An excerpt from Disrupting Politics: A Front Row Seat to the Collision of Technology & Democracy by Katie Harbath (Indigo River Publishing, out October 6, 2026).

Order the book: anchorchange.substack.com/p/disrupting-politics-book

I almost didn’t move to DC. If I had landed the job I applied for in Madison, Wisconsin, I might have stayed, working in state government, maybe rising through the ranks, building a career from my home state. I didn’t get that job, though, and DC is where I really wanted to be. So I packed up my car, drove east with my friend Morgan, and worked behind the perfume counter at Macy’s in Pentagon City while looking for a full-time job.

I grew up in Green Bay, Wisconsin, the oldest of three kids. My dad, Randy, worked in the paper mills, and my mom, Nancy, stayed home with me and my siblings, Megan and Andy, before working at a gift shop. I went to Bay Port High School: public school, clarinet in the band, varsity volleyball and softball, curling at the local club, part-time jobs at a bagel shop and the same gift store as my mom. I didn’t come from political circles, but I was curious and competitive.

I chose the University of Wisconsin-Madison for its journalism program and student papers. UW is unique in that it has two student-led publications, the Badger Herald and Daily Cardinal. My cousin liked the Badger Herald, so I set my sights there.

I started at Madison in 1999. No laptop. No cell phone until sophomore year. It took me a year to get comfortable being at college versus at home with my parents. I was incredibly homesick my freshman year. My grandparents would let me stay with them on weekends, which gave me a support system as I figured it out. The Herald gave me the community and purpose I needed as I entered adulthood.

In early 2001, a decision tested our values. The Herald ran an ad by conservative commentator David Horowitz titled “Ten Reasons Why Reparations for Slavery is a Bad Idea—and Racist Too.” Many universities had refused to run it. We didn’t pull it, citing freedom of speech.

The backlash was swift and intense. Protests erupted on campus. I sprinted back to the office ahead of an angry march; we could hear them chanting behind us, only a block or two away. We beat them there, pushed our campus reporter outside to cover the protest, and locked the door. They burned copies of the paper outside our offices and called for our editor-in-chief to resign.

Inside that locked newsroom, I was both terrified and exhilarated. Under siege for a principle I believed in, though I disagreed with the ad’s content. Donald Downs, a First Amendment professor who would become a mentor, encouraged us to stand firm.

That incident has stayed with me. I didn’t want to hurt people. The questions we faced that night would follow me from college newspapers to Silicon Valley boardrooms: Who decides what gets published? When does free expression cross into harm?

My transformation from journalist to political and tech strategist began, too. I planned to become editor-in-chief of the Herald in my senior year. I was devastated when I didn’t get it, but that disappointment led me to experiment more. I hosted my own weekly show on the student radio station, interviewing people such as then-Representative Tammy Baldwin. I also began working with the Wisconsin Republican Party, digitizing morning news clips and learning the rhythms of party infrastructure.

When graduation came in 2003, everyone said the same thing: “Move to DC if you want to work in politics.” My friend, Morgan, and I decided to take the leap together. No jobs. No apartment.

I’ll never forget my dad asking me if I was scared as I loaded up my car in Madison. When I nodded yes, he said, “Never forget that you can always come home.” It was meant as reassurance, but I also heard it as permission to take risks, knowing the safety net was there.

Home, Thirteen Years Later

Later in October 2016, I went home to Wisconsin. I landed in Green Bay, then headed north to my parents’ cabin in Eagle River. In both places, Trump signs were everywhere. I didn’t see a single Clinton sign. My gut started to whisper that maybe Trump would win this election. Perhaps the political operatives, reporters, and those inside the beltway were missing what was happening elsewhere in America.

I quickly brushed it off, figuring that there was no way he could recover from the Access Hollywood tape. Prominent Republicans were distancing themselves from Trump. Conventional campaign wisdom said he couldn’t win. I would look foolish if I pushed back on all that, but a part of me did keep wondering if we might be wrong.

On Election Day, I spent the day at our Washington, DC, office at 1299 Pennsylvania Avenue. We had reserved the largest conference room and set it up for the watch party. I brought in a red, white, and blue inflatable drink tray, something festive for what we assumed would be a historic, celebratory night.

By late evening, the vibe had changed. Returns rolled in. Something wasn’t adding up. Florida wasn’t breaking the way we expected. Then Pennsylvania. Then Wisconsin.

When the news organizations called Florida I didn’t say anything. I had the sinking realization: This can’t be happening.

At 2:30 a.m., Trump was declared the winner. I’d driven home an hour before, still in shock. I didn’t change out of my clothes. I lay down on my couch for a few hours, my phone screen lighting up with stunned texts from colleagues and friends.

The next morning, I made the drive back to the office in a daze. I didn’t move as a light turned green at an intersection. Someone honked, snapping me out of it.

I had seen it in Green Bay and in Eagle River weeks earlier, and I had talked myself out of it.

Katie Harbath grew up in Green Bay and graduated from UW-Madison. She led elections work at Facebook for a decade and is the founder of Anchor Change.