Losing a long-standing relationship because of political polarization—especially around Donald Trump—has become a common and painful experience in 2025.
Here is my story. We met in kindergarten in Paterson, New Jersey—two sons of Latin American immigrants navigating the same cracked sidewalks, the same crowded hallways, the same dreams our parents carried north. For decades, our friendship was an anchor, a reminder of where we came from and who we were becoming. We shared the same values, the same struggles, the same hopes for the future. I still remember him saying, “You know you’re my best friend,” as we rode bikes through our neighborhood on a lazy summer afternoon in the 1970s, as if I needed the reassurance. I didn’t. In that moment, I believed we’d be lifelong friends.
Even as we grew older—attending different high schools, heading to different universities, eventually moving to different states, starting our own families—our bond only deepened. And though he leaned right and I leaned left, it never mattered. Not then.
But something shifted in 2016.
When Trump was first elected president, I noticed a change in him—subtle at first, then impossible to ignore. By the time Trump ran for re‑election in 2020 and again in 2024, our phone text exchanges had become almost entirely political. He no longer asked about my family, my work, or my life. Instead, every conversation centered on how unfairly he believed Trump was being treated, repeating the grievances that had become common among Trump’s most devoted supporters.
At one point, I told him we shouldn’t talk politics anymore. After all, I reminded him, "I am not your friend because of your political affiliation." But, he pleaded, we should—because he had "no one else to talk to about it." I agreed, partly out of loyalty, partly because as a journalist I was curious about a community I covered but wasn’t personally part of. He offered a window into MAGA thinking, and I convinced myself our deeply rooted friendship superseded political ideologies.
But the window became a tunnel.
He predicted what would happen on January 6, 2021, then immediately dismissed it as the work of antifa and other baseless theories circulating online. He fully embraced the conspiracy that the 2020 election had been stolen from Trump. Throughout Joe Biden’s presidency, he complained endlessly about the administration, but when Trump announced he would run again, something in him hardened. His rhetoric grew sharper, more aggressive. He began parroting talking points from MAGA influencers—especially the podcasters he followed religiously. His language darkened, turning openly derogatory toward immigrants, LGBTQ+ people, and other marginalized communities. Whatever Trump attacked, he attacked too—including me, whether as a journalist, a diversity and equity practitioner, a supporter of immigrant rights, or just as someone who disagreed with Trump.
When Trump returned to the White House this year, the distance between us only widened. His alt‑right views, once hinted at, became fully emboldened. He began speaking to me with a kind of swaggering certainty, as if Trump’s victory had validated every extreme belief he’d adopted over the years. He mocked me for supporting Biden and later Kamala Harris, calling me a “loser” for voting for them. I told him repeatedly that I voted for the person I believe would do the best job as president, not the person I thought was most likely to win. But nuance no longer had a place in our conversations. His political identity had fused so tightly with his sense of self that any disagreement with Trump felt to him like a personal attack. And the more emboldened he became, the smaller the space grew for the friendship we once had.
In the months after Trump's second inauguration, he couldn’t accept my positions, no matter how many times we had already discussed them. He circled back again and again, as if repetition might wear me down. When I suggested again that we stop talking politics, he simply couldn’t. Over time, I realized I had enabled his hatefulness and had unintentionally created a private stage where he felt free to be a version of himself he hid from the world. His texts became irate, laced with expletives, and sometimes threatening. In person, he was different—calmer, almost sheepish. But the digital version of him kept showing up.
For him, everything was black and white. I either agreed with Trump, or I was wrong—no middle ground, no space for an alternative view. He embraced an “Us versus Them” mentality. “Trump won by a landslide,” he insisted. I’d remind him that it was certainly a definitive electoral victory, yes, but that Trump had won the popular vote by just two million. What about the 75 million Americans who didn’t vote for him? Don’t they matter? I’d ask. “No,” he said without hesitation.
In the past year, I’ve visited communities in 13 states through The 50: Voices of a Nation initiative. What I’ve learned is simple but profound: while we may disagree on how to get there, most of us still want the same things. We, the people of these United States, continue to strive for life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.
I hold my own point of view, but I also leave room for the possibility that I’m wrong — that someone else may see a better path forward. Embracing a rigid “with us or against us” mindset doesn’t just limit our imagination. It threatens the very foundation of our democracy.
The breaking point in our friendship came the day Charlie Kirk was murdered. Like many on the far right, he immediately blamed "the radical left." I said it was irresponsible to jump to conclusions without evidence. He was furious about the argument that erupted on the House Floor after a moment of silence for Kirk, and I asked where that sentiment had been when a Democratic state lawmaker was murdered in Minnesota earlier this year. He defended President Trump’s silence on that incident. And then he said it: that I was evil, like all Democrats and liberals—although I’m an independent who has voted for both parties.
And just like that, he ended our friendship—offering none of the patience I had consistently shown him. I found it ironic, though hardly unexpected. I did not protest or seek reconciliation.
Polarization research shows that when politics becomes a core identity, people often interpret disagreement as a personal attack. Experts say that in these cases, a truce may not be possible until the political temperature cools—or until the other person chooses to change.
Experts note that political differences alone don’t usually end relationships—but value differences often do. When someone’s political identity becomes tied to beliefs that undermine your dignity or safety, letting go of the relationship can be an act of self‑care.
I miss and remember fondly the boy I grew up with, but not the man he became. As 2025 closes and 2026 begins, many of us are taking stock of the year—the good, the bad, and the painful. I know I’m not alone in losing a friendship to politics. But at 55, I’ve come to believe in shedding what no longer contributes to my life, positively or productively. I don't have time for anything less.
This first year of Trump’s second term has taken a heavy toll on countless people—workers displaced as institutions were dismantled, families separated in sweeping ICE raids, civil rights pushed to the brink, and entire communities left unsettled under an increasingly authoritarian climate. My loss is small compared to theirs. But I still try to find opportunity in adversity. In a way, Trump pulled a weed from my garden. Now I have space to plant something new—that brings joy, compassion, challenge, and growth to my life.
If you have experienced the type of loss that I have, maybe you’ll consider doing the same as you step into the new year.
Hugo Balta is the executive editor of the Fulcrum and the publisher of the Latino News Network
