by Amy Trask
There’s a kind of heartbreak that comes not from surprise, but from recognition. We knew what the Big Beautiful Bill was. We read the fine print, saw the projections, understood the stakes. We knew this bill was not built to lift us up. It was built to break us. Still, when the final vote came down—after seven hours of procedural maneuvering and last-minute concessions—it hurt.
It hurt because this wasn’t just a policy decision. It was a values decision. It told us, in no uncertain terms, who half of this Congress is willing to fight for—and who it’s willing to leave behind. It told us that if you are poor, if you are sick, if you are working-class, if you are trying to survive in a system that was never built for you—this government will not protect you. It is a moral turning point that demands we meet it with honesty, with courage, and with resolve.
The bill is a bait-and-switch: offering no taxes on tips and a temporary increase in Child Tax Credit to distract you from the wrecking ball behind the curtain.
It obliterates our social safety net, taking from those with the least, and giving it directly to those with the most. It slashes funding for Medicaid and Medicare, imposes work requirements, and neglects to renew subsidies from ACA, resulting in more than seventeen million people being booted from health insurance.
Those subsidies can increase up to 93 percent, some plans seeing up to $900/month in increase. It slashes SNAP access, even when 40 percent of benefits go to children. It ends clean energy credits that have brought jobs to rural counties and hope and innovation to frontline communities.
It threatens the Separation of Powers by directly removing the ability for the judiciary to enforce rulings and contempt without a paid bond by anyone bringing the case to court.
And it does all this while adding trillions to the national debt.
The cruelty, ironically, feels like the point. If they really cared about workers, they’d ensure living wages, jobs. They’d fund childcare. If they cared about freedom, they’d protect our right to health care—not make us prove we’re worthy of it. They’d protect the power of judicial enforcement.
Yet, it passed.
In the Senate, it was by a single vote. Had Senator Murkowski not folded—exchanging Alaskans’ protection for that of everyone’s—JD Vance wouldn’t have cast the tie-breaking vote. Yet, she did make that backroom deal and, as a result, handed the House a loaded weapon.
That vote gave the House permission. For a moment, it looked like we had eight holdouts and five NAY votes that might stand firm. One by one, though, they were brought back into the fold with promises and deals, and “pass it now, fix it later” became law. It passed by the slimmest of margins.
I’ve spoken with families who are already bracing for what is to come. A mother in Gilchrist afraid of losing Medicaid coverage for her special needs child. A daughter here in Alachua County afraid of losing Medicare coverage for her mother in a nursing home. A solar technician who’s scared of losing contracts and income. A retired couple who are trying to make sense of what this means for taxes, their care, their future.
These are our neighbors. Our family. Our friends.
So the question becomes: what do we do now? We take a moment to feel, and then we stand.
First, we tell the truth. We don’t let spin replace substance. We don’t let talking points drown out lived experience. We name what this bill does, and who it harms.
Second, we organize. We build coalitions. We invest in local leadership. We support candidates who understand that policy is personal—and who are willing to fight for the people who are too often ignored.
Third, we imagine. The antidote to bad policy isn’t just resistance—it’s vision. We need to articulate what a just, inclusive, and sustainable future looks like. We need to build the infrastructure—political, economic, and moral — to get us there.
We remember, and we vote. We remember who voted for this bill, and against the welfare of the American people, or most of us who make less than $500K a year. We remember who held out and then folded, who stayed silent. We make sure their names are known in every district. When the time comes to vote, we vote for progress—not for those that stood in the way of it.
We can’t afford to give in to apathy. We can’t afford to throw up our hands and say, “that’s just politics.” Democracy hasn’t been, and isn’t, a spectator sport. It takes all of us, and while this bill was built to break us, we are building something better.
We are building a movement in dignity. In data. In decency. We are building a political system that doesn’t ask people to prove they’re worthy of care, but starts from the premise that they are.
We are building a future where healthcare is not a reward, but a human right. Where food is not a privilege, but a guarantee. Where clean energy is not a luxury, but a lifeline.
We have 16 months until the midterms. That’s 16 months to remind people of what is at stake. To hold our leaders accountable. To build.
We’ve been here before. We’ve faced setbacks. We’ve seen policies passed that made us question the direction of our country, but every time, we’ve come back stronger. The story of America is not written by the powerful alone. It’s written by the people who refuse to give up.
So yes, I’m disappointed. I’m angry. It feels like a hole has been punched through my chest, as I’m sure you feel too, but this is not the end. This is the beginning of a reckoning.
We are the ones who will repair what they’ve broken. We are the ones who will restore what they’ve taken. We are the ones we’ve been waiting for.
Let’s get to work.
Amy Trask is a former Landscape Analyst Fellow for Harvard Safra Center for Ethics, dealing with political conflict resolution, and continues to work in this space at the local and national level.