The social worker’s eyes were kind, but her questions felt like needles, each one probing the very heart of my family. She had to ask about bruises, about discipline, about the nature of my home.

Then came the doctor’s appointment, the one where a stranger, a pediatrician I’d never met, had to inspect my daughter’s small, vulnerable body. Every inch, every tiny scar, scrutinized for signs of abuse, for the burns Randy Fine’s anonymous tipsters claimed I inflicted. My child, just a toddler, was subjected to this invasion, her innocence stripped away by a man’s political vendetta.

That day, something in me hardened; it wasn’t just my reputation on the line anymore, it was my child’s safety, her very personhood. This nightmare began when I dared to challenge the status quo, running for a school board seat in Brevard County, Florida.

Donald Trump had won my district by a staggering 17 points, but I believed in community, in facts, in protecting our kids. I unseated the Republican incumbent by nearly ten points, a victory that sent ripples through the local political scene. That incumbent, by the way, went on to found Moms for Liberty, an extremist group Randy Fine would later champion.

Initially, Fine and his wife even voiced support for my campaign, especially my stance on masking and COVID mitigation. They told me directly, “We agree with you on this.” But when I mentioned his support publicly, when the political winds shifted and Fine himself became a vocal anti-masker, his allegiance dissolved into a storm of personal fury. His hypocrisy, once a quiet whisper, became a weapon he wielded against me with terrifying precision.

My small beachside home became a battleground. Protesters, emboldened by Fine’s rhetoric, marched outside, their faces contorted with manufactured outrage. Signs waved aggressively, and the bass of their chants vibrated through my floorboards, into my chest, and straight into my daughter’s unwitting ears. The online attacks were relentless, thousands of posts calling for my imprisonment, branding me a “Jezebel” and worse.

These weren’t just words; they were a coordinated campaign of intimidation. False claims were filed with the Department of Children and Families, leading to the devastating inspection of my child. Private investigators, hired by unseen hands, shadowed my every move, turning my daily life into a constant state of paranoia. A website even popped up, spreading vicious rumors that I was having an affair, designed to dismantle my marriage and discredit me personally.

It felt like I was living under a microscope, every moment scrutinized, every interaction a potential trap. The constant fear eroded my sense of security, chipping away at the peace of mind every parent deserves. My husband, a middle school teacher, was dragged into this ugly spectacle, his integrity questioned simply by association.

That’s when everything changed.

The school board meetings became arenas of chaos, hundreds of angry protesters screaming down anyone who disagreed with them. I received death threats, explicit and chilling, many of them quoting Randy Fine’s own social media posts. He leveraged his position, not to serve his constituents, but to punish his perceived enemies. One of the most infamous incidents involved his petty vindictiveness over a Special Olympics fundraiser.

Offended he wasn’t invited, Fine reportedly called me obscene names to other elected officials. He then threatened to strip vital funding from the Special Olympics itself and block a crucial water mitigation project for a local community. This wasn’t just political maneuvering; it was a demonstration of absolute power wielded for personal vengeance. He had been ordered to anger management by a local judge after multiple ethics violations, but he simply refused to show up, cementing his belief that he was above accountability.

His public persona mirrored this private aggression. Randy Fine, the MAGA Republican Congressman, made headlines for posting despicable, racist comments like, “If they force us to choose, the choice between dogs and Muslims is not a difficult one.” He said it, then doubled down, claiming, “This is who I am.” He also posted inflammatory rhetoric after the murders of Renee Nicole Good and Alex Prey, writing, “An armed seditionist attacked federal law enforcement today… The insurrectionist was put down. Well done. I stand with ICE as they fight these foreign invaders and their treasonous allies.”

He even targeted musician Bad Bunny, reposting made-up lyrics and calling his halftime show “disgusting and pornographic filth.” He then demanded the FCC impose fines and review broadcast licenses for the NFL and NBC, even threatening Bad Bunny directly: “Lock them up.” This was a pattern of fabricated outrage, designed to incite and divide. This wasn’t about policy; it was about demonizing anyone who didn’t fit his narrow, hateful worldview.His interviews were a masterclass in aggressive posturing, a “gangsterism masquerading as I don’t even know what the hell that spews from his mouth.” He once declared on air, regarding federal agents, “If you get in the way of the government repelling a foreign invasion, you’re going to end up just like that lady did yesterday.” The implication was chilling, a thinly veiled threat of violence against dissenters. His constant harassment extended even to the family of the murdered Renee Nicole Good.

I couldn’t stand by and watch this man normalize hate from a seat in Congress. I decided to run against him for Florida’s Sixth Congressional District. It wasn’t just a political aspiration; it was a moral imperative, a fight for decency against extremism. My background as an educator, married to a teacher in one of the lowest-paid states for our profession, resonated with many.

We live paycheck to paycheck. I’ve worked two jobs since graduating college, even doing Instacart deliveries to make ends meet for my neighbors and my family. I know what it feels like to watch rising grocery costs, utility bills, and astronomical homeowner’s insurance premiums eat away at a monthly budget already stretched thin. This everyday reality is a stark contrast to Randy Fine, who lives in a multi-million dollar oceanfront home.

He has no idea what it feels like to live this struggle, yet he looks people in the eye and tells them everything is okay. The people of Congressional District 6, and frankly, across Florida, are sick of the fabricated outrage and the lack of respect. They want a representative who shows up, does the work, and treats people with dignity.

But I was wrong.

This isn’t just a battle of ideologies; it’s a battle for basic human decency. Many people on the right in my district are ecstatic I’m running because they are tired of his vitriol. They are tired of his abusive behavior, both to individuals and to the district itself, whether it’s ripping away healthcare or gaslighting constituents about rising prices.

Congress has forgotten who they work for, and Randy Fine most especially. Public service should make people feel safer, not smaller. It should use its platform to deliver for the people, not to continuously demean them. Fine’s nonsense manifests in tangible attacks on the people of the Sixth, from energy prices to the gaslighting that tells them they should be grateful.

Randy Fine doesn’t even get along with people in his own party. Governor DeSantis once called him a “squish” and said he repels people. He’s a loyalist only to himself, using extremism as a ladder for personal gain, not for the party’s overall benefit. This selfishness has now put him at odds with the state leadership.

I didn’t see what was coming.

He’s currently calling Tallahassee every single day, trying desperately to prevent them from redistricting the congressional map. He fears it will negatively impact him, diluting his district and jeopardizing his seat. He’s truly scared he’s going to lose this race.

We need to cut the cancer out when we can. If you are disgusted by what you’re seeing in Washington, Randy Fine is legitimately one of the most hateful and vile members of Congress. I’ve done this before, unseating an extremist. We can do it again.