On January 7, 2026, Renée Good sat in her car on a Minneapolis street. She was an observer—a mother, a poet, a woman who showed up because she believed showing up mattered. Federal agents surrounded her vehicle. One told her to get out of the car. Another told her to drive away. Conflicting orders. Chaos by design or incompetence—it doesn't matter now.
What matters is what she said.
Facing the agent who would kill her seconds later, Renée Good looked at him and said, "That's fine, dude. I'm not mad at you."
Then he shot her three times.
After she was dead, still recording on his phone, he said, "Fucking bitch."
I've watched that video more than once. I can't stop thinking about the distance between those two voices. Hers: calm, human, offering peace in a moment of terror. His: emptied of everything but contempt.
How does a person get there?
—
I believe we all carry a core soul force—two elements braided together, and one of them is always love. Love and kindness. Love and justice. Love and wellness. Love and wealth. We differ in our second force, but love is the common thread. It's what makes us human. It's what makes us capable of good.
But we can forget. When we forget our core, we become its opposite. The capacity for light becomes capacity for dark. Justice becomes injustice. Love becomes hate. And once we're living in that shadow, we become vulnerable to even darker influences—human and otherwise.
—
Jonathan Ross. Forty-three years old. ICE agent. Iraq veteran. By my read, his soul force is genuine justice and love.
The opposite of genuine justice is injustice—bias, corruption, cruelty disguised as order. The opposite of love is hate.
Six months before he killed Renée Good, Ross smashed a car window and was dragged down a street trying to apprehend someone. He got 33 stitches. He was traumatized—and trauma, unhealed, is a doorway. It invites shadow in. It makes us forget who we are.
By the time he stood in front of Renée's car, I don't think Jonathan Ross remembered his own soul. He had become the opposite of himself: a man of injustice and hate, acting out of fear and rage, following training that told him his life mattered more than hers.
He forgot. And forgetting cost a woman her life.
—
But Ross didn't get there alone.
Look at the man he serves. Donald Trump's soul force, as I understand it, is love and wealth. Not wealth as money—though he has that—but wealth as abundance: health, trust, connection, the riches that make a life worth living.
Now look at what he's become.
Is he trusted? Does he trust? Is he healthy—in body, in mind, in spirit? Does he love anyone, truly, beyond what they can give him? He speaks of love constantly: I love this, I love that, I love you people. But what he means is adoration. Compliance. Applause. That's not love. That's hunger.
Trump has become the opposite of his soul force. Love has curdled into hate. Wealth has hollowed into poverty—poverty of connection, of truth, of peace. He is starving, and starving people do desperate things. They demand what they cannot earn. They manipulate what they cannot build. They destroy what they cannot have.
And they draw others into their shadow.
—
So here is what I see: a younger man who forgot what it means to be genuine justice and love, following an older man who forgot what it means to be love and wealth. The younger man absorbed the older man's darkness—his grievance, his contempt, his belief that some lives matter less. And on a Minneapolis street, that darkness pulled a trigger.
Renée Good stood in the path of that shadow. She had no power in that moment except the power of presence. Except the power of her own soul, still intact, still remembering.
"I'm not mad at you."
That was all she had. And it was everything.
—
Her name means "reborn good." I don't think that's an accident.
She was a mother. A poet. A wife. A member of her community. She showed up to school functions and church activities. She smiled and invited. She was genuine and kind. Her soul force was love and service—and she never forgot it. Even at the end. Even facing a man who had lost himself entirely.
She remembered who she was. He did not.
—
I believe we are at a turning point.
Not because one woman's death will fix everything—it won't. But because sometimes a single moment cracks something open. Sometimes the shock wave travels farther than the bullet.
Renée Good's face, her voice, her final words—they are in the world now. Millions of people have seen what she offered and what was taken from her. They've heard the calm in her voice and the venom in his. They've witnessed what shadow looks like when it forgets it was ever light.
And they're asking: How did we get here? How do we get out?
The only way out is to remember. To remember our core. To choose love over hate, justice over cruelty, truth over delusion. To refuse to follow men who have forgotten themselves into the dark.
Renée Good remembered. She remembered all the way to the end.
Now it's our turn.
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