The money went in fast. Getting it back has turned into something else entirely.
In the days following Eric Swalwell’s abrupt exit from the California governor’s race, a growing number of his former supporters have found themselves stuck in a frustrating limbo. According to an internal campaign document reviewed by the San Francisco Chronicle, at least 200 donors are now seeking roughly $1.5 million in refunds. What they’re encountering instead is silence, confusion, and a process that appears to be undefined at best.
Swalwell suspended his campaign just days after reports published on April 10 detailed allegations of inappropriate conduct, including a claim of rape. He has denied the accusations, but the political damage was immediate. Investigations are now underway, and the campaign he built quickly unraveled.
For donors, the fallout has been more personal than political. Many gave money shortly before the reports surfaced, unaware of what was about to break. Juanita Kizor, who contributed $500 just hours before the story went public, described a process that has yielded almost nothing. After contacting ActBlue, she received about $5 back—roughly one percent of her donation—and an email address for the campaign. Her outreach since then has gone unanswered.
Others report similar experiences. Some have been told, indirectly, that even former campaign staff don’t have answers. One ex-staffer acknowledged as much in a message shared with a donor, stating there was no authorized refund procedure or clear direction from leadership. The note carried a tone of frustration: if it were up to staff, refunds would already be underway.
That disconnect points to a deeper issue—control over the campaign’s remaining funds.
Filings show that Swalwell has installed himself as treasurer of his now-defunct gubernatorial campaign, giving him direct authority over approximately $4 million still sitting in campaign accounts. Those funds are not frozen. Instead, they are being actively used, including for legal defense tied to the allegations and potentially for investigative services.
That decision has sharpened the backlash. Donors who expected their contributions to support a political campaign now see that money being redirected toward personal legal battles. For some, that shift crosses a line.
There are exceptions. Comedian Kathy Griffin publicly said she was able to recover her $10,000 donation and redirect it elsewhere. But her case stands out precisely because it is not the norm. For most donors, there is no clear path, no standardized request process, and no timeline.
The situation leaves a basic question unanswered: what happens to campaign money when the campaign itself collapses under scandal?
Right now, the answer appears to depend largely on the discretion of the person still holding the account.
