GOP Rock Neal Dunn Exits, Triggers Battle for Florida’s 2nd District

Paul Riverbank, 1/14/2026GOP Rep. Neal Dunn retires, leaving Florida's 2nd District bracing for a new era.

Dunn, a former Army surgeon, never seemed interested in being the loudest voice at the committee table. Instead, five terms in Congress added lines to his brow but earned real trust back home. If you talked to his staffers (several, it must be said, looking like Florida lifers who’ve known more than one hurricane), you’d quickly learn he always had a grasp on whose VA benefits were stuck in the system and who was waiting for a call-back about an odd Medicaid appeal.

So, when Dunn said he’d had enough of Washington — making it clear there’d be no headline-chasing Senate bid, no gubernatorial launch — the reaction in his district was oddly calm, tinged more with appreciation than anxiety. “It’s just time,” he said in a statement, hinting that the real pull was the lure of family fish fries and grandkids playing in the surf, not some new political venture.

That move comes at an inflection point, both for Dunn and Congress at large. Starting in 2016, he stepped quietly but surely into his seat — winning handily in Florida’s reliably red 2nd District, a place where being a Republican is almost a shorthand for ‘local.’ He never stopped sounding the alarm about taxes, energy regulation (“Affordability starts with energy and deregulation,” as Rep. Stephanie Bice, a political ally, quipped at a recent field hearing), or the bewildering tangle of national health policy.

But Dunn’s hallmark was detail: parsing health reform bills line by line, advocating for military families far beyond press release platitudes, occasionally digging in on arcane points others would skip. He became vice chair of the Energy and Commerce Committee, not by elbowing for airtime, but by always seeming to have a weathered folder of constituent notes tucked away. His fingerprints showed up not only on legislation, but in the way he’d challenge bureaucratic hurdles facing rural hospitals or raise eyebrows at the latest China Select Committee findings.

None of this, notably, made the seat itself bulletproof; rather, Dunn’s margin — usually more than 23 points — reflected both party loyalty and a reputation for sturdy stewardship. Over time, even those who disagreed with his votes felt obliged to concede he picked up the phone when it mattered.

Beyond Florida, Dunn’s retirement dovetails with a broader, almost feverish exodus from the House: close to 50 departures, evenly split between parties. Nearby, Rep. Nancy Mace is chasing the South Carolina governor’s mansion. On the West Coast, Rep. Eric Swalwell is mulling a statewide leap. Many are restless, itching for a new perch. Dunn, by contrast, simply sounds tired — and ready for porch sunsets over Panama City Beach.

With his exit, the Republican majority grows even slimmer, sharpening the focus on every upcoming special election. This isn’t the kind of district where Democrats have ever felt particularly hopeful, but with an open seat (and Dunn declining to anoint a successor), both sides are revving up — digital ads flicker on Facebook feeds, while local party offices see a little more after-hours light.

Some of Dunn’s farewell note read like a sermon more than a campaign coda: “I am deeply grateful for your trust, support, and prayers over these years. America remains the greatest nation on Earth, and with God’s blessing, our best days are ahead.” If you’d heard him in person, it would’ve sounded less rehearsed and more like a neighbor shutting the gate for the evening.

Ultimately, what worries constituents isn’t just the uncertainty of an open seat. It’s a concern you’ll hear at the Waffle House counter — who’s going to know my name at the district office? Who’ll show up when the VA drags out my claim? That, far more than margin of victory, is the shadow Dunn leaves over Panama City and the surrounding mangroves: the sense that day-to-day, politics can still be about phone calls returned and problems solved, quietly and without much fuss. In a political age addicted to spectacle, that sort of slow, steady presence might be what folks will miss the most.

If you’d wandered into Neal Dunn’s office on a humid afternoon, you might have mistaken it for the back room of a trusted neighborhood clinic instead of a Congressional workspace. The blinds rarely sat quite straight, chairs mismatched from overuse, and the tone inside wasn’t polished for cameras — it was a place where old veterans nodded in approval and local doctors arrived with crumpled folders, hoping for a few minutes of straight talk. That’s how most constituents in Panama City came to know Dunn: not as a distant Capitol Hill figure, but as someone who’d recognize their face at the diner down the road.Dunn, a former Army surgeon, never seemed interested in being the loudest voice at the committee table. Instead, five terms in Congress added lines to his brow but earned real trust back home. If you talked to his staffers (several, it must be said, looking like Florida lifers who’ve known more than one hurricane), you’d quickly learn he always had a grasp on whose VA benefits were stuck in the system and who was waiting for a call-back about an odd Medicaid appeal.So, when Dunn said he’d had enough of Washington — making it clear there’d be no headline-chasing Senate bid, no gubernatorial launch — the reaction in his district was oddly calm, tinged more with appreciation than anxiety. “It’s just time,” he said in a statement, hinting that the real pull was the lure of family fish fries and grandkids playing in the surf, not some new political venture.That move comes at an inflection point, both for Dunn and Congress at large. Starting in 2016, he stepped quietly but surely into his seat — winning handily in Florida’s reliably red 2nd District, a place where being a Republican is almost a shorthand for ‘local.’ He never stopped sounding the alarm about taxes, energy regulation (“Affordability starts with energy and deregulation,” as Rep. Stephanie Bice, a political ally, quipped at a recent field hearing), or the bewildering tangle of national health policy.But Dunn’s hallmark was detail: parsing health reform bills line by line, advocating for military families far beyond press release platitudes, occasionally digging in on arcane points others would skip. He became vice chair of the Energy and Commerce Committee, not by elbowing for airtime, but by always seeming to have a weathered folder of constituent notes tucked away. His fingerprints showed up not only on legislation, but in the way he’d challenge bureaucratic hurdles facing rural hospitals or raise eyebrows at the latest China Select Committee findings.None of this, notably, made the seat itself bulletproof; rather, Dunn’s margin — usually more than 23 points — reflected both party loyalty and a reputation for sturdy stewardship. Over time, even those who disagreed with his votes felt obliged to concede he picked up the phone when it mattered.Beyond Florida, Dunn’s retirement dovetails with a broader, almost feverish exodus from the House: close to 50 departures, evenly split between parties. Nearby, Rep. Nancy Mace is chasing the South Carolina governor’s mansion. On the West Coast, Rep. Eric Swalwell is mulling a statewide leap. Many are restless, itching for a new perch. Dunn, by contrast, simply sounds tired — and ready for porch sunsets over Panama City Beach.With his exit, the Republican majority grows even slimmer, sharpening the focus on every upcoming special election. This isn’t the kind of district where Democrats have ever felt particularly hopeful, but with an open seat (and Dunn declining to anoint a successor), both sides are revving up — digital ads flicker on Facebook feeds, while local party offices see a little more after-hours light.Some of Dunn’s farewell note read like a sermon more than a campaign coda: “I am deeply grateful for your trust, support, and prayers over these years. America remains the greatest nation on Earth, and with God’s blessing, our best days are ahead.” If you’d heard him in person, it would’ve sounded less rehearsed and more like a neighbor shutting the gate for the evening.Ultimately, what worries constituents isn’t just the uncertainty of an open seat. It’s a concern you’ll hear at the Waffle House counter — who’s going to know my name at the district office? Who’ll show up when the VA drags out my claim? That, far more than margin of victory, is the shadow Dunn leaves over Panama City and the surrounding mangroves: the sense that day-to-day, politics can still be about phone calls returned and problems solved, quietly and without much fuss. In a political age addicted to spectacle, that sort of slow, steady presence might be what folks will miss the most.