The Valley Viewpoint

I’ve never been very good at the New Year rush.

You know the routine—big resolutions, bold promises, dramatic declarations that this will be the year everything finally comes together. New calendar, new you, no loose ends allowed.

But most years don’t begin that way. They begin quietly. Unevenly. With some things unresolved and others still unnamed.

That’s why, at the turn of the year, I keep coming back to the words of Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, the Jesuit priest who managed to live at the intersection of science and faith, intellect and mystery—and who understood patience far better than most of us ever will.

His line is simple:

“Above all, trust in the slow work of God.”

Jesuit wisdom often works like that. No fireworks. No slogans. Just a quiet truth that stays with you.

Teilhard knew how impatient we are. He didn’t scold it; he named it:

“We are quite naturally impatient in everything to reach the end without delay. We should like to skip the intermediate stages.”

That’s us. We want the lesson without the struggle, the clarity without the confusion, the peace without the waiting. We want January to fix what took years to tangle.

But life doesn’t work that way. And faith certainly doesn’t.

Teilhard reminds us that growth is messy by design:

“It is the law of all progress that it is made by passing through some stages of instability—and that it may take a very long time.”

That word—instability—used to bother me. Now I find it oddly reassuring. Instability means something is moving. It means you’re not stuck, even if you’re uncomfortable.

Jesuit spirituality has always been honest about that discomfort. It doesn’t promise easy answers; it asks you to pay attention. To notice what’s stirring. To stay with the questions instead of rushing past them.

I learned that lesson firsthand years ago in a conversation with James Keenan, better known to most of us simply as Jim Keenan, SJ. We were talking about growth, about frustration, about that constant sense of wanting things to move faster than they do. At one point, he smiled—gently, the way Jesuits do when they’re about to tell you something you already know but don’t quite want to hear—and said, almost casually, “Patience is still something you need to work on.”

No lecture. No judgment. Just a quiet truth placed squarely in front of me.

It stayed with me because it was right. And because it still is.

Teilhard puts words to that same idea:

“Let your ideas mature gradually—let them grow, let them shape themselves, without undue haste.”

Not everything needs to be decided in January. Not every doubt needs a name. Not every door needs to be forced open.

One line lands harder the older you get:

“Don’t try to force them on, as though you could be today what time… will make of you tomorrow.”

There’s a humility in that—earned only by experience. By realizing how often we tried to rush becoming someone we weren’t ready to be yet.

And then there’s this, perhaps his most honest line:

“Accept the anxiety of feeling yourself in suspense and incomplete.”

Incomplete.

That’s not how we like to describe ourselves. But maybe it’s the most truthful way to begin a new year. Not finished. Not figured out. Still in motion.

Jesuits speak often about discernment—about trusting that God works not only in answers, but in the waiting. Teilhard lived that belief. Jim KeenanSJ reminded me of it personally. What matters most isn’t mastering the outcome; it’s being faithful to the moment you’re actually in.

So this year, I’m not making grand promises. I’m not pretending I have it all lined up.

I’m trying something quieter.

Showing up. Paying attention. Practicing patience—still practicing it—and trusting that something good is happening even when I can’t yet explain it.

As this year opens, I’m giving myself a little grace. I’m letting go of the need to have everything named, solved, or settled. Some things in my life are still tender. Some questions remain open. Some hopes are only half-formed. And that’s okay. The most meaningful changes rarely announce themselves when they arrive. They unfold slowly, almost unnoticed, asking only that I stay present, do the next right thing, and trust that I’m being led—even when the path ahead isn’t clear yet.

For now, that feels like enough.

Trust the slow work.

It’s been going on longer than we realize.

A Valley Viewpoint Narrative

Hudson Valley residents don’t need a lecture on government waste. We’ve sat through enough school budget hearings, property-tax debates, and “temporary” levies that never seem to disappear. We understand something fundamental: when oversight fails, the bill always comes due — locally.

That’s why what happened in Minnesota isn’t some distant Midwestern scandal. It’s a warning.

Under Governor Tim Walz, Minnesota oversaw what federal prosecutors now describe as the largest pandemic-era fraud scheme in the country — and that may have been only the beginning. Billions of taxpayer dollars, earmarked for children, healthcare, and vulnerable families, were allegedly siphoned off while state agencies missed, ignored, or downplayed obvious red flags.

Here in the Valley, we know how government is supposed to work. You flag a problem, you fix it. You don’t wait for the feds to show up with indictments and then hold a press conference about “lessons learned.”

Yet that is precisely what happened in Minnesota.

Warnings were raised by state employees. Oversight systems existed. And still, fraud flourished — not because the tools weren’t there, but because leadership failed to use them. That failure didn’t occur in a vacuum. It occurred under a governor who now asks voters to see the scandal as an unfortunate footnote rather than a defining failure of governance.

Valley taxpayers should bristle at that framing.

Because if this can happen in Minnesota — with agencies funded, staffed, and supposedly monitored — it can happen anywhere. Including here. Especially when political leaders grow more focused on controlling the narrative than confronting the problem.

What’s most troubling isn’t just the fraud itself. It’s the response.

Instead of owning the breakdown, Governor Walz initially minimized estimates, dismissed criticism as “sensationalized,” and allowed allies to wave it off as partisan noise. That instinct is familiar to anyone who’s watched Albany or Washington circle the wagons while insisting everything is under control.

We’ve heard that before. And we know how it usually ends.

The media’s reluctance to dig deeper only compounds the issue. When watchdogs become cheerleaders — or worse, look away — accountability disappears. And when accountability disappears, the people who play by the rules pay the price.

For Hudson Valley readers, the takeaway is simple and sobering: this isn’t about Minnesota politics. It’s about whether government can be trusted to safeguard public money at all.

Leadership isn’t tested when things run smoothly. It’s tested when warning signs flash and hard decisions must be made early — before the damage is irreversible.

On that measure, Minnesota’s governor failed. And dismissing that failure doesn’t protect public trust. It erodes it.

Here in the Valley, we expect better. And we should demand it — from every level of government, regardless of party, geography, or talking points.

Because once trust is lost, no press release can buy it back.

In our lives, we don’t just lose objects or moments—we lose entire chapters of ourselves.

We lose health, sometimes gradually, sometimes all at once.
We lose time, often without noticing it slipping through our fingers.
We lose relationships that once defined our days.
We even lose earlier versions of ourselves—the person we were before we knew better, before life reshaped us.

There’s something healthy, even human, about being able to laugh at how some of those losses happened. The irony. The missteps. The moments where we did the best we could with what we knew then. Laughter doesn’t dishonor the loss—it softens the edges so we can keep going.

But there’s also a quiet necessity in mourning them.

Because grief isn’t weakness. It’s not indulgence. It’s not self-pity.

Grieving is a strong, deliberate act. It’s how we acknowledge that something mattered. That someone mattered. That a version of our life was real, meaningful, and worth remembering.

And sometimes, it’s a wonderful thing to share those thoughts with old friends—guys who have known you since you were a kid. Guys who remember who you were before the detours, before the scars, before the rewrites. Guys you don’t have to be guarded with, because there’s nothing to explain and nothing to perform. They already know you.

There’s an absolute wonderfulness in that kind of friendship—the comfort of being seen without armor, the ease of speaking honestly, the quiet understanding that comes from shared history.

To grieve is to say: this shaped me.
And to honor it—through tears, through laughter, and through conversations with those who’ve walked beside you the longest—is one of the most honest things we ever do.

I’ve been thinking about this story longer than I expected to.

Not because it’s shocking—sadly, it isn’t—but because it feels uncomfortably close to things I’ve seen before. Over the course of my career in labor relations and employment law, I’ve sat at conference tables, reviewed policies, advised managers, and watched how organizations respond when an employee stops being productive and starts being vulnerable.

A young woman. Smart. Capable. Employed at a successful tech company in Manhattan. Someone who, on paper, was doing everything “right.” Until she wasn’t.

According to a lawsuit now filed in New York, the pressure of her job slowly hollowed her out. Anxiety. Depression. A point where getting through the day became impossible. When that happened, she did what employees are told to do. She raised her hand. She took medical leave. She sought treatment. She trusted the system.

And for a while, the system appeared to respond.

Leave was granted. Conversations were had. Extensions were discussed. I’ve seen those emails before—carefully worded, professional, sympathetic on their face. The kind that reference policy while expressing concern. The kind that look reasonable when read aloud in a conference room.

Then the tone shifts.

Patience thins. Calendars matter more than conditions. Timelines replace judgment. The human situation becomes a “case” to be managed.

Her health insurance—while she was still in treatment—was cut off. Soon after, she lost her job.

Weeks later, she was dead.

I didn’t know her. But I’ve known versions of this story for years. Not the ending—but the path. Over and over, I’ve watched organizations move from support to separation, not out of malice, but out of habit. Policy thresholds get hit. Leave expires. Benefits end. Decisions are made that are technically defensible and procedurally clean.

And yet, devastating.

The company named in the lawsuit—MongoDB—has not commented publicly. The courts will decide what obligations were breached, if any. But legal compliance has always been the floor, not the ceiling. In labor relations, we know this. We’ve always known it.

What troubles me most is the absence of intention. No cartoon villain. No dramatic confrontation. Just a system doing exactly what it was designed to do when someone stops producing. The role is filled. The coverage ends. The file is closed.

Except for the people left behind.

We talk endlessly now about mental health in the workplace. Posters. Slack reminders. EAP links. Awareness days. But over the years, I’ve seen how quickly support evaporates when a condition lasts longer than expected, costs more than planned, or resists neat recovery timelines.

Employment in this country is a fragile bargain. Your job is your healthcare. Your healthcare is your lifeline. Lose one, and the rest can disappear almost overnight. When someone is already drowning, removing stability—even lawfully—can have irreversible consequences.

I don’t believe employers are responsible for every tragedy. Mental illness is complex. Suicide is never simple. But after years in this field, I do believe this: when an employee tells you they are not okay, and your response is driven primarily by policy expiration dates instead of human judgment, something fundamental has failed.

This case isn’t just about one company or one lawsuit. It’s about a culture of work that still confuses risk management with care. It’s about systems built for efficiency being asked—poorly—to handle fragility.

And it leaves me with the same question I’ve asked myself many times over my career:

When someone at work breaks down completely—when they are no longer useful, efficient, or easy—do our systems still recognize them as human?

If the answer is “only up to a point,” then that point deserves far more scrutiny than it gets.

A Valley Viewpoint Narrative

There’s a line in Mayor Yvonne Flowers’ Christmas message, posted below, that keeps echoing long after the decorations come down. Not the thanks to volunteers—that part matters and should be said. It’s the explanation that followed. The acknowledgment that things were “a bit overwhelmed without Frank.”

That stopped me.

Because when we’re talking about children—kids whose names were written on letters, kids who waited for gifts that never came—leadership cannot hinge on the presence or absence of one person. Especially not someone who holds no official role. And especially not someone whose recent, very public legal troubles underscore precisely why public-facing charitable programs must be built to function beyond personal reliance.

This isn’t about piling on. It’s about understanding how fragile systems fail.

When a program collapses because one individual isn’t available, the problem isn’t bad luck or unfortunate timing. It’s structure. It’s planning. It’s governance. Holiday charity isn’t a family operation—it’s a public trust. And public trust requires continuity, safeguards, and accountability.

Referencing a brother’s absence—under any circumstances—raises a deeper concern: who was responsible for making sure there was a backup plan? Who ensured donations didn’t simply “stop”? Who made sure no child was left behind because the system depended too heavily on informal help rather than institutional readiness?

Children don’t experience “context.” They experience outcomes.

They don’t know about staffing gaps, personal challenges, or legal distractions. They just know whether Santa came—or didn’t.

The volunteers showed up. The community tried. But leadership is measured not by effort alone—it’s measured by results, especially when the stakes are this human.

In the Valley, we understand something simple: explanations may comfort adults, but accountability protects children. And that’s the standard we should never lower—especially at Christmas.

In the photograph, there is a boy—young, thoughtful, his shoulders squared in that way that suggests he’s carrying more than his own weight. His name was Devante Burris. He was a student at Lincoln Hall, the residential school where I once worked—a place meant to offer young men in the juvenile justice system something most had never truly been given: a second chance.

This Christmas, I find myself reflecting on his story.

Devante had a presence about him. Serious. Focused. The kind of look that told you he was thinking beyond the moment in front of him. He spoke about the future. He told me he wanted to join the military. For him, it wasn’t just an escape from the past—it was a path toward purpose, discipline, and belonging. A way forward.

Wanting to give that dream every possible chance, I connected Devante with two men who understood service and sacrifice firsthand: Colonel T.J. Farrell and Captain Pete Sciabara—both longtime friends from my Xavier High School days. Neither hesitated.

Between them, they gave Devante something rare: time, attention, and respect. Long conversations filled with honesty, encouragement, and lived experience. They didn’t talk at him; they talked with him. They spoke as men who had worn the uniform, led others, and understood exactly what Devante was reaching for. They treated his aspiration not as a fantasy, but as something worthy of serious consideration.

In doing so, TJ and Pete honored what we were taught at Xavier—that the Holy Spirit asks us to show up, to use our talents, and to place them in service of others. No spotlight. No obligation. Just presence. Just care. Just the quiet belief that one life, given a little guidance and dignity, is worth the effort.

After those meetings, Devante sent me a thank-you note. It was gracious and hopeful. You could feel it in his words—he believed a door had opened. For the first time in a long while, the future felt possible.

But life has a cruel way of interrupting hope.

Not long after Devante was discharged from Lincoln Hall, he returned home. And then—suddenly, senselessly—he was shot and killed. We still don’t know who took his life. His murder remains unsolved. No answers. No accountability. Just an empty space where a future was supposed to be.

There’s no way to wrap that in meaning. No neat conclusion that makes it okay.

What remains is this: Devante tried. He wanted something better. And for a moment, he believed he could reach it. Colonel Farrell and Captain Sciabara helped ignite that belief by simply showing up, and I will always be grateful for that.

Devante Burris mattered. His story matters. His life mattered.

May his soul rest in peace—and may we never stop working toward a world where young men like him are given the chance to grow old.

Out here in the Hudson Valley, tax policy rarely feels abstract. It shows up in paychecks, tip jars, overtime hours, and kitchen-table conversations about whether things ever really get easier.

That’s why the latest debate over Trump’s new federal tax cuts matters—especially the part most people miss.

Washington passed the bill.

But Albany—and other blue-state capitals—get the final say on whether everyday workers actually feel it.

The headlines frame it as partisan warfare: Blue states blocking Trump’s popular tax cuts. That’s catchy. It’s also incomplete.

Here’s what’s really happening.

The federal law created new exemptions—no federal tax on tips, no federal tax on overtime, additional relief for seniors. But states don’t automatically follow federal tax changes. They have to opt in. And some of the bluest states in the country—New York, California, Illinois—are choosing not to.

So while a server in South Carolina may keep more of their tips, a server in Poughkeepsie still sees the state take its cut.

While overtime workers elsewhere get relief, New York keeps the meter running.

State leaders say they’re protecting budgets. They warn that conforming would cost billions—money they rely on for schools, transit, and social programs. On paper, that argument makes sense.

But politics isn’t lived on paper.

It’s lived by restaurant workers who hear “no tax on tips” and assume it applies to them—until it doesn’t.

It’s lived by hourly workers putting in extra shifts, wondering why the promise stopped at the state line.

It’s lived by seniors who hear about tax relief on Social Security and then learn it’s only half true.

What makes this moment revealing is that it isn’t purely red versus blue. Some Democratic-led states have adopted parts of the cuts. Some Republican-led states haven’t adopted everything. This isn’t ideology in neat boxes—it’s selective math and political positioning.

And that’s the quiet truth no one wants to say out loud:

States love taking credit for federal benefits when they align with their priorities—and distancing themselves when they don’t.

New York, especially, has perfected this art.

We talk endlessly about affordability. We acknowledge that people are leaving. We commission studies, panels, and press conferences. But when faced with a choice to give workers immediate, visible relief—or protect revenue streams—we choose the ledger.

That may be fiscally defensible.

But it’s politically risky.

Because people don’t vote on spreadsheets. They vote on whether they feel heard. Whether a promise sounded real. Whether relief actually showed up.

Out here in the Valley, people aren’t asking for miracles. They’re asking for consistency—and honesty.

If the answer is “We can’t afford it,” say that.

If the answer is “We don’t agree with it,” own that.

But don’t pretend the relief exists while quietly walling it off.

Policy doesn’t become real until it reaches a paycheck.

And right now, for a lot of New Yorkers, it never does.

A Valley Viewpoint Note

Good morning, my friends.

If you’re reading this on Christmas morning, I hope you’re doing so slowly — with coffee still warm in your hands, light coming through the window, and the quiet that only this morning seems to bring.

Much of what I write for The Valley Viewpoint happens behind the scenes — late at night, early in the morning, in moments when I’m trying to make sense of the world and my place in it. But today isn’t about commentary or critique. It’s about gratitude.

To each of you who reads, shares, disagrees, reflects, or simply pauses with me here — thank you. You are the quiet community behind these words, and I never take that lightly.

Wherever this Christmas morning finds you — surrounded by family, remembering someone you miss, walking the dog, or sitting in a moment of stillness — I hope you feel a measure of peace.

Merry Christmas, my friends.
And thank you for being part of The Valley Viewpoint.

Beacon Chose Leadership. Poughkeepsie Chose Excuses.

If Beacon can reinvent itself, then Poughkeepsie has no excuse for standing still.
Both are river cities.
Both were built by industry.
Both sit on one of the most beautiful stretches of the Hudson.
Yet one chose to lead—and the other keeps waiting.
Beacon didn’t get lucky. Beacon was led.
Its elected officials made deliberate, sometimes unglamorous choices—and then stuck with them. They backed zoning and planning that favored small, street-level businesses, not just glossy megaprojects. They protected walkability and historic character instead of bulldozing it in the name of “progress.” They worked with artists, makers, and entrepreneurs—treating them as partners, not nuisances.
They invested in the basics that actually matter: predictable permitting, consistent code enforcement, clean streets, and a City Hall that didn’t change the rules midstream. And when momentum started, Beacon’s leaders had the discipline to get out of the way.
Most important of all, Beacon’s politicians sent a clear signal:
If you invest your time, creativity, and money here, we won’t pull the rug out from under you.
That signal is everything.
Poughkeepsie, by contrast, keeps chasing the next “transformational” project—while ignoring the transformation that happens one storefront at a time. We wait for the mythical savior developer, the billion-dollar fix, the outside rescue. Beacon didn’t do that. Beacon grew from the inside out.
And here’s the bitter irony: Poughkeepsie has more to work with.
A stunning waterfront.
Rail access.
Colleges and culture.
Architecture that still remembers ambition.
A deep, industrious history that should be a magnet for makers and entrepreneurs.
What’s missing isn’t potential. It’s belief—and permission.
Cottage businesses should be lining up here. Makers, food entrepreneurs, remote workers, small investors—people who want roots, not tax abatements and exits. But they won’t come if City Hall feels unpredictable, hostile, or trapped in old habits.
Beacon’s lesson isn’t aesthetic. It’s governance.
Beacon’s leaders chose consistency over chaos. Courage over caution. Trust over control. Poughkeepsie keeps managing decline instead of enabling confidence.
The river didn’t save Beacon.
Leadership did.
The question isn’t why Beacon worked.
The question is when Poughkeepsie will decide to stop making excuses and start making room.
That’s not cynicism.
That’s a Valley Viewpoint.

Here’s the part you’re not supposed to say out loud:

Most of America doesn’t look like the crime statistics you hear quoted on cable news. A relatively small number of cities drive a disproportionate share of the nation’s homicides—and they’ve been run under the same political leadership and policy assumptions for decades.

That doesn’t mean violence isn’t real.
It means the problem isn’t evenly distributed.
And pretending it is keeps us from asking harder questions about what actually works.

On December 18, 2025, a Milwaukee County jury did something refreshingly old-fashioned: it applied the law. The result? Circuit Judge Hannah Dugan—yes, that Judge Dugan—was convicted of felony obstruction of justice for allegedly helping a Mexican immigrant slip past federal ICE agents who were waiting outside her courtroom like extras in a very unamused episode of Law & Order.

According to the record, this wasn’t some abstract act of resistance or a clerical misunderstanding. In April, prosecutors say Dugan physically escorted the man out a side exit and pointed federal agents in the wrong direction. Not a ruling. Not an opinion. A hallway maneuver.

The jury acquitted her of a misdemeanor count of concealing a person from arrest, but let’s not kid ourselves—that’s like being cleared of jaywalking after getting nailed for grand theft auto. The felony obstruction conviction is the one that matters. It carries up to five years in prison and, under Wisconsin law, effectively hands in her judicial resignation for her.

Even The New York Times—not exactly ICE’s biggest fan—acknowledged the obvious: convicted felons don’t get to keep wearing the robe.

Cue the predictable outrage. Supporters are framing Dugan as a martyr to conscience, a brave jurist standing athwart an unjust immigration system. That’s a compelling story—until you remember she wasn’t running a protest. She was running a courtroom. Judges don’t get to freelance immigration policy between hearings.

This wasn’t a ruling from the bench. It was a logistical assist.

And no, this isn’t unprecedented. In 2019, Massachusetts Judge Shelley M. Richmond Joseph pulled a similar stunt and was charged with obstruction. But that case fizzled—charges dropped, resignation tendered, awkward silence all around. Dugan didn’t get that graceful exit. Her case went to a jury. And the jury wasn’t interested in vibes, intentions, or virtue signaling.

Here’s the part that seems to confuse people: judicial independence means freedom from political pressure—not freedom from the law itself. A judge is not a resistance fighter. The courtroom is not a sanctuary city. And a side door is not a legal argument.

You don’t get to obstruct federal agents and then hide behind the bench like it’s a moral force field.

From a Valley Viewpoint, this case isn’t really about immigration. It’s about arrogance. About what happens when someone in power decides that their beliefs outrank the system they swore to uphold. And about a justice system that, for once, didn’t blink just because the defendant wore a robe.

Lesson learned: the law doesn’t care how righteous you feel—especially when you’re pointing people toward the exit.

New York didn’t just cross a line.

It erased it.

Governor Kathy Hochul says she’s reached a deal to legalize medically assisted suicide for the terminally ill. The language is antiseptic—Medical Aid in Dying. The rhetoric is soaked in compassion. The intent, we’re told, is mercy.

But let’s stop pretending this is a gentle policy tweak.

This is the government formally declaring that, under the right circumstances, death is an acceptable—and medically endorsed—solution.

Once the state does that, everything changes.

Supporters keep pointing to safeguards. They always do. Multiple doctors. Waiting periods. Mental-capacity reviews. A narrow group. Limited scope. No slippery slope.

That’s the script. Every time.

Here’s the problem: safeguards are temporary. Cultural permission is permanent.

Once assisted suicide becomes law, the moral question is settled by statute. From that point forward, the only debate is how wide the door should open. And history—whether in healthcare, bioethics, or bureaucratic power—shows us exactly how that story ends.

The definition expands.

The exceptions multiply.

The pressure becomes quieter—but stronger.

Ask the disabled community why they’re alarmed. Not hypothetically—practically. They know what it’s like to live in a system that already treats dependency as inconvenience and cost as character. In that system, “choice” is rarely neutral.

When someone is old, sick, isolated, depressed, or financially draining, the question is no longer Do you want to live?

It becomes Why are you still here?

And let’s dispense with the comforting fiction that this is happening in a healthcare system that has exhausted all other options. New York routinely fails at providing comprehensive palliative care, mental-health treatment, hospice access, and long-term support for families. We ration care quietly—and now we’re offering death openly.

That is not compassion.

That is triage dressed up as virtue.

Governor Hochul says her personal faith gave her pause. Good. It should have stopped her.

Because this is not just about individual autonomy. Suicide does not occur in a vacuum. It is shaped by signals—social, economic, cultural, and now legal. When the state blesses suicide under certain conditions, it sends a message whether it intends to or not: some lives are negotiable.

Once that message is out there, it will not stay confined to terminal illness. It never does.

New York is not empowering patients. It is normalizing abandonment.

We are telling the suffering that the ultimate form of care is not relief, presence, or commitment—but permission to disappear.

That’s not progress.

That’s surrender.

And history will not remember this as a compassionate breakthrough. It will remember it as the moment the state decided that standing with the vulnerable was harder than stepping aside and calling it choice.