I spend a lot of time talking with people — not in focus groups or political circles, but in the places real life happens. At bars, in hardware stores, on front porches. I do it because I want to know what I might be missing. How I can build something that actually fits real lives, not just ideas on paper. And over time, through hundreds of these conversations, a pattern has emerged that’s too important to ignore.

More and more Americans, from both sides of the political divide, are quietly admitting that they believe civil war is coming. They don’t scream it. They don’t celebrate it. They say it carefully, sometimes almost with shame — like they’re confessing a secret fear they wish they didn’t have. And if I’m being honest, I can’t say I haven’t had the same thought myself. I’ve seen the cracks forming, the trust evaporating, the permanent rage cycles feeding off themselves. I’ve wondered if the American experiment could really hold together when so many people have stopped believing in it.

What’s striking, though, is that most people who talk about civil war aren’t bloodthirsty. They’re not craving violence. They’re exhausted. Worn down by endless political tension, cultural division, economic insecurity, and a sense that no peaceful solution is coming. In a strange way, civil war has become, in some people’s minds, a kind of terrible relief — a way to break the endless pressure, to reset the system when it feels like no one is willing to fix it. It’s not that they want destruction. It’s that they can no longer imagine resolution.

Every time I hear someone say they believe collapse is inevitable, I ask the same question: to what avail? What happens after? What exactly are we fighting for? If there were sides, what would those sides stand for beyond anger and resentment? What system are we building when the old one is gone? And the truth is, almost nobody has an answer. That’s the dangerous part. Anger can start a war, but it can’t end one. It can burn everything down, but it can’t rebuild. History shows us that when societies collapse without a shared vision for what comes next, the result isn’t renewal. It’s chaos. It’s permanent fracture. It’s a power vacuum filled by opportunists who thrive on instability. It’s one revolution birthing another and another until the only thing left is exhaustion and rubble.

The American Revolution succeeded not because the colonies were angry — though they were — but because they had a plan. They knew what they wanted to build. They had a Constitution ready to replace what they tore down. Without that, they would have simply traded one tyranny for another. And today, in our own time, we are dangerously close to repeating the mistake history has warned us about for centuries: tearing apart a country out of anger without a real blueprint for what would take its place.

Somewhere along the way, we lost sight of who the real adversary is. We were taught — deliberately and repeatedly — to hate each other instead. Left against right. Rural against urban. Race against race. Neighbor against neighbor. Meanwhile, the systems that rigged the economy, that hollowed out the middle class, that corrupted elections and policymaking, stayed safely in place. It’s not your neighbor who made housing unaffordable. It’s not your coworker who hollowed out your pension. It’s not the parent at the school board meeting who collapsed public trust. The real fight was never supposed to be citizen against citizen. It was supposed to be citizen against broken systems — and we have been carefully, methodically trained to forget it.

There is still time to remember. But not forever. The cracks are getting wider. The anger is getting louder. The desperation is getting heavier. At some point, this train either finds a new track or it flies off the cliff.

That’s where the Roundtable Revolution steps in. It’s a constitutional path forward — a peaceful strategy to reclaim government for the people without violence or collapse. At the heart of it is the Liberty Compact: a bundled set of reforms designed to fix the foundations of our system — strengthening elections, governance, the economy, and public trust — so that anger doesn’t have to be the only language left.

At first glance, it probably sounds impossible. Maybe even a little crazy. A peaceful revolution, carried out by ballots instead of bullets, rebuilding a country that most people fear is already too far gone. It’s easy to dismiss it as impractical — the kind of thing you might dream about but never expect to see. But think about where we are today. Think about how many Americans, from every background, are fed up with the choices they’ve been given. Think about how many people you know — neighbors, coworkers, friends — who quietly want something different, something better, but no longer believe it’s possible. Now imagine if each of them realized they weren’t alone. If ten people who believe in change could find ten more. If those ten could find ten more. At what point does it stop being impractical? At what point does it start being inevitable?

The truth is, this isn’t a fantasy. It’s a possibility. One that grows stronger every time someone talks about it, shares it, or passes the idea to someone else who’s been waiting for something better. The yearning for change is already here. If you see it — if you believe in it — don’t hold it in silence. Share it with those who might be looking for the same thing and just don’t know where to find it yet. That’s how change begins: quietly, steadily, one person at a time. One conversation. One post. One share. One person willing to pass an idea forward. That’s how you outweigh money, influence, and everything the political machine depends on to survive. What feels impractical at first doesn’t stay impractical forever. If enough people recognize the possibility, it becomes something else entirely. It becomes unstoppable.

We don’t need another collapse. We don’t need another fight with no plan. We need a way forward that is strong enough, clear enough, and fair enough to hold this country together again. If you’re tired of feeling like the only choices left are collapse or surrender, you’re not crazy. You’re not alone. You’re exactly who this was built for.