Sine Die—and the World’s Most Awkward Diplomatic Standoff (Only with Paper Towels)

Reflections on a session full of hard votes, messy progress, and the cost of voting your conscience

At 11:14 p.m. last Friday, Sine Die arrived. Quietly. Finally. (FYI, pronounced “sign-ee dye” in American political-speak; or “sin-ay dee-ay” if you took Latin or just like sounding clever at dinner parties.) It basically means “We’re done here.”

The last few minutes of a legislative session don’t come with fireworks. There’s no music, no slow-motion ending. Just a gavel drop, a few tired claps, and the rustle of overcaffeinated staffers packing up paper piles they haven’t touched since January.

We didn’t pass a transportation package. We didn’t solve every problem. But we did finish.

And I walked out of the chamber carrying a strange mix of emotions: relief, pride, frustration, and the quiet weight of a recall petition that had landed in my inbox earlier that day.

No scandal. No corruption. Just a handful of votes that didn’t follow the script.

After we left the chamber, my wife and I went upstairs to my office to grab a few things I didn’t want to leave behind until fall. A jacket. Some paperwork. Maybe a granola bar I wouldn’t trust in September.

On the way out, I stopped to use the men’s room. That’s where the smallest, strangest moment of the night happened.

As I stood at the sink, a senator from my own party stepped up beside me. We didn’t speak. We rarely do. Just two men washing their hands in silence, pretending the other isn’t there. It felt like the world’s most awkward diplomatic standoff. Only with paper towels.

I’ve never been exactly sure why he avoids me, but I have a guess. I don’t always vote the party line. I don’t posture. I don’t say what I’m supposed to say just because it’s politically convenient.

And for a moment, I thought about saying something to make peace. Hey, can we start over?

But I didn’t.

Because that awkward silence? It wasn’t actually personal. It was symbolic. Turns out, that’s how some of the folks on the outer edges of my party feel about me—“Get in line, or we don’t want you.”

And that’s the tension I’ve lived with all session.

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The Cost of Doing the Job

The recall petition didn’t shock me. But it still said something.

It wasn’t about dereliction of duty. It was about deviation from performance. About the idea that if you don’t stomp, shout, or storm out, you’re not playing your part.

That if you don’t post a condemnation in under 90 seconds, maybe you’re on the wrong side. That if you pause to think, you must be hiding something. That if you don’t sell fear and half-truths, your loyalty is in question. And if you still believe that nuance is a virtue, um, good luck explaining that in a meme.

Well, I didn’t flinch.

I voted for free speech, even when it was uncomfortable. I voted to prevent censorship of people based on their identity and the stories they tell that reflect the lives of so many in our communities. I voted against bills I believed would cause real harm, even when it cost me politically.

Some people called me a traitor. Others called me too slow, too soft, too thoughtful.

But if the worst thing you can say about me is that I read the bills, weighed the consequences, and didn’t light my hair on fire for the camera, I’ll take it.

I didn’t run to be a mascot. I ran to represent.

So if doing the job gets me recalled, that’s the price.

What kind of legislator do you want?

One who performs, or one who shows up?
One who chases outrage, or one who does the work?

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What We Got Done

And let’s be clear: there was plenty of work worth doing.

No, we didn’t pass the transportation package. It collapsed under the weight of suspicion and sticker shock. Too many moving parts. Too little trust. And in the end, not enough people willing to say yes.

But don’t let that overshadow what did happen.

We protected Medicaid and kept rural hospitals afloat. We limited liability for hospitals who never designed or manufactured the tools they’re being sued over.
We made real progress on affordable housing. We expanded access to childcare. We nearly got the most significant updates to Oregon’s Transient Lodging Tax structure closer than they’ve been in 22 years, something coastal cities and small businesses have been begging for since the flip phone era.

And, like I said, we stood up for free expression, making it clear that censorship based on the identity of an author or a character isn’t what Oregon is about.

We supported law enforcement. We repealed costly wildfire maps. We passed reforms to help small businesses survive. And we started cracking down on the quiet consolidation of healthcare by corporate shell games hiding behind “friendly PCs.”

That’s a serious list, for any session, let alone one filled with walkouts, landmines, and recall threats.

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A Temple, Not Just a Building

Just before the gavel fell, the Speaker gave her closing remarks, a final reminder of what we accomplished together. Education. Healthcare. Housing. Rural investment.

And I looked around the chamber and felt something unexpected: pride.

Every legislator in that room, and every staffer in the building, had given up nights, weekends, and whatever peace of mind they had left. Not for applause. Not for hashtags. But because they believe in something: their district, their duty, and the stubborn hope that good government is still possible.

When the gavel dropped, it didn’t feel like a break. It felt like an exhale.

And then, as tradition dictates, we opened the doors to the Capitol rotunda.

Now, if you haven’t seen the Oregon Capitol lately, picture this: scaffolding, tarps, exposed wires. It’s loud, dusty, and under construction. Kind of like democracy.

Across the rotunda, the Senate opened their doors too. For a moment, you could see straight through the heart of the building, one chamber to the other.

As my wife and I stepped forward through the crowd, a colleague from across the aisle leaned toward me and said, “Despite the messiness, we did some good work in this Temple of Democracy.”

He was right. It was messy. It was frustrating. And it was sacred.

Because this building isn’t just marble and echoes. It’s belief. Belief that even in disagreement, something better can happen. That the people in these halls, imperfect as we are, can leave the place stronger than we found it.

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The Work That Continues

So, the gavel dropped. And, the session has ended. But the work hasn’t.

Now? Now, I go back to being a dentist. Literally. Back to suction tubes, rubber dams, and patients trying to explain their grandchild’s graduation through a mouthful of cotton.

But I’m also back to town halls. Back to parades. Back to coffee shop meetings with farmers and late-night emails from small business owners just trying to make payroll.

I’m meeting with school boards, seniors on Medicare, and immigrant families still trying to navigate the system. I’m reading handwritten notes from fifth graders who want to save the bees, the whales, and extend recess (thank you very kindly). I’m still answering lobbyists. And still listening to people who don’t know what a lobbyist is, but know when their rent is too high and their road hasn’t been fixed.

This is the work. The visible and invisible. The loud and the quiet. The easy stuff and the stuff no one wants to talk about.

And every day I carry the same question:

How do we make government work for the people who don’t watch the hearings, don’t know the bill number, and may never send me an email, but still deserve a representative who shows up for them?

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The Long Haul

This session reminded me of something I already knew, but needed to relearn:

That defending the Constitution won’t always win you friends. That voting your conscience might make both sides mad. And, that putting people over party and politics comes with a cost.

But it also reminded me why this job matters. Why the sleepless nights, the awkward silences, the tough votes are all still worth it.

Because come February, I’ll be back in Salem. Same desk. Same oath. Same commitment.

The Constitution doesn’t promise comfort. It promises freedom.

And I’m still here for that.

And I’m not done.

If you’d like to help me keep showing up, even when it’s not easy, you can support the campaign here: Donate Today!