At first, this felt like just another forgettable Facebook moment.

I posted something political, pro-Liberal, pro–Prime Minister Carney. No insults. No provocation. Just my view.

That alone wouldn’t be remarkable. Political posts spark disagreement all the time.

What came next was also familiar.

One response was immediate:

“Fuck off.”

Then an instant unfriend.

If you spend any time online, none of this sounds unusual. Political disagreement now routinely ends in insults, blocking, or people rage-quitting the conversation altogether. It’s become so common that most of us barely register it anymore.

I didn’t feel angry. I didn’t feel hurt. I chalked it up to yet another example of how brittle our political conversations have become.

At least, that’s what I thought at first.

In the weeks leading up to this, the same person had no problem sharing anti-Liberal memes and posts, including jokes implying that liberal supporters are mentally challenged. Mocking, dismissive material, shared casually, without hesitation.

I didn’t engage. I didn’t respond. I let it pass.

Apparently, mockery was acceptable.
But disagreement was not.

That contrast alone says something about where our political culture is right now.

But it’s not the part that stopped me cold.

Here’s the part that makes this different.

This wasn’t a random Facebook acquaintance.
This wasn’t someone I vaguely knew from online.

This was my partner in the police force, thirty years ago.

We were detectives together. We worked side by side for a year. We arrested suspects together. We solved crimes together. We trusted each other in situations where trust wasn’t theoretical. It mattered.

We ate meals together. We went to shift parties together. We visited cottages with the rest of the unit. There was never a falling out. No argument. No bad blood.

We both retired. Time passed. We lost touch, the way people often do.

And decades later, a single political disagreement was enough to erase all of that.

That’s when this stopped being “just another Facebook moment.”

Over the past several years, a particular style of politics has taken hold — one that treats outrage not as a response, but as a requirement.

Disagreement isn’t framed as a conversation.
It’s framed as hostility.

Opposing views aren’t something to challenge.
They’re something to shut down.

Anger starts to feel like strength.
Outrage starts to feel like clarity.

And once people internalize that mindset, everything becomes a loyalty test. You’re either with them or you’re the enemy.

In that world, nuance disappears. History becomes irrelevant. Relationships become disposable.

This didn’t happen in a vacuum.

When political leadership models constant grievance, mockery, and division, supporters eventually absorb that posture. They learn - consciously or not - that anger is how you prove commitment, and that calm disagreement is weakness.

We’re seeing the downstream effects of a Conservative leadership style that thrives on division and perpetual outrage. When leaders frame politics as an endless fight, followers begin to treat every interaction as a battle.

Mockery becomes normalized.
Dialogue becomes intolerable.
Walking away feels righteous.

That’s not organic. It’s taught.

What gets lost in all of this isn’t just civility. It’s something more profound.

Shared memory.
Human connection.
The ability to disagree without dehumanizing one another.

If anger can erase decades of shared experience between two people who once trusted each other with their lives, it’s not empowering.

It’s corrosive.

And it doesn’t stop at Facebook friendships. It bleeds into families, workplaces, communities, and eventually into how a country sees itself.

Canada is facing real pressure from outside forces - economic, political, and social. In moments like these, healthy democracies close ranks around shared values, even while arguing fiercely about policy.

But anger-based politics does the opposite.

It teaches people to prioritize partisan identity over national cohesion. To excuse external harm while turning inward to blame fellow citizens. To see disagreement not as democratic friction, but as betrayal.

That’s a dangerous place for any country to land.

I didn’t write this out of rage.

I didn’t write it to shame anyone.

I wrote it because I find it genuinely sad.

Sad that anger has become such a powerful organizing force.
Sad that it can override memory, loyalty, and respect.
Sad that so many people feel trapped inside it.

We don’t have to agree.
But we do have to coexist.

And democracy requires thicker skin than slogans, and more emotional maturity than rage-quitting a conversation.

If we want a healthier political culture - and a healthier country - we have to recognize this pattern for what it is and refuse to let anger define us.

Because when anger erases history, we all lose something we can’t easily get back.