The Advocate Is Currently Out of Brain Cells... and patience

Running on Diet Mountain Dew, Stubbornness, and an Alarmingly Unprofitable Sense of Civic Duty.

October 1, 2026 | The Free-Range Advocate

Some days, I wake up ready to take on Congress.

Other days, I stare at my bank account and wonder whether I can afford the Diet Mountain Dew required to deal with everything.

Today is somewhere between the two.

Welcome to October, when legislative advocacy becomes particularly entertaining. We are just over a month away from the midterm elections, the 119th Congress is approaching its expiration date, and advocates everywhere are wondering whether the last two years of work are about to become an elaborate exercise in recycling.

Meanwhile, my brain has apparently taken an extended leave of absence without prior authorization. (blame it on the first real rain in 67+ days)

Unfortunately, unlike Congress, I don't have a staff, an operating budget, or a generous retirement plan.

I have a laptop, Diet Mountain Dew, a stack of just-paid bills, and an increasingly questionable commitment to public service.

Advocacy Is Apparently a Luxury Hobby

Here's something people don't talk about enough.

Advocacy costs money.

Not just the organizations that employ professional lobbyists or maintain offices in Washington. I'm talking about independent advocates, surviving spouses, veterans, caregivers, and ordinary citizens who dedicate their time to improving policies that directly affect their communities.

There are phone calls, research, conferences, travel expenses, mailing expenses, internet service, website fees, parking, and the occasional hotel room that costs more than my monthly grocery budget.

Then there's the biggest expense of all: time.

Every hour I spend reading legislation, reviewing federal regulations, corresponding with congressional offices, attending meetings, or helping someone navigate government bureaucracy is an hour I cannot spend earning a paycheck.

And contrary to popular belief, passion does not qualify as legal tender.

I have checked.

The electric company remains remarkably uninterested in my legislative accomplishments.

Election Season: When Advocacy Meets Musical Chairs

If you've never attempted legislative advocacy during the month or two leading up to an election, allow me to describe the experience.

Imagine spending nearly two years building relationships, researching legislation, meeting with congressional staff, collecting supporting information, and explaining why a particular issue deserves attention.

You finally start making progress.

Someone understands the problem. Another office expresses interest. A legislative proposal gains support.

Then election season arrives.

Suddenly, everybody is campaigning, fundraising, traveling, or preparing for the possibility that they might need a new job come January.

The legislative calendar becomes a game of musical chairs, except nobody knows exactly how many chairs will be left when the music stops.

And those of us advocating for veterans and surviving families?

We're standing there holding our research binders, wondering whom we will be explaining everything to next.

Congratulations! You've Almost Reached the Starting Line. Again.

On January 3, 2027, the terms of the 119th Congress end, and the 120th Congress begins.

For legislative advocates, that means another potential reset.

Bills that haven't become law generally expire at the end of a Congress. They must be reintroduced if their sponsors want to pursue them again.

New bill numbers. New cosponsors. Potentially new committee assignments, congressional staff, legislative priorities, and leadership.

Some relationships survive the transition. Others don't.

And if the member of Congress who championed your issue loses an election, retires, or moves on to something else?

Congratulations!

You may get to start all over again.

For those of us advocating for meaningful improvements to survivor benefits, including DIC parity, this is particularly frustrating.

The need doesn't disappear because Congress changes.

The bills still need attention. The families still need help. And those of us who have spent years explaining the problems still have to find the energy to explain them again.

Perhaps someone could invent congressional rollover minutes.

I've accumulated quite a few.

Meanwhile, Back in the Real World...

Here's where things become particularly ridiculous.

I'm 52 years old, looking for paid employment, and attempting to rebuild a career after years of supporting my husband's military service, becoming his caregiver, and subsequently dedicating an enormous amount of time to legislative advocacy.

I have professional experience, technical certifications, nonprofit leadership experience, and a working knowledge of legislation and the federal bureaucracy that I never particularly wanted to acquire.

Yet I'm still looking for a job.

Apparently, the ability to research federal regulations, communicate with congressional offices, and advocate for policy changes doesn't automatically translate into someone offering you a paycheck.

Who knew?

I've attended the employment workshops. I've rewritten the résumés. I've participated in mentorship programs.

I have enough career advice to open my own consulting firm.

What I don't have is a consulting firm's income.

And while I'm grateful for the people and organizations that genuinely try to help, another motivational presentation isn't going to pay my mortgage.

Neither is another opportunity to volunteer.

The Problem With Passion

There's an uncomfortable reality about advocacy.

The people most passionate about fixing a problem are frequently those directly affected by it.

They're the surviving spouses trying to rebuild their lives, the veterans navigating disability claims, and the caregivers whose own careers disappeared while caring for someone else.

These individuals bring experience and institutional knowledge that organizations and policymakers desperately need.

And too often, they're expected to provide it for free.

Apparently, having lived through the problem is considered excellent professional experience right up until somebody has to attach a salary to it.

I'm happy to volunteer when I can.

But I also need groceries.

And I would very much appreciate having a retirement account that doesn't consist entirely of optimism and loose change.

So, What's the Plan?

For the moment, it's fairly simple.

I'll continue advocating when I can. I'll continue looking for paid employment. And I'll continue reminding people that surviving spouses, veterans, and military families have problems that don't conveniently disappear when Congress adjourns.

But I'm also going to recognize that I cannot personally fix every problem, attend every meeting, or provide unlimited professional services without compensation.

Neither can thousands of other independent advocates.

As we approach the transition from the 119th to the 120th Congress, I hope organizations, elected officials, and their staff remember something important:

Our issues don't reset just because your legislative calendar does.

The people affected by these policies cannot afford to spend another two years waiting for everyone to get reacquainted with problems we've already spent years explaining.

And those of us doing the explaining shouldn't have to sacrifice our own financial stability to keep those issues alive.

Until Then...

Today, my brain is tired.

My bank account is tired.

And I'm reasonably certain that my laptop is tired of seeing me.

I'm going to open another Diet Mountain Dew, review my ever-growing list of unfinished projects, and decide which congressional office deserves my attention next.

Or perhaps I'll spend the afternoon applying for jobs.

After all, advocacy may be a labor of love, but love doesn't pay the electric bill, stubbornness doesn't buy groceries, and congressional relationships don't come with a pension.

I'm currently out of brain cells, running low on money, and rapidly approaching another congressional reset.

But apparently, common sense is also an unfunded mandate.

And somebody has to keep asking the questions.

Preferably somebody who gets paid.

The Free-Range Advocate: Unfunded, unfiltered, and apparently incapable of minding her own busines