You’re trying to burn down democracy.”

It’s like people don’t know how to read unless you hand them the jersey first. Blue or red. Pick. Now!

That’s not how real thinking works and that’s definitely not how real progress happens. That’s how echo chambers form and ossify.

But I’m not interested in being in an echo chamber, or writing fan fiction for any political team. I’m interested in exploring how culture, power, systems, and people actually function. I don’t write to tell you what you want to hear. I write to figure out what’s true. That means exploring uncomfortable possibilities, sitting with contradictions, and acknowledging when I don’t know something yet. It means thinking in public, knowing I might get it wrong. If I have to pre-sanitize every thought to make sure no one gets upset, I might as well stop writing altogether. And if I only spoke after I had the “correct” opinion, I wouldn’t ever speak at all.

Sometimes that means losing 100 subscribers, but I’d rather lose them than lie to keep them, which is sadly what I see so many other people doing on this app.

The bottom line is, if we can’t tolerate someone exploring a question—even a clumsy or incomplete one—then we’re not serious about truth. We’re serious about narrative management.

And I don’t do narrative management.

I can’t resist pointing out, too, that there’s something deeply ironic about all of this happening on Substack—a platform that markets itself as the antidote to shallow discourse. Supposedly this is where “free thinking” lives. Supposedly this is the refuge for writers who don’t fit neat ideological boxes. And yet, I can post this exact same take on X (a platform supposedly more unhinged), and get thoughtful comments from people across the spectrum. Not always, but enough. There’s more tolerance for weird ideas, exploratory thinking, even centrist curiosity. Substack, by contrast, often feels like a place where people expect ideological loyalty in exchange for their support.

On Substack, readers often come in with a subscription contract in their head:

• “I signed up for this voice.”

• “I expect these opinions.”

• “I trust you because I thought you were on my side.”

Better not deviate!!

Which begs the question: what do we actually want from writers? Do we want honesty, or allegiance?

The truth is, reality doesn’t care which side you’re on.

The truth doesn’t bend to our emotional affiliations. It doesn’t care who you voted for. It doesn’t care what narrative feels righteous.

And in the long run, it’s the only thing that matters.

That’s why I want states to experiment. That’s why I want people to disagree with me. That’s why I want to explore the edge cases and ask questions and occasionally get it wrong.

Because that’s how we get closer to clarity and understanding and the world as it is, not as we’ve been told it has to be.

So yeah, maybe I’ll lose more subscribers next time I write something that doesn’t wave the right flag. I guess that’s just become the price of intellectual honesty.

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If you’re still here, thanks. Not just for reading, but for thinking.

I know it’s easier to follow someone who confirms what you already believe. It’s harder to follow someone who might surprise you. But I’d rather be trusted for my process than liked for my conclusions.

To me, being authentic means always staying honest—even if it costs me.

And if that makes this platform harder to grow on? So be it.

—S