What We Choose to Become

Love in the Face of Loss

Minnesota stood still for a moment when Representative Melissa Hortman, her husband Mark, and their golden retriever Gilbert were laid to rest. The rotunda of the St. Paul Capitol stood still. Gilbert, their golden retriever, who had survived the initial attack only to be euthanized due to his injuries, was memorialized with an urn etched in pawprints. He was more than a dog; he was a gentle guardian, a former service animal, and a silent witness to violence too cruel for words. In an unprecedented tribute, he became the first nonhuman to lie in state in Minnesota—a reflection of both who he was and what he meant.

Hundreds came. Some brought flowers, others brought dogs. All brought heartache. The weight of loss was matched only by the warmth of shared mourning. Inside the Capitol, strangers and friends alike stood together. Outside, the summer breeze carried stories of service, of loyalty, and of a family whose legacy transcended political lines.

Melissa and her husband’s funeral was held on June 28, 2025, following a public lying-in-state that Friday. The service was private, but the grief was universal. Former Vice President Kamala Harris came to offer support to the Hortmans’ children, Sophie and Colin, while President Biden paid his respects at the Capitol. Sophie and Colin’s joint statement reminded us that hope often wears humble clothes. They invited the world to honor their parents not through headlines, but through human kindness: plant a tree, tell a dad joke, bake for a neighbor, and above all—stand for justice and peace.

And yet, amid the mourning, a silence of a different kind stood out.

Former President Donald Trump refused to call Governor Tim Walz, dismissing the gesture as a “waste of time.” His public comments—describing Walz as “whacked out” and “a mess”—cut through decorum like a blade. At a time when leadership should unite, he chose spite. Not a word of condolence. Not a breath of empathy. The White House remained mute on condemning the attack, a political assassination.

That silence—cold, calculated, and callous—will be remembered just as clearly as the golden retriever’s urn. In moments of mourning, character reveals itself. Some show up with grace. Others don’t show up at all.

What a shameful contrast to the lives we came to celebrate. Melissa, Mark, and Gilbert didn’t just live for Minnesota—they stood for decency. Their deaths remind us what we’ve lost. But the way they lived reminds us of what we must still fight for.

This weekend too, Twin Cities Pride blooms again—its colors bold against a backdrop of mourning. We gather to celebrate joy even as we grieve a staggering loss. The deaths of Melissa and Mark Hortman—and Gilbert, their loyal companion—have shaken us, yet they have not broken us. They remind us of why we must press on.

This convergence of Pride and remembrance is no accident. It is the intersection of who we are and who we aspire to be: a community rooted in love, resilience, and radical unity. As Pride flags wave and drums beat, we honor not only lives lost, but the lives still lived in fierce defiance of those who seek to divide us.

Let it be known that while a U.S. President may choose cruelty over compassion, we choose celebration. We sing songs of unity not just to remember who we were, but to become who we must be. We march not only in memory but in resistance. With every step, we say no to hatred, no to fear, no to the vitriol spewing from the highest office in the land.

This, too, is personal. Like the cancer I now carry in my body, hate has tried to spread through our nation. But I will fight it—with treatment, with grace, with fire. And so will we. As a community, we resist the disease of discrimination with a cure born of compassion. We are not a people defined by political assassination or presidential silence. We are a people shaped by solidarity, bound by justice, and carried forward by pride.

History will remember these days. It will look back not only at the monstrous silence of a broken White House administration, but at the triumphant noise of a people (queer and straight) who refused to be silenced. We will not be erased. We will not be stopped. We march forward—not despite our grief, but because of it.

Grief and celebration are not opposites—they are companions on the road to healing. This moment, heavy with sorrow and radiant with pride, reminds us that we are capable of holding both pain and joy, resistance and hope.

We do not shrink in the face of tragedy. We rise. We do not remain silent in the face of injustice. We speak, we sing, we shout, and we march. Pride is not just a parade—it is a declaration that we will not go backward. It is a promise that love will outlast hate, and that justice will outlive those who try to bury it.

As we remember the lives of Melissa, Mark, and Gilbert, and as I face my own uncertain health journey, I hold fast to the truth that strength is found in community. The arc of history is long, but it bends because we push it. Together.