What Comes Next Isn’t a Debate. It’s a Test.

An apology, the pivot, and what The Long Memo is becoming.

You may have noticed I’ve been quieter lately. No Monday briefings. No hot takes. No daily drumbeat of doom.

That wasn’t burnout—it was deliberation. I wasn’t just watching the collapse unfold. I was trying to decide what to do about it. What this publication should become in the face of it.

Then last Sunday, I posted something different—Trump dressed as a Pope. A moment of AI mythmaking that struck a nerve. Some of you got it. Some of you didn’t. That’s on me.

It wasn’t meant to be a joke. It was the signal—delivered in the language of absurdity, because the moment itself has become absurd.

That image was the beginning of the shift.
This post is the rest of it.

---

I want to apologize.

Not for being wrong.

But for being too cautious. For waiting. For playing it safe while the game was rigged and the clock was running out.

I’ve spent the last few months watching the world melt into absurdity and wondering whether what I write matters. Whether the right people are reading. Whether any of this changes anything.

There’s a clip from The Newsroom—you probably know the one. The monologue where Jeff Daniels finally snaps and tells the truth about America.

It’s not brave.
It’s not viral.
It’s honest.

And that’s what I’ve decided to be from now on.
Not clever. Not viral. Not safe.

Honest.

I’ve been told for years that I had a gift—that I could see around corners, that I could make sense of chaos, that I could explain the fog before most people even realized they were in it.

Professors told me. Colleagues told me. Some of the most powerful people I’ve worked with told me.

I passed my comprehensive exam at GW with high honors. Multiple professors told me it was the most commanding performance they’d seen in a decade. One said I reminded them of Waltz. Another told me to walk away from the government entirely and change the discipline.

But I didn’t.

I went into the machine. I buried the signal. I worked in rooms where clarity was dangerous. I rationalized. I waited.

And then I walked away from all of it.

I didn’t write the book. I didn’t fight the system.

I went into advertising.

Sold products. Crafted campaigns. Built useful things, sure—but not important ones. Not in the way that mattered.

I told myself someone else would say it. Louder. Sooner. With more reach.

But they didn’t.

So I will.

---

I didn’t start this publication with a brand strategy or a long-term plan. I started it because I needed to write—and because I knew too much to stay silent.

At first, it was catharsis. I had a decade’s worth of analysis and perspective locked inside me. I’d spent years explaining complex risk to policymakers. Then I found myself with no clear outlet, no mission, just an urge to get it down. So I wrote. And wrote.

But I got lost in the fog like everyone else—posting, reacting, analyzing.
The noise became the point.

And I let that happen.

Because Substack is crack for writers and meth for readers.

Substack, God love it, has become the intellectual equivalent of a heroin den—especially for political discourse. You’ve got the washed-up politicos and intellectuals telling you what to think. The rage-fueled click-farmers trying to out-outrage each other. And the self-styled philosophers who can’t stick the landing.

Some are good. Most are atrocious. But that’s not the point.

I cracked the code. Twice. I built The Long Memo and Borderless Living, and both ranked in the first quarter of their existence. I grew an audience that most “stackers” would sell their grandmother to reach.

But clicks don’t equal clarity.
And clout won’t help you survive what’s coming.

I’m not here to entertain.
I’m not here to vent.
I’m not here to float vibes and half-baked frameworks.

Because readers keep coming back to me with the same two questions:

What the hell is going on?
And what do I do now?

So I’m here to tell you the truth—as clearly and precisely as I can.
I think I’m one of the few people who can.

I studied political science, history, statistics, mathematics, and economics.
I worked for ten years in national defense and intelligence.
I briefed decision-makers on geopolitical risk in real time.
I’ve seen how systems fail—from the inside.

Now, you're the decision-maker.
And this is the risk briefing no one else will give you.

Because what's coming next isn’t a debate.
It’s a test.
And most of us aren’t ready.

I’ve written things for other publications that were cut—because they didn’t want to print certain truths. That’s their prerogative. But I’m the editor-in-chief here. So you’ll get the whole thing. Unvarnished. In sequence.

---

From here forward, The Long Memo won’t be performative.

It won’t tell you what you want to hear.
It won’t pretend this is salvageable in the way you hope.

It will give you clarity, tools, frameworks, and strategy—so that if you survive what’s coming, it won’t be by accident.

Much of that work will be for paid subscribers—because it has to be sustainable if it’s going to last through what’s coming.
But when something truly urgent happens—when a threshold is crossed—I won’t keep that behind a paywall. You’ll know. And you’ll know fast.

I’ll still be angry sometimes. But that won’t be the engine anymore.
We’re past that phase.

For those who’ve decided their fate lies elsewhere—that this system is too far gone—Borderless Living will chart the exits. Second passports. Financial escape plans. Safe haven strategies. Tactical guides for legal, quiet departure.

The deeper, detailed strategy will be for paying members—because that’s what makes it possible.

But when it’s time to run? That alert will be free. Always.

Let me be clearer than I’ve ever been:

You're not planning to leave a country.
You're preparing to escape a collapsing empire.

And you need more than tactics.
You need clarity—before the terrain closes around you.

---

As for me, my identity will remain anonymous—for now.
But that day is coming. Soon.

A story, if you'll allow it.

Years ago, I was invited to the Magic Castle in Hollywood—a private magician’s club. I was there as a guest of a friend, a lawyer and an amateur magician. That night, I had the chance to meet Penn Jillette and Raymond Teller. Yes, that Penn & Teller.

My father was an amateur magician too, and specialized in palm tricks. So I knew the mechanics. Watching Teller, I said: “I know what you’re doing. I know the trick. And I still can’t see it.”

He just laughed.

Later, I asked him: Why don’t you speak on stage?

Teller said, “By not talking, I force the audience to engage. They have to fill in the blanks. They have to pay attention.”

And that’s what I’ve done here, for now.
By staying silent about who I am, I’ve forced you to confront what I’ve written—not who wrote it.
You had to fill in the blanks.
And many of you did.

One day soon, I’ll step into the spotlight.
Until then, the work will have to speak louder than the name.

---

You deserve better than outrage bait.
You deserve better than viral despair.
You deserve something real—because what’s coming is.

I’m going to keep writing.
Not because I have all the answers.
But because I know the questions.
And I intend to find the answers—with you, not for you.

I hope you'll keep walking this road with me—from confusion to clarity, and into whatever comes next.