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Let’s not sugarcoat it, Duluth. Ten years from now, we’re either thriving on purpose — or limping along on nostalgia and denial. And judging by our current trajectory, it’s looking a heckuva lot more like the latter.
Sure, Lake Superior will still be there. She’ll still roll in with that perfect mist and slap against the breakwall like a metronome for the city’s heartbeat. But here’s the truth we keep dodging: We treat her like a backdrop, not a strategy. We toss her on the cover of brochures, drone-shot and heavily filtered, while the real decisions about her future get made behind closed doors — in boardrooms we’re not invited to.
Make no mistake: By 2035, that lake won’t just be for photo ops. It’ll be a strategic global resource, and the world knows it. The billionaires know it. The server farms know it. The bottled-water barons are already circling. And if you think Duluth has the political spine to say no when a trillion-dollar company wants to “borrow” a billion gallons to cool its cloud storage racks? Then you haven’t been paying attention to our track record. We’ll host the ribbon-cutting, slap a nice sign on the pump station and call it a win — while our grandkids inherit a water crisis.
And what about our port, that once-proud engine of grit and cargo? It could still be something — a hub for clean shipping, rare-earth exports, maybe even modular manufacturing if we grow a vision. But let’s be honest. We’ve studied it to death. If the next 10 years look like the last 10, we’ll see another $4 million feasibility report, another consultant flown in from Denver and no steel in the ground. Meanwhile, Thunder Bay’s running laps around us.
Health care? Still shiny. Still growing. But let’s talk about who it’s growing for. CEOs? Consultants? The real story is nurses driving 45 minutes because they can’t afford Duluth rent. It’s single moms pulling double shifts and retirees rationing meds to make property taxes. Don’t let the glass towers fool you — the health of this city doesn’t show up on a hospital billboard.
Education? The University of Minnesota Duluth is already quietly shrinking. Enrollment’s flatlining and the dorms are half-full. The kids who do show up? Most leave the second their lease is up. They’ll tell you they love Duluth — the lake, the trails, the vibe. But not enough to stick around and make $16.25 an hour running room service in a tourist economy while their rent eats half their paycheck. We’ve become a launchpad. A quaint, snowy stepping stone.
