What It’s Like Being The Only Conservative At The Dinner Table

I used to wonder, how will I fit in? Will they be mad at me? As I listened to dinner table conversations declaring “Donald Trump’s a dictator” or “All men are evil,” I started to quietly question the narrative at home. That’s when I realized how isolating it can be to think differently from the people you love, especially during the holidays, when we’re supposed to put our differences aside and be thankful for one another.

A Seat at a Divided Table

For a while now, I’ve debated the idea of nature versus nurture. Are we born with our inherent personality traits—is our path predestined for us? Or are we completely shaped by the views, morals, and parenting we receive from our mother and father? I don’t believe there’s a definitive answer to this question. Some people seem to become a perfectly curated reflection of how they were parented, while others completely diverge from it. Maybe it isn’t one or the other. Maybe we’re all a mix of both; a little of where we come from and a little of who we choose to become.

When I think back to my childhood, I don’t remember much political discussion. One of my first memories of my parents sharing opinions was in 2008, when President Obama was elected. Growing up in a tiny Scottish village, you wouldn’t expect controversy over another country’s election, yet it divided my household. The disagreements grew into bitter arguments and eventually a divorce. After that, my mother became strongly left-leaning, and I was exposed to the rise of identity politics. By thirteen, every dinner table conversation felt like a lesson on why communism was supposedly the answer to all of society’s problems.

I often felt, even in those early years, that I was already becoming an outcast. If my opinion differed even slightly, or if I dared to ask an innocent question, it was met with hostility rather than openness or explanation.

I often felt, even in those early years, that I was already becoming an outcast. If my opinion differed even slightly, or if I dared to ask an innocent question, it was met with hostility rather than openness or explanation. It didn’t take long before, in my early teens, I started to feel completely isolated. I felt distant at the dinner table; the food became tasteless, and the conversation felt even harder to swallow. Any time I expressed my own opinions on politics or culture, I was shut down, or even mocked on occasion. I couldn’t really make sense of my opposition to what was being preached either—was it teenage rebellion, or was I truly different from what I was raised to be?

I felt like I was being forced to be political; to choose a side and defend my position. Everything seemed to come from a place of offense, and that wasn’t just true for politics but also for life as the child of divorced parents. During this time, my experiences at home collided with broader cultural shifts shaping my generation. While searching for parental approval and my place in the world, I fell into the trap of wokeness.

The Allure, and the Cost, of Wokeness

My generation, Gen Z, grew up amid not just political change but a massive cultural shift that unfolded in a short period of time: the rise of social media, iPhones glued to our hands, Donald Trump’s election, Brexit, BLM, COVID, censorship, #MeToo, identity politics, and the era of “woke,” which now seems to be finally fading. It’s easy to understand why many in my generation are incredibly lost and feel uncertain about the future. Living in a household where every discussion was centered on these issues, I often felt lost. I didn’t know what to believe or who I was supposed to be.

In my later teens, I had unconsciously become part of the “woke brigade.” I’ve always been compassionate, sensitive, anxious, and eager to help. Supporting causes felt natural; I volunteered at charities that helped the elderly, the addicted, and the poor. After seeing how deeply some people were affected by society’s failings, I wanted to fight for them. I studied law, dreamed of becoming a human rights lawyer, and admired people like Amal Clooney, who fought for people like Maria Ressa, Julian Assange, and Nadia Murad.

The “girl boss” life I’d once wanted no longer felt empowering; it felt suffocating, like I was denying who I truly was.

I understand why many people my age lean left—it often feels more compassionate. But for me, something didn’t feel right anymore. Even though I’d heard these “woke” arguments at home, hearing them echoed in professional settings flipped a switch in my mind. When someone in power confidently stated, “White men are the root of all evil,” it became a turning point. Instead of just nodding along, I started asking questions—was any of this really true? After meeting someone who encouraged me to explore opposing perspectives, everything changed. I looked at the men around me, and I didn’t see evil; I saw people who were lost.

That realization set off a chain reaction, and I began questioning my beliefs and priorities. I’ve always been idealistic, a bit of a daydreamer. As a young teen, I imagined marriage, love, and babies. But as I drifted further left, my focus shifted to climbing the career ladder. When I thought about what that really meant—long hours, competition, constant pressure—I couldn’t see how marriage or children would fit. The “girl boss” life I’d once wanted no longer felt empowering; it felt suffocating, like I was denying who I truly was.

Grace at the Dinner Table

As I began to question the narratives I’d grown up with, the tension at home became more palpable. I’m not going to lie and say my family has graciously accepted my views or that everything is sunshine and roses. I’d grown up hearing my mother’s noble fight for tolerance and equality for all, yet those same principles often couldn’t be extended to me—especially when it came to my opinions on immigration, feminism, Christianity, or abortion. That’s when I started noticing the cognitive dissonance that runs through so much of modern politics: the idea that you can fight for acceptance while refusing to extend it to those who think differently.

I’m constantly at battle with myself over whether to voice my opinions or stay quiet. Any time I spoke about what I believed, it felt like I’d dropped a bomb—a fury would erupt, leaving me feeling like I was a bad person. Growing up with parents who argued constantly had already given me a bad impression of disagreements. In my mind, there was no world where people could disagree civilly or with respect. I had to look deep within myself to learn how to withstand emotional outbursts and stay true to what I believed.

I’d grown up hearing my mother’s noble fight for tolerance and equality for all, yet those same principles often couldn’t be extended to me.

You often hear people on the left, especially young people, say, “Be the change you want to see in the world.” For some, that means throwing tomato soup at a famous painting to protest climate change or standing up to sexism in the workplace. But I’ve come to see it differently. At the dinner table, I was tired of not being able to have a simple discussion without it ending in an argument and half-finished plates. I realized that if I could be the bigger person and engage calmly, others might follow my example, and maybe, little by little, our family conversations could start to heal.

If you find yourself feeling apprehensive about upcoming Thanksgiving or Christmas celebrations, know you’re not alone. It’s only human to want to be understood, especially by the people we love most. Sometimes it can feel as though family peace takes a backseat to political conviction. I’ve noticed that certain modern ideologies, often found on the left, seem to prize progressive causes over the closeness of the nuclear family, as if unity at home threatens the larger movement. But true change, I think, begins around the dinner table—with empathy, patience, and the courage to love people even when you don’t agree.