My father was waiting on the porch in his wheelchair as I pulled into the gravel driveway—cane in one hand, two prosthetic legs resting beneath him, and a faint smile on his face. This stop wasn’t about politics. This was personal. 

Freddie—my dad—is blind. He told me recently that the talking watch I bought him years ago—that announces the time and day with the press of a button—stopped working. Without it, he’d wake up in the middle of the night or sit through the day unsure if it was morning or evening, Monday or Thursday. As someone who once roamed center field on the community softball team and now sits in a wheelchair, blind and a double amputee, that little device offered him something many of us take for granted—orientation and autonomy. 

So, I brought him a new one. 

As I handed it to him, he smiled in that quiet way he does—grateful, proud, and strong. He gently touched it, searching for the button like a man reacquainting himself with an old friend. When he found it, he pressed down, and we both listened to the voice say: “It’s 3:54 p.m., Wednesday, July 9th.” “Now I won’t be guessing anymore,” he said. 

That tiny voice from his wrist meant freedom. But what happens when the care he truly needs lies three counties away? 

I’ve blocked off days on the calendar, rescheduled events, and paused interviews to take my dad 3 hours round trip—from Rolling Fork to Jackson—just to access basic healthcare. Not specialty treatment. Basic care. 

Just days ago, Donald Trump signed his “Big Beautiful Bill” into law—ushering in devastating cuts to Medicaid and Medicare that will hit rural communities like ours the hardest. Let me be clear: this isn’t policy—it’s cruelty. And it’s coming straight for our people. 

The consequences are real and immediate: the law is projected to push 11.8 million more Americans into the ranks of the uninsured by 2034. In Mississippi, 20 rural hospitals are now at immediate risk of closure. Many of them rely on Medicaid as their largest and most reliable payer. Without it, the lights go off. The doors close. The care disappears. 

If my campaign is about anything, it’s about stopping this. It’s about making sure no one is forced drive 90 miles to get their blood pressure checked. It’s about ensuring that a man like my father—who gave to this country, who raised a family, who sacrificed—can age with dignity in the town he calls home. Chip in to help get our message out and give Mississippians a voice in the Senate who will fight like hell to fix this!

That night, driving home under a big Delta sky, I thought about the people I’d met throughout the day. A single mother in Yazoo told me that she waits until Sunday evening to drive her daughter an hour away to see a pediatrician. “I just pray she doesn’t get sick on a school night,” she said. A veteran in Cary shared that it had been about a year since he’d spoken with a mental health provider. An elderly woman in Holly Bluff relies on a neighbor to drive her to dialysis in Vicksburg—and sometimes, the neighbor can’t. This is rural reality. 

Healthcare isn’t a privilege tied to a zip code. And this campaign—our campaign—is about changing that. Please donate $5, $25, or any amount you can to our mission to bring dignity back to Mississippi.

Tomorrow, I’ll be back on those dusty roads in Yazoo, knocking doors, listening to stories, and asking for the honor of being your voice in Washington. But tonight, I’m grateful to have been a son, delivering a little dignity—and a little independence—back to my father. 

Our people are tough. Our communities are proud. And with the right leadership, they’ll be seen, heard, and cared for—just like my father deserves to be. 

Positive Energy Wins the Day – Every, Single, Time. 

Ty Pinkins for U.S. Senate 
Independent. Mississippi Strong. 

Use of military rank, job titles, and photographs in uniform do not imply endorsement by the Department of the Army or the Department of Defense.