I was born in Thetford, England, in 1737. My father was a Quaker corset maker. My mother was Anglican. I left school at thirteen, tried my hand as a sailor, then as a tax collector, and then found myself lost in the gears of British society. I wanted more than routine and obedience. I wanted revolution.

In 1774, I met Benjamin Franklin in London. He saw something in me and helped me sail across the Atlantic. I landed in Philadelphia with little to my name but fire in my chest. The colonies were already angry. I gave them the words to sharpen that anger. In January 1776, I published Common Sense. It sold tens of thousands of copies and said out loud what others were too afraid to: the king was not a protector, the system was not broken—it was designed to oppress. I called for full independence. No more petitions. No more waiting.

When the war got hard, I wrote again. The American Crisis. “These are the times that try men’s souls.” Washington had it read aloud to the troops before they crossed the Delaware. My words marched with them. I believed in a new world, not just for America, but for every nation that groaned under crowns and privilege. I fought for democracy in Pennsylvania. I wrote The Rights of Man in defense of the French Revolution. I was elected to France’s National Convention. I even went to prison for opposing the execution of the king. That nearly killed me. But I survived.

Back home, though, I found fewer friends. I wrote The Age of Reason and criticized organized religion. I called out Washington himself for betrayal, for silence while I rotted in a French cell. It didn’t win me any favors. My words had helped spark a nation, but by the end, that nation had moved on.

I died in 1809, alone and forgotten by many. But I never stopped believing. Freedom. Equality. Truth that the people could understand and fight for. I didn’t lead armies. I didn’t sign treaties. But I gave the people their voice. And that voice echoed through every battlefield and every ballot that came after.