The Middle Seat: On Liberty & Responsibility

There’s a particular kind of discomfort that comes from sitting in the middle seat on a long flight. Wedged between two strangers—one hogging the armrest, the other nodding off on your shoulder—you’re denied both the view of the window and the freedom of the aisle.. You’re stuck. But you’re also, quite literally, in the middle of everything.

That’s where I’ve found myself lately—not on a plane (even if every seat feels like a middle seat today), but in the broader sense of American life. In the middle. Again.

I’ve spent most of my adult life there—ideologically, emotionally, and professionally. Generationally, I’m a “cusper”—born at the tail end of the Baby Boom but raised with the ethos of Gen X. I remember rotary phones and dial-up internet, but I carry a smartphone that unlocks with my face. I grew up with Walter Cronkite and now scroll through newsfeeds that refresh every 30 seconds. I was taught to write thank-you notes by hand, and now I send emojis to express condolences. I’ve seen the world change—fast—and I’m still trying to figure out how to change with it without losing myself in the process.

That same “middle seat” has defined my professional life as well. I’ve built a career as a translator—bridging the gap between fundraising practitioners and the data professionals who support them. I’ve helped frontline fundraisers understand that data isn’t just a report—it’s a story waiting to be told. And I’ve helped programmers understand that “donor intent” isn’t just a field in a CRM—it’s a relationship. My job, more often than not, is to listen to both sides and say, “Here’s what I think they’re trying to say.” It’s not glamorous. It’s not headline-making. But it’s necessary.

Just as I’ve played translator in my career, I’ve also tried to translate—within myself—the often competing values of liberty and responsibility. I came of age with a healthy skepticism of government overreach, a belief in individual liberty, and a deep respect for personal responsibility. Libertarian ideals made sense to me: less interference, more autonomy, and a general wariness of anyone who claimed to know what was best for everyone else.

But some moments test even the most practiced middle-seaters. And for me, that moment came with the arrival of the COVID-19 vaccines.

As vaccines began to roll out last year, I found myself in a strange place. I believe in science. I trust the data. I want to protect my family (my oldest daughter is an ER doctor, after all), my neighbors, and the most vulnerable among us. I also believe in bodily autonomy and the right to make personal medical decisions without coercion. I can’t ignore the reality that public health isn’t just personal—it’s collective.

That’s the tension of the middle seat.

A few weeks after my "booster" dose, I had a long phone call with a dear friend—someone I’ve known for years, someone I trust and admire. She told me, gently but firmly, that she and her family would not be getting vaccinated.

She asked, so I told her the reasons I decided to get vaccinated. Because of my work, because I believe in the science and the data, because I want to protect the people I love. I told her that I made the decision not because I was mandated to do so, but because I truly believe that doing so is for the collective good.

She shared her concerns about the speed of development, about long-term effects, about what she saw as government overreach. She spoke with conviction, and I listened—really listened—because that’s what I do. I heard the fear in her voice. I heard the protectiveness. I heard the love. And in that love, I heard the echo of my own concerns—quiet, but present.

And still, I couldn’t find the middle ground.

That was new for me. Unsettling. I’ve made a life out of standing in the space between opposing views and building bridges. But this time, the gap felt too wide. I couldn’t meet her halfway—not because I didn’t want to, but because the stakes felt too high. Because this wasn’t just a difference of opinion—it was a difference in how we understood risk, responsibility, and reality itself.

I didn’t argue. I didn’t try to change her mind. I set the phone down with a heaviness I couldn’t shake.. Not because we disagreed, but because I realized that sometimes, the middle seat doesn’t offer a clear view. Sometimes, it’s just a place where you sit quietly, holding on to the armrests, hoping the turbulence passes.

It’s not easy.

Because the middle seat, uncomfortable as it is, gives you a unique vantage point. You see both sides. You hear both conversations. You learn to navigate tension, to mediate, to hold space for complexity. You learn that progress doesn’t always come from shouting the loudest, but from listening the longest.

In civic life, the middle seat is often dismissed as indecision or weakness. But I think it’s where the real work happens. It’s where compromise is forged, where empathy is tested, where democracy either stretches or snaps. It’s where we ask hard questions without easy answers. Where we resist the pull of extremes and try, however imperfectly, to hold the center.

And yes, it’s exhausting.

But it’s also hopeful.

Because I still believe that liberty and responsibility are not opposites—they’re partners. This isn’t a new tension—it’s embedded in the fabric of our democracy, from the Constitutional Convention to the civil rights movement. 

I haven’t come to this belief easily. I wrestled with it. I read. I listened. I asked questions. And in the end, I chose to roll up my sleeve—not because I was told to, but because I believe in doing my part. Because I believe that freedom isn’t just about what we’re allowed to do—it’s about what we choose to do for each other.

So here’s to the middle-seaters—the bridge-builders, the skeptics who still believe. We may not have the best view or the most legroom, but maybe that vantage point is exactly what the world needs right now.