We Can’t Go Back

Indiana, innovation, and the cost of mistaking stability for progress.

Last night at dinner, my six-year-old looked up at me and asked, out of nowhere:

“Mom, do you ever wish you could be a kid again?”

I actually stopped and thought about it.

“I guess sometimes,” I told him. “But I don’t think I can go back to being six.”

He considered that carefully and then said, very seriously, “You’d have to have real magic.”

And then we moved on to spelling practice — to his growing suspicion that English, as a language, is a scam.

Life doesn’t pause for existential questions. We had spelling to argue about.

Lately, I’ve just been more conscious of time. Not in some dramatic way. Just in the quiet moments.

You realize it doesn’t slow down. That you don’t get to circle back. That whatever you’re building — your work, your family, your impact — is either taking shape now or it isn’t.

For me, this hasn’t been about a single election cycle or a sudden decision. It’s been a long build. Years of work, conversations, campaigns, showing up. A marathon more than a sprint.

I don’t spend much time wishing I could rewind.

I’m not wired for nostalgia. I don’t long for being six again. I tend to think about what’s coming instead — about how fast everything feels lately. Technology. Culture. Politics. It feels like the ground is shifting while we’re still standing on it.

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In politics, this feelings shows up as a pull toward what’s familiar.

Most of the pushback sounds ordinary. “We tried that.” “That’s not how it’s done.” Over time, that tone hardens and narrows what feels possible.

Stability matters. But it isn’t the same thing as progress.

If there’s any magic in this moment, it won’t come from rewinding anything.

It looks more like quantum computing — systems capable of solving problems we once assumed would take generations. The federal government is already moving toward a more centralized national quantum strategy, because leadership in that space shapes security and economic power for decades. The race is underway.

Artificial intelligence has already found its way into daily life — into drafts, designs, scans, targeting systems. A recent study suggested that 44 common jobs could feel its impact in the coming years, from administrative roles to technical work. That doesn’t mean everything vanishes overnight.

Even the mechanics of politics are adjusting. Democratic organizers have launched experimental AI labs to understand how campaigns can use — and not misuse — emerging tools responsibly. When the tools change, the institutions around them have to change too.

And this isn’t happening somewhere else. It’s happening here. In Indiana, employers are openly warning about a widening shortage of skilled workers — even as industries grow more technical and complex. We have open jobs. We have people who want work. Somewhere in between, the connection has weakened. Training hasn’t kept up. Long-term planning hasn’t either.

The roots go deeper than the labor market.

According to the latest Making the Grade 2025 report, Indiana earns a D for school funding and ranks 33rd in the nation. Per-pupil revenue sits at $16,297 — about $1,556 below the national average. That difference compounds over time, and in Indianapolis, families feel it acutely as they try to navigate a complex school system.

School funding comes primarily from state and local dollars, but federal revenue plays a critical role in narrowing gaps — particularly for low-income students and special education. When federal programs stall, inequities widen. Congress has the authority to strengthen those programs and to set expectations for states that fall behind.

If we expect our kids to compete in a world shaped by AI and advanced industry, then federal education funding can’t be treated as background noise.

And the future doesn’t pause just because we’re unprepared. It keeps moving — with or without us.

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When my son said it would take “real magic” to go back, he was right.

There is no magic strong enough to rewind time.

But there is another kind.

As I finish this, he’s heading out the door for school with my husband: backpacks, shoes — managed chaos of a weekday morning.

On the way out, he asks, “Dad, what’s your biggest fear?”

My husband answers, “That you kids won’t get to live the life you deserve. Or the life you expect.”

My son says, almost as if he has the upper hand, “Dad, the only way to beat your fear is to confront it.”

Six-year-olds have a way of cutting straight through.

I don’t know exactly what the world will look like when he’s grown. None of us does. But I do know that wishing for the past won’t prepare him for it.

We can’t go back.

So we confront what’s ahead. And we build for it.