As this year’s campaign season winds down, Minnesota is once again in a moment where emotions run high and divisions are amplified. Some of us lean into (or are sucked into) the divisiveness and anger and fear. Some articulate a desire to get back to a time where our divisions weren’t so bad.
I was thinking about this in September, when the country marked the 25th anniversary of the 9/11 attacks. As always, the commemorations brought a wave of reflection — not just about the terror of that day, but about the sense of unity many people remember from the weeks that followed. My social media was filled with posts from those who lived through it, recalling a moment when Americans supposedly stood shoulder‑to‑shoulder, differences set aside.
There’s truth in that memory. Shock and grief can be connective. Especially when “Americans” — a label so many of us wear, despite so many differences — were the target of the attack. And millions of people did respond with generosity and resolve. But nostalgia has a way of smoothing out the history we’d rather not revisit.
Even in the weeks after 9/11, unity was uneven. “Americans” is a very large category, and not everyone was embraced within it. Muslim Americans and others perceived as “foreign” faced racial profiling, suspicion and exclusion. The unity some people remember was real for them, but it was never universal.
Minnesotans saw a similar pattern during the first weeks of COVID‑19. Political leaders stood together. Messaging was coordinated. There was a brief sense that the usual partisan reflexes had been suspended. And then, of course, they weren’t. The bipartisan front began to fracture right around the time Gov. Tim Walz’s approval numbers went sky‑high, and Minnesotans who opposed either the tactics or the strategy spoke with louder voices. In a political culture where, “don’t let your opponent get any kind of win” has become conventional wisdom, cooperation is often treated as a liability rather than a public good.
Which brings us to now — the end of campaign season. If there is a time when unity is hardest to practice, it’s the months leading up to an election. Campaigns are built on contrast. They elevate division by design. And in Minnesota, with so many races on the ballot this year, the pressure has been intense. Candidates, their supporters, and their families have been running on caffeine, adrenaline and the knowledge that razor‑thin majorities will determine who sets the agenda and who holds power.
In that environment, candidates who try to appeal to the left, right and center often have the toughest road. The effort to bring people together can end up alienating everyone. What used to sound like, “If you’re not with us, you’re against us” has morphed into, “If you’re not against them, you’re not with us.” Political activists and hard‑core supporters reward purity, not bridge‑building. And voters, exhausted by conflict, are still encouraged to sort themselves into camps.
So the question becomes: If we know that moments of crisis can produce our best instincts, how do we carry those instincts into the rest of our civic life — especially during the most divisive season of the year?
For me, the answer starts with language. I’ve never loved the word unity. It suggests sameness, or agreement, or a single note everyone is expected to sing. It flattens nuance, and nuance is where real democratic work happens. Unity can become ideological — a demand for alignment rather than an invitation to collaborate.
Solidarity, on the other hand, is functional. It doesn’t require us to be identical or to think alike. It simply asks us to recognize that we can work together toward a goal, or support an idea, even when we bring different experiences and perspectives to the table. Solidarity doesn’t erase difference; it makes room for it.
And solidarity is something we can practice — especially now, when the campaign signs are still in the yard and the emotions are still high. Solidarity looks like aspiring public servants talking about what they can bring to the table, not how terrible their opponent is. It looks like remembering that candidates are people with families who are also living through this marathon. It looks like approaching political conversations with curiosity, acknowledging that disagreement doesn’t have to be a threat, and that shared purpose doesn’t require shared ideology.
But solidarity also shows up in the small interpersonal moments that follow an election — the ones that never make the news but absolutely shape our civic culture.
If someone in your life is happy about the result and you aren’t, saying “Congratulations” doesn’t require you to join the celebration. It’s simply an acknowledgment of their experience. On the flip side, if someone you know is disappointed or overwhelmed, a message like, “If you aren’t ready to talk while you process the results, I understand — but I’m here for you” can go a long way. These gestures don’t solve polarization, but they do soften its edges. They remind us that relationships don’t have to rise and fall with political outcomes.
The anniversary of 9/11 reminded us how powerful our instincts toward connection can be. Campaign season reminds us how quickly those instincts can be buried. If we want a healthier civic culture — one that doesn’t require tragedy to bring out our best — solidarity may be the best place to start.
Shannon Watson is the executive director of Majority in the Middle, a St. Paul-based nonprofit. She’s also a longtime State Capitol observer and provided occasional Voices commentaries during the 2026 legislative session. You’ll find Watson’s previous Middle Aisle columns here.
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