Today, on July 12th, 2026, news broke that Senator Lindsey Graham has died. Within minutes, timelines split into two familiar camps, the ones lighting candles and the ones lighting fireworks. Tributes poured in from colleagues who called him a friend, a fighter, a man of conviction. And just as quickly, another current rose up beside it, one made of relief, of dark humor, of people who felt no obligation to pretend sorrow for a man whose politics they found genuinely harmful. Both reactions are human. Both are, in their own way, understandable. But I want to talk about why neither one, taken as the main event, actually gets us anywhere.
Let me be upfront about where I stand, because I think honesty matters more than false neutrality here. I did not agree with Lindsey Graham on most things. His record was, to put it mildly, controversial. He built a career on positions that a lot of people, myself included, found troubling, and he weathered no shortage of criticism for the way he pivoted, postured, and aligned himself with power depending on which direction the wind was blowing. I’m not going to pretend I admired the man or his politics. That’s not what this is about. But here’s the thing. He’s gone now. And no amount of scrolling, no amount of dunking, no amount of grief theater is going to change a single fact about the world we live in tomorrow morning.
That’s really the heart of what I want to say. Whether you’re the person composing a eulogy in your head or the person composing a punchline, you’re doing the same thing, which is centering a dead man instead of centering the conditions that made his politics possible in the first place. Death has a strange gravitational pull on our attention. It feels significant, because it is final, because it closes a chapter, because it forces a reckoning with mortality that most news events don’t. But significance and consequence are not the same thing. A man’s death, even a powerful man’s death, is not itself a mechanism of political change. It is an event, not a strategy.
I think about this every time a public figure dies and the internet turns into two dueling choirs. There’s something almost ritualistic about it now, like we’ve developed a script we run every single time. Someone divisive dies, and immediately the same two performances kick off, the hagiography and the mockery, running in parallel, feeding off each other, each side using the other’s reaction as proof of their own righteousness. The mourners point to the jokes and say, look how heartless people have become. The jokers point to the mourning and say, look how quickly people forget what this person actually did. And round and round it goes, and by the end of the week, nothing about the actual conditions of anyone’s life has shifted even slightly, except maybe everyone’s blood pressure.
I want to be careful here, because I know how this can sound. This is not me trying to tone police anyone’s grief or anyone’s relief. If you feel something when a person like this dies, that feeling is real, and you’re allowed to have it. I’m not going to stand here and tell people how to emotionally process the death of someone whose policy decisions may have directly affected their lives, their families, their communities, their rights. That would be a special kind of arrogance, sitting comfortably somewhere and lecturing people on the correct emotional register for processing a political death. That’s not what I’m doing. Feel what you feel. What I’m pushing back against is something different, which is the idea that the feeling itself is the finish line. That once you’ve posted the joke, or once you’ve posted the tribute, you’ve somehow participated in something meaningful. You haven’t. You’ve participated in catharsis, which is not nothing, but which is also not change.
Here’s what actually didn’t change today. The ideological coalition that Lindsey Graham was a part of is still very much alive and very much in power. The policies he supported, the votes he cast, the positions he defended for over two decades in the Senate, those don’t evaporate because the man who cast those votes is no longer breathing. There are colleagues who share his exact worldview sitting in the exact same chamber tomorrow morning. There are staffers who wrote his talking points who will write nearly identical talking points for the next senator who picks up that banner. There are donors, lobbyists, and entire institutional structures that don’t care whose name is on the office door, as long as the votes keep going the direction they want. Death removes one man from one seat. It does not remove the machine that seat is a part of.
This is the trap, I think, of treating any single politician as if they are the disease itself rather than a symptom of it. When we make individuals into the sole villains or the sole heroes of our political narratives, we do something seductive but ultimately hollow, we let ourselves off the hook. It’s so much easier to hate a person than to organize against a system. It’s so much easier to celebrate a death than to build the kind of sustained, unglamorous, years-long effort it takes to actually shift power. Cheering someone’s death gives you a hit of satisfaction, sure, maybe even a sense of justice. But it is a sugar high. It burns off fast, and when it’s gone, the structural reality underneath it hasn’t moved an inch.
And on the other side, the same is true of martyrdom. Turning a controversial figure into a saint the moment they die does something just as distorting. It sands down the edges of a real, complicated, often harmful record into something palatable, something safe to mourn, something that lets the people who benefited from that record avoid ever really reckoning with it. Death has this odd cultural permission slip attached to it, where suddenly we’re only supposed to speak in warm, forgiving tones, as if criticism has an expiration date tied to a heartbeat. But history doesn’t actually work that way. The consequences of a person’s political choices don’t pause out of respect for their passing. If someone spent decades shaping policy in ways that hurt real people, that legacy is still there to be examined, honestly, clearly, without cruelty but also without erasure. Turning away from that examination in the name of politeness isn’t kindness, it’s a kind of historical amnesia dressed up as manners.
So where does that leave us. If neither gleeful celebration nor solemn canonization actually does anything productive, what’s left. I think what’s left is the much less satisfying, much more difficult work of actually building the change you want to see instead of waiting for it to arrive through attrition. Because here’s an uncomfortable truth, people die. Politicians die, of old age, of illness, of accidents, eventually, of time itself. If your entire theory of political change rests on waiting for the people you dislike to stop existing, you are going to be waiting your whole life, watching one person get replaced by another who believes the exact same things, occupying the exact same structures of power, because you never actually did anything to dismantle those structures. The individual is replaceable. The system, if left untouched, is not.
I keep coming back to that phrase, be the change, and I know it’s become almost a cliché at this point, printed on tote bags and coffee mugs until it’s lost some of its teeth. But underneath the cliché there’s something true and something that gets buried every single time we let a news cycle like this one hijack our attention for days. Change doesn’t come from a scroll-and-post cycle of grief or gloating. It comes from the unglamorous stuff, showing up to local meetings where actual policy gets shaped, registering people to vote and then actually getting them to the polls, supporting candidates further down the ballot before they ever become senators, staying engaged in the years between the big headline moments instead of only showing up when something dramatic happens. It comes from building coalitions with people who don’t agree with you on everything but agree with you on enough to move something forward. It comes from sustained pressure applied over years, not viral moments that peak and vanish within seventy two hours.
I think part of why we default to the death-reaction cycle instead of doing that harder work is because the death-reaction cycle is so easy. It requires nothing from you except an opinion and a keyboard. It gives you an immediate audience, immediate validation, immediate engagement. Meanwhile the actual work of political change is slow, often invisible, frequently thankless, and doesn’t come with the dopamine hit of likes and shares. Of course we gravitate toward the easy version. But easy and effective are rarely the same thing, and I think a lot of people confuse being loud about their politics online with actually practicing their politics in the world.
There’s also something worth naming about how this cycle serves the very structures we might claim to be opposing. Every hour spent arguing about the appropriate tone for discussing a dead senator is an hour not spent organizing, not spent calling representatives, not spent building the alternative institutions and coalitions that could actually challenge entrenched power. Outrage cycles are, in a strange way, incredibly convenient for the people who benefit from the status quo, because they keep everyone’s energy contained within the realm of reaction rather than action. You get to feel like you did something, you posted, you argued, you dunked, and meanwhile nothing about the actual distribution of power in this country has shifted even slightly. The people who hold institutional power are not losing sleep over your tweet. They are, however, occasionally forced to reckon with organized, sustained, well resourced political movements. Those movements are built through years of unglamorous labor, not through a single viral moment tied to a single person’s death.
I want to say something else too, something about how we talk about death in general, separate from politics. There’s a difference between acknowledging that a person has died and using that death as a symbolic battlefield for our own political identity. When we do the latter, we’re not really talking about the deceased at all anymore. We’re using them as a prop to signal something about ourselves, our values, our tribe. That’s true whether you’re the one posting a tribute full of superlatives or the one posting a joke about good riddance. In both cases the dead man has become secondary to the performance being staged around him. And I think that’s worth sitting with, because it reveals something uncomfortable about how we’ve all been trained to engage with public life, less as citizens trying to shape outcomes and more as an audience trying to signal allegiance.
None of this means you can’t have an opinion about Lindsey Graham’s record, or that you should stay silent, or that you have to pretend neutrality you don’t feel. I’m not asking anyone to fake anything. What I’m asking, and honestly what I’m asking myself too, is to notice the difference between processing a feeling and mistaking that processing for participation in change. Post what you want to post. Feel what you feel. But then close the tab, and ask yourself what you’re actually going to do about the fact that the political coalition this man belonged to is still fully intact, still holding power, still shaping policy that will outlast this entire week’s news cycle by years, maybe decades.
Because that’s really the question that matters. Not whether Lindsey Graham deserved mourning or mockery, but whether the people who share his politics and still hold real power are going to face any meaningful resistance going forward, or whether we’re all going to spend this week locked in a debate about tone and then move on, distracted, exhausted, and no closer to the world we actually want. If you want that world, if you’re serious about it, it isn’t going to arrive because one man’s heart stopped beating. It’s going to arrive because ordinary people did the slow, patient, often invisible work of building something better, brick by brick, meeting by meeting, election by election, year after year, long after this particular headline has scrolled off everyone’s feed and been replaced by the next one.
So here’s where I land, for whatever it’s worth. Let the man’s death be what it is, an ending, a fact, a moment that will be discussed and dissected and eventually forgotten by all but historians and the people closest to him. Don’t let it become a substitute for the harder conversation about what comes next, about who’s still standing, about what you’re actually going to do with your time and your energy and your vote in the months and years ahead. The politicians who share his worldview aren’t going anywhere just because he did. If you want that to change, you have to be willing to do more than react to a headline. You have to be willing to build.