Stand with Julian: Save a Veteran's Home

My name is Julian Acciard. I’m a father, a husband, and a 90% disabled Marine Corps combat veteran who carried the weight of Operation Iraqi Freedom on my shoulders. I come from a proud, multigenerational military family. My father and mother both served in the Air Force, and their lessons of duty, honor, and service shaped me from the time I was a boy. At eight years old, my dad brought me into a voting booth and taught me that this is how we fight for what’s right, how we protect the Republic. When that fails, he said, we take to the streets. Those words, paired with a childhood steeped in history, philosophy, and a biracial heritage of American Descendants of Slavery and Italian roots, lit a fire in me to serve, to sacrifice, and to stand for something bigger than myself.

For nearly 15 years, my wife has been my anchor through every storm, raising our three children, supporting me as I fought for conservative values like freedom, family, and fairness. We’ve built a life together, not a perfect one, but a real one, rooted in a modest home in New Hampshire that holds not just our memories, but my 70-year-old, 100% disabled veteran mother, who lives with us in her own space. I’ve poured everything into this life: running a family business, hosting a podcast to amplify working-class voices, and campaigning for Governor and Congress to give people a choice grounded in principle, not politics-as-usual. I’ve done it all while navigating the unique struggles of being a Black Republican, caught between a party that often ignores me and a left that wants to silence me.

But today, I’m not writing as a veteran, a strategist, or a fighter for the Republic. I’m writing as a man on the edge, staring down a loss I can’t bear alone. My family was about to lose our home, our foundation, on April 11th, when the bank auctions it off. We were able to buy ourselves 90 days while we raise the money. This isn’t just about bricks and mortar. It’s about my kids losing their stability, my wife losing the career she’s worked so hard for, and my elderly mother losing the only safe place she has left. It’s about me, a man who carried a rifle in Iraq and came home broken, unable to do the physical work I once could, now facing the unraveling of everything I’ve fought to hold together.

The pandemic hit us hard. Lockdowns slashed our income in half, and running for office drained what little we had left. I bought this house in 2018, proud to give my family a home after years of sacrifice. But COVID’s chaos, quarantines, soaring costs, and lost work pushed us into forbearance just to survive. When I tried to get back on track, the bank didn’t care about my service or my story. They saw $350,000 in equity and moved to foreclose. I’ve fought them tooth and nail, applying for modifications, begging to resume payments, but the auction is days away. I’ve already lost my car, my license, and my ability to keep us afloat until work picks up in May. If this house goes, there’s nowhere in New Hampshire we can afford to start over with a foreclosure on my record. My family will be uprooted, my mother displaced, and my kids’ lives turned upside down.

I’ve spent my life serving others: my country in war, my community in politics, and my family through every hardship. I’ve pushed for solutions like Veteran Home Loan Forgiveness and credit relief for those crushed by the pandemic, but the system didn’t listen. Now, I’m the one who needs help. I’m not asking for a handout or pity. I’m asking for a lifeline, a chance to save my home, to keep fighting for the values we share: integrity, community, and a future where our kids can thrive. I’ve humbled myself to admit I can’t do this alone, not this time.

If you’ve ever known the weight of sacrifice, the love of family, or the fear of losing it all, please hear me. Your support can stop this auction, give us breathing room until I’m back on my feet in May, and let me keep serving the way I always have. Together, we can protect not just my family, but the principles that bind us. Please, if my work and my fight mean anything to you, help me hold on. If not, I’ll face what comes. But I believe in us, in you, and I’m asking for your hand to pull us through this storm.