the conscientious objector
I have made the decision to become a conscientious objector in relation to my country and the political structures that currently claim authority over my life. This is not an impulsive act, nor is it rooted in performative outrage—it is a principled stance grounded in deep concern for the erosion of integrity, truth, and collective well-being within our governing systems.
One of the first steps I’ve chosen is to unregister as a voter. This isn’t apathy—it is a deliberate and meaningful rejection of a system that I no longer believe represents me or the broader public interest. I encourage others who feel similarly to consider this as a personal act of resistance. I keep documentation of my unregistration, and I’m prepared to explain it if the need arises—not to provoke, but to offer a mirror.
But I also understand that action can’t stop there. I’ve been reflecting on how to live my values without feeding the spectacle. I don’t use social media. I haven’t returned to any platform or made any public posts since the attempted insurrection on January 6th years ago. I find the performative outrage and shallow discourse not only unhelpful but corrosive. Instead, I seek quieter, deeper methods of resistance that don’t rely on algorithms or popularity contests.
Here are some of the paths I’ve committed to—and ones I suggest for others who also wish to step away from complicity, without stepping out of conscience:
1. Economic Disengagement & Selective Consumerism:
I am actively redirecting where my money goes. I prioritize local businesses, barter when possible, repair instead of replace, and avoid supporting major corporations that shape policy through lobbying. I contribute to and support mutual aid networks—not traditional nonprofits or large charities. Every dollar I don’t give them is one less dollar they can use to write the rules.
2. Building Alternatives Over Protesting Systems:
I focus my skills on constructing alternatives—whether that’s sustainable electrical systems, experimental technologies, or community knowledge-sharing. I believe that building new systems is a more potent form of rebellion than simply criticizing the old ones.
3. Public Letters Over Social Media:
Instead of tweeting into the void, I write letters. Thoughtful, concise ones. Sometimes to local newspapers, sometimes to local boards, or even my public library. These venues still reach real human beings, many of whom feel just as alienated but don’t know how to voice it. It’s slow, but real. Analog resistance has power.
4. Passive Resistance / Non-Cooperation:
I quietly refuse performative rituals—nationalistic displays, party events, even census participation. I don’t support political fundraisers or outreach efforts. When someone asks why, I explain calmly. It’s not about noise. It’s about refusal. Strategic, consistent refusal
5. Mutual Aid and Intentional Community:
I’ve begun building ties with others who share these values—not to form a new social club, but to strengthen support networks where people exchange resources, information, and encouragement on their own terms. These kinds of networks are hard to see from the outside, but they are alive—and vital.
6. Making My Life a Signal:
My life is my banner. My rebuilt Honda Fit—a machine I brought back from the dead and turned into a platform for invention—is a reflection of how I live and what I stand for. You don’t need a megaphone when your work speaks. The way you wire your home, the way you spend your time, even the light in your windows—these are your public statements.
To those who feel the system is irredeemable, and who are neurodiverse or socially cautious like myself, you are not powerless. You do not need to shout. You do not need a hashtag. History is full of quiet resisters who did more with silence than armies did with guns. I choose to walk that path now.
If you feel similarly, and want help shaping your own objection, declaration, or practical approach, I’m here to share what I’ve learned. We don’t have to play their game to leave
the table.