I woke up this morning with the sun pouring in, warm and unbothered, as if it didn’t know what day it was—or maybe I’m numb and just don’t care. Funny how nature stays indifferent while the world watches, judges, speculates. But me? I’m calm. Centered. Nostalgic.
Today is my last day of freedom at least in the physical sense. Tomorrow (last week Friday), I surrender. And yet, I don’t feel broken. I feel… resolved. I’ve always said I’m a survivor. I’ve always said, “You may not like me, but you will never ignore me.”And hasn’t that proven true?
I’ve lived a life most wouldn’t dare to dream. A gay, Latino, Jewish-ish kid from Queens who made it to the U.S. House of Representatives—and made it unforgettable. Say what you want about me (believe me, you all have), but I never backed down from who I was. I lived out loud. Even when the world tried to mute me.
Sure, the road got bumpy. Okay, it got volcanic. But if you think any of that ever stopped me from getting up, showing up, and speaking up, then you never understood me to begin with.
I’ve been called a liar, a grifter, a joke, a fraud. But I’ve also been called a fighter, a voice for the unheard, and—my favorite—“the most entertaining man in American politics.” (Thanks, Jesse Watters. Still waiting on the coffee date.)
Yes, I’ve made mistakes. And yes, there are things I wish I had done differently. But I will never apologize for living life authentically—even if sometimes that authenticity came with chaos. As I once told reporters outside court: “I’m human. I fumble. But I rise.” And that’s exactly what I plan to keep doing.
Today, I’ve spent my time quietly. No glitz. No cameras. Just good food, my family, any dogs and moments of stillness. I’ve reflected on my mother my hero who I know is watching over me. I’ve prayed. I’ve cried. I’ve laughed too. Because if you can’t laugh at the insanity of life, then what’s the point?
To my haters, I say: enjoy the silence. It won’t last.To my supporters: I carry your faith with me like armor.And to the rest of America: you haven’t seen the last of me.
This isn’t a goodbye. It’s an intermission.
Starting tomorrow, I enter a new chapter. One with cinderblock walls and no cell reception but trust me, that won’t stop the show. I’ve got plans. Ideas. Maybe even a little writing project. Because if I’m going to be off the stage for a bit, I might as well work on the script for my comeback.
So tonight, I raise a glass (sparkling water, for now) to the madness behind me and the mystery ahead. I leave you with the same spirit I brought to Congress: unfiltered, unafraid, and fabulous.
And maybe—just maybe—I’ll leave the door open a crack for a little weekly note from the inside.