For a few years now, the Minnesota Capitol complex has felt… different. It didn’t start all at once. It crept in — first during the pandemic, when public buildings closed and members of “the public” were potential threats as virus carriers.

It intensified after Jan. 6, 2021, when images of a violent mob breaching the U.S. Capitol made every statehouse reconsider its vulnerabilities. And then, last June, fear stopped being theoretical in Minnesota. The attacks on the Hoffmans and the Hortmans changed the emotional temperature of the entire Capitol complex, even though the actual violence occurred miles away. 

Since then, the instinct to protect ourselves and each other — understandable, human, even noble — has been reshaping how the Capitol works. Weapons screening is now required to enter the buildings. Armed security is more visible in hearing rooms. There are serious discussions about removing lawmakers’ home addresses from public websites. Some legislative assistants are increasingly reluctant about drop-ins, preferring pre-scheduled appointments or email or video calls, feeling safest interacting with the public only from behind a computer screen. 

And who can blame them? The world feels angrier. People are quicker to escalate. The line between political disagreement and personal threat is thinner than it used to be. But the cumulative effect of these changes is unmistakable: The public is being treated less like a partner in democracy and more like a potential danger.

Related: Minnesota lawmakers are tapping campaign funds to bolster their security

That shift matters. Because the wonderfully unusual thing about Minnesota — something people from other states often marveled at — is how open our Capitol has always been. It has long been possible to walk the halls, sit in on hearings, bump into lawmakers, and have spontaneous conversations that shape policy in ways no scheduled Zoom meeting ever could. That openness has been a point of pride. It has also been a security risk. But it has strengthened our civic commitments. 

Meanwhile, the human toll of fear is becoming harder to ignore. Legislators are retiring earlier than planned. Recruiting new candidates is harder because families are weighing safety in ways they never had to before. Staff are exhausted. Lobbyists and advocates — who, at their best, serve as bridges between the public and policymakers — are finding it harder to do their jobs when informal access disappears. And members of the public who don’t already have relationships inside the building are the ones most likely to be shut out.

There’s also a hard truth I think needs to be said out loud, and I hesitate to say, because it will likely upset some of my friends: If public service has become so frightening that the job must be fundamentally reshaped to accommodate that fear, then maybe the job is no longer the right fit for the person currently holding it. Needs change. Seasons of life change. But if the role of legislator or staffer must be altered so dramatically that it can no longer be done in service to the public, then perhaps it is the person who needs to change, not the job. Democracy requires people who can do the work as it is, not as they wish it could be in safer times.

None of this is an argument against security. Capitol security and the legislative sergeants have done excellent work for years — quietly, professionally and without turning the building into something unrecognizable. They have blended in, not loomed. They have protected without posturing. Their presence has always been felt more than seen.

The new State Office Building is a perfect example of the crossroads we’re standing at. Yes, the project was driven by aging HVAC systems, mold concerns and the need for more seats in hearing rooms. But security vulnerabilities were just as much a motivator. This renovation is an opportunity — a chance to decide whether we will have a building that locks down or one that opens up. Whether we will build a workspace that assumes the public is a threat, or one that assumes the public is the point. The internal culture that’s chosen will say a lot about the democracy we believe we still have…or don’t.

There is a psychological cost to trying to eliminate every possible risk. Humans are wired to turn inward when we feel threatened. Fear narrows our imagination. It makes us suspicious. It encourages us to retreat into our own tribes, where everyone looks familiar and thinks the “right” way. And in a political environment already defined by division, that instinct is ramping up a collective anxiety.

The irony is that the more we try to legislate safety — by restricting access, limiting contact and insulating ourselves from others — the more brittle our civic culture becomes. We lose the messy, human interactions that build trust. We lose the chance encounters that remind us our opponents are people, not caricatures. We lose the ability to see one another as neighbors rather than threats.

What if the cure for fear isn’t more distance, but more proximity?

Openness is not a naïve ideal. It is a practical strategy for strengthening democracy. When people can connect with their government, they are more likely to trust it. When lawmakers can see the people affected by their decisions, they legislate with more empathy. When staff and lobbyists and constituents can talk face‑to‑face, misunderstandings shrink. When the building feels like a shared space rather than a fortress, the work inside it becomes more collaborative.

Related: Make Minnesota the main stage for thoughtful engagement about democracy and America’s future

None of this eliminates risk. Nothing can. But eliminating risk was never the goal of a free society. The goal is to manage risk while preserving the values that make democracy worth protecting in the first place.

Minnesota has long prided itself on being a big‑tent state — politically, culturally and civically. Big tents require openness. They require trust. They require the courage to step outside the safety of our own tribes and engage with people who see the world differently.

Minnesota will never be the same as it was before last June 14. But it doesn’t have to become a place defined by fear. We can choose a different path — one that acknowledges real risks without surrendering to them. One that strengthens security without weakening connection. One that remembers that the People’s House works best when the people can walk through its doors.

Openness is not the problem. It might be the solution.

Shannon Watson is the executive director of Majority in the Middle, a St. Paul-based nonprofit. She’s also a longtime State Capitol observer and will provide occasional Voices commentaries during the 2026 legislative session. You’ll find Watson’s previous Middle Aisle columns here.

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