The Loneliness of Truth

Seven years of lies, public trials, and calculated cruelty leave scars unseen; but truth, community, and resolve remain my shield against those who seek profit from distortion.

Guest article by Michael Cohen. Remember to follow him on Substack for more by clicking here. Michael just hit 500,000 subscribers on YouTube! Subscribe today for free here and let’s keep the momentum going!

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For more than seven years now, I have lived on trial.

Not in a courtroom—though I know those walls far too well—but in the public square, where facts are negotiable, cruelty is profitable, and lies are passed off as commentary. Imagine waking up every morning knowing that before your feet hit the floor, someone has already decided you are guilty again today. Not because of evidence. Not because of truth. But because your name still serves a purpose for those who traffic in outrage.

Every day brings a new prosecutor with a microphone.
A new judge hiding behind a screen name.
A new Substack jury assembled in the comment sections.
And an executioner who never has to reckon with the damage they do.

There is a particular kind of sadness that settles into your bones when you realize that no amount of transparency will ever be enough for those committed to distortion. It’s not loud sadness. It’s quiet. Heavy. The kind that arrives when you understand that honesty is no longer the currency; attention is.

Most recently, that sadness has come from the grotesque revival of attacks tying me to the long-dismissed Katie Johnson matter involving a 13-year-old who alleged Donald Trump raped her. The case was withdrawn under peculiar circumstances, with some reporting it was out of fear and intimidation. And despite being asked about this more times than I can count; despite answering clearly, directly, and unequivocally that I had no involvement, no knowledge, and no connection whatsoever, that truth still refuses to penetrate a determined few.

That is what breaks you down over time. Not disagreement. Not criticism. But the refusal to hear you even when you are telling the truth—even when the facts are there if they would invest a second of their time investigating the claim.

I have been accused of so many things: wanting the Chief of Staff job in the Trump administration, despite already receiving the job I asked for. I was said to be secretly living in a hotel instead of an apartment, as if geography were evidence of guilt. I was accused—absurdly—of being in Prague, tied to thirteen allegations in the Steele dossier that even the most serious investigators could not substantiate, because they were all untrue.

This is what disinformation does. It doesn’t seek answers. It seeks exhaustion.

Over the years, the accusations metastasized. I was accused of paying hackers to break into the DNC and Hillary Clinton’s computers. Of deleting two SARS reports from the FinCEN system, as if I possessed supernatural control over federal databases. Of laundering money through Essential Consultants LLC. Of shadowy relationships with Novartis and AT&T. Of sending a “thug” to threaten Stormy Daniels in Nevada. Of shredding sixteen pages of crucial documents that, when reassembled at Quantico, amounted to envelopes and garbage emails. Of selling access to the White House. Of wiring $60 million overseas. Of being indicted and fined a million dollars for kiting titles in Chicago.

Each lie stacked on the last—not to reveal truth, but to suffocate it under sheer volume.

And then there was Rudy Giuliani, standing in front of cameras, calmly declaring, “This has nothing to do with the President of the United States… it’s all about Cohen’s businesses.” A sentence engineered not to inform, but to misdirect. A sentence designed to leave just enough doubt behind to keep the lie alive one more day.

What rarely gets discussed is the emotional toll of being permanently misrepresented. The nights when the noise in your head finally quiets and the hurt gets loud. The discipline required to bury that pain—not because it vanishes, but because carrying it openly would mean letting it destroy my wife, my children, my family. To destroy me.

I have learned how to keep standing tall. Not because I am immune to pain, but because I am anchored to purpose. I bury the hurt so I can keep my eye on the prize: accountability, truth, and the preservation of our democratic republic for generations to come. That mission is bigger than my name. Bigger than my reputation. Bigger than the lies told about me. Bigger than the pain.

Still, I am human.

There are days when being perpetually tried in the court of public opinion feels unbearable. When it feels like a sentence without parole. When it becomes painfully clear that for some people, no answer will ever be enough—because the lie was never about truth to begin with.

But there is something stronger than disinformation.
Stronger than their rage bait.
Stronger than character assassination.

It’s community.

To those of you who have written to me over the past few days with kindness, empathy, and words of encouragement—thank you. You will never fully know how much those messages matter. They are lifelines. They are reminders that decency still exists. That empathy has not been extinguished. That truth, even when buried, still breathes.

This is what community is about. This is why growing it matters. Because community is how we resist isolation. It is how we remind one another that while lies may travel fast, truth has endurance.

I will not be distracted by those who seek profit from distortion. I will not be silenced by those who confuse cruelty for journalism. And I will not stop standing—no matter how many trials they try to hold outside a courtroom on platforms like this.

Truth does not need rage to survive.
It only needs people, like you, willing to carry it forward.

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Yeah, I know—you’re tired. This shit is exhausting.

Guess what? Me too.

But I’ve spent the last eight years throwing punches in the dark so truth could get a little daylight. And now I’m asking you to step into the ring with me.

Because if you’re still reading this, you already get it:
This isn’t just a newsletter. It’s a rally cry. A war drum. A line in the sand.

We are not passive observers of the downfall. We are the resistance. We call out the liars. We drag corruption by the collar into the sunlight. We say the quiet parts out loud, and we don’t flinch.

But here’s the truth: I can’t do this solo. Not anymore.

The storm is already here. We are standing in it. And it’s wearing stars and stripes like camouflage, preaching “freedom” while it sells fascism at retail.

So let me ask you:
Are. You. In?

Because this is not a scroll-and-forget read. This is a living, breathing, fire-breathing movement—and movements don’t move unless you do.

We need to be louder than spin, tougher than propaganda, and impossible to gaslight.
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It takes skin in the game.

So if you believe truth matters; if you’re sick of the bullshit; if you’re ready to stop screaming into the algorithm and start pushing back with purpose, this is your next step.

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But let’s be clear:

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You want to make a difference?

Then make it—right now.

Because if we don’t fight for truth, no one will.
But if we fight together?

They can’t drown us out.

Let’s be so loud, they wish we were just angry tweets.
Let’s be unshakable.
Unignorable.
Un-fucking-breakable.

Let’s go.