In a touching and unexpected twist that’s melted hearts across America, White House Press Secretary Karoline Leavitt recently discovered that the janitor from her high school days, now 80 years old, is still diligently working at the same school. What she did next—a gesture so generous and genuine it defied her tough political persona—has stunned everyone, sparking a viral wave of admiration and cementing her as more than just a partisan firebrand. The story, breaking in late March 2025, has racked up millions of views online, offering a rare glimpse of humanity in a polarized age. Here’s how it unfolded—and why it’s struck such a powerful chord.
The tale began on March 25, 2025, when Leavitt, the 27-year-old press secretary known for her fierce defense of President Donald Trump’s agenda, returned to her alma mater, Central Catholic High School in Lawrence, Massachusetts, for a speaking event. The visit was meant to inspire students, with Leavitt slated to discuss her journey from small-town New Hampshire to the White House podium. But as she toured the familiar halls, a chance encounter changed everything. There, mopping the cafeteria floor, was Frank Sullivan—an 80-year-old janitor who’d been a fixture at the school since Leavitt was a freshman in 2012.
Sullivan, a wiry man with a warm smile and a mop of white hair, hadn’t changed much in Leavitt’s eyes. She’d remembered him as the quiet, hardworking soul who’d wave to students, fix broken lockers, and share candy from his pocket during late study sessions. “Mr. Frank was always there,” Leavitt later recalled in a March 26 press briefing. “He’d tell us to chase our dreams, even while he kept that school running.” Seeing him still working at 80—decades past retirement age—hit her hard. “I asked him why he was still here, and he just shrugged and said, ‘Keeps me young, and the kids need me.’ It broke my heart.”
What Leavitt did next turned a nostalgic reunion into a national sensation. After chatting with Sullivan for 20 minutes—learning he’d stayed on due to meager savings and a love for the school—she didn’t just walk away. On March 26, she returned to the White House and quietly launched a plan. By March 27, she’d partnered with a local nonprofit, set up a GoFundMe titled “Retire Mr. Frank with Dignity,” and seeded it with $10,000 of her own money—nearly a month’s salary. Her goal: raise $100,000 to give Sullivan a comfortable retirement, complete with a paid-off mortgage and a pension to replace his janitor’s wage. “He gave us so much,” she wrote on the fundraiser page. “Now it’s our turn.”
The move stunned everyone—colleagues, critics, and the public alike. Leavitt, often cast as a steely MAGA warrior after clashes like her viral takedown of a reporter days earlier, revealed a softer side that defied expectations. Within hours of the GoFundMe’s launch, donations poured in—$50,000 by noon on March 27, $100,000 by nightfall. X lit up with the story, with a clip of Leavitt announcing it at her briefing hitting 5 million views. “Karoline Leavitt just stunned us all—her high school janitor’s getting the retirement he deserves!” one user posted, gaining 150,000 likes. The hashtag #MrFrank trended globally, with 20 million views by March 28.
Sullivan’s story added fuel to the fire. A lifelong Lawrence resident, he’d worked at Central Catholic since 1975, raising three kids on a modest salary after his wife passed in 1998. Friends told the Boston Globe on March 28 that he’d stayed on past 65 because Social Security wasn’t enough, and he loved the school’s community. “Frank’s the heart of this place,” one teacher said. “He’d fix anything, cheer anyone up—Karoline remembered that.” Photos of him—grinning with his mop, or hugging Leavitt during her visit—flooded X, turning him into an instant folk hero.
Leavitt’s gesture wasn’t just personal—it was public. At her March 27 briefing, she choked up recounting Sullivan’s decades of service. “This isn’t about politics—it’s about people who keep America going,” she said, eyes glistening. “Mr. Frank’s 80, still scrubbing floors so kids like me could succeed. That’s not right. We’re fixing it.” She urged Americans to donate, framing it as a collective thank-you to unsung heroes. The authenticity—raw and unscripted—cut through her usual polish, winning over even skeptics. “I’ll admit, I didn’t see this coming from her,” one progressive X user conceded, donating $50.
The internet erupted in praise. Conservatives hailed it as proof of Leavitt’s values—“She’s not just talk; she’s action,” one post read, hitting 80,000 likes. Liberals, often her foes, softened—“This is what leadership looks like, even if I hate her boss,” another wrote, gaining 40,000 retweets. Memes of Leavitt as a superhero captioned “Saving Mr. Frank” mingled with clips of her briefing tears, captioned “When MAGA gets a heart.” By March 29, the fundraiser hit $250,000—far exceeding its goal—prompting Leavitt to pledge the excess to a scholarship fund in Sullivan’s name.
The White House leaned in. Trump, never one to miss a spotlight, posted on Truth Social on March 28: “Karoline Leavitt is a CHAMPION—helping a GREAT American hero retire! Proud of her!” He matched her $10,000 donation, pushing the total higher. At a March 29 rally, he brought Sullivan onstage—flown in from Lawrence—handing him a ceremonial check as the crowd chanted “Frank! Frank!” The 80-year-old, overwhelmed, hugged Leavitt and whispered, “You didn’t have to do this.” Her reply—“Yes, I did”—became the clip’s viral tagline, hitting 10 million views.
Why did this resonate? It’s March 2025, and America’s weary—politics is a slog, trust in leaders is low. Leavitt’s act cut through the noise, a rare bipartisan win in a divided time. Sullivan’s plight—working at 80 out of necessity—mirrored struggles of millions, with 25% of seniors lacking retirement savings, per a March 28 AARP report. Leavitt, at 27, bridged generations, turning a personal memory into a national cause. Her MAGA cred didn’t hurt—conservatives saw it as proof of their “America First” ethos—but her sincerity won broader appeal.
Critics were few but vocal. Some on the left called it a “PR stunt,” with one X post sniping, “She’s buying goodwill while pushing cruel policies—don’t be fooled.” Others questioned why she didn’t push systemic fixes over charity. Yet the backlash fizzled—Sullivan’s beaming face and Leavitt’s tears were hard to spin. By March 29, even MSNBC ran a segment titled “Karoline’s Kindness,” a grudging nod to her coup.
For Sullivan, it’s life-changing. On March 28, he retired—keys handed over in a school ceremony Leavitt attended via Zoom. The $250,000 covers his home, bills, and a trip to Ireland he’d dreamed of since youth. “I can’t believe it,” he told WBZ-TV, crediting Leavitt. “She’s still that sweet girl I knew.” For her, it’s a legacy boost—her March 29 briefing drew record viewership, and X buzz pegged her as “the GOP’s future.”
The story’s reach—35 million views by March 29—reflects its power. It’s not just about money; it’s about dignity, memory, and a young leader stepping up. Leavitt’s next move—announcing the Frank Sullivan Scholarship on March 29—ensures it endures. In a year of division, this was unity: a janitor’s quiet service honored, a press secretary’s heart revealed. As “Mr. Frank” echoes online, Leavitt’s stunned us all—not with fury, but with grace. And that’s a career-defining twist no one saw coming.
