The End of Illusions: Embracing a Clear-Eyed View of America

In 2016, Donald Trump was, for many, an unknown political figure—an outsider promising to shake up Washington. For those critical of him, there was a lingering hope that perhaps his rhetoric was only that: talk. In 2016, the idea of his governing style was abstract, and even his critics couldn’t fully know what his administration would mean. Yet over his first term, the reality began to emerge, marked by scandal, divisiveness, and a disregard for norms that many believed defined the presidency itself.

But between 2020 and 2024, we witnessed something perhaps more troubling than his initial tenure—an erosion of accountability so profound that it seemed Lady Liberty’s scales tipped under the weight of double standards. After January 6th, Republicans initially decried the attack. Mitch McConnell called it an insurrection, the Secretary of State of Georgia warned of Trump’s threat to democracy, and Republican leaders across the country voiced their condemnation. But as time passed, accountability for Trump and his actions unraveled into legal and political gamesmanship, where charges surfaced but resolutions never fully materialized. Impeachment efforts, legal cases, and investigations into election interference, January 6th, and classified document mishandling all proceeded, yet somehow, Trump sidestepped the full consequences in ways that seemed unthinkable for any other American.

This prolonged process wasn’t just frustrating—it highlighted a disturbing weakness in our system, one that allowed Trump to sidestep norms, shift the narrative, and avoid meaningful repercussions. While any other individual might face swift and decisive accountability, Trump’s influence, money, and legal resources enabled him to obstruct, delay, and ultimately outlast justice itself. The very scales of justice, which should weigh each person equally, felt tipped, undermining the concept that no one is above the law. In the face of all these systemic failures, the decision to re-elect him in 2024 feels like an endorsement not just of his policies or personality, but of a deeper reality: that power, privilege, and influence can shield someone even from the most transparent wrongdoing.

This is the true disappointment of familiarity. We knew what Trump was capable of, we saw the legal and political obstacles arise in real-time, and we watched as our systems—designed to protect and defend the rule of law—were tested and found lacking. The outcome is more than a re-election; it’s a statement on our national character, and it forces us to confront a grim truth about how we prioritize accountability, integrity, and the rule of law.

At the core of American politics lies a fundamental divide: how we view people. On one side, there is a belief that people are, by nature, good, capable of growth, and deserving of support. This belief fuels policies that aim to uplift and invest in people—whether it’s gun control to prevent unnecessary deaths, social programs to aid the impoverished, or immigration policies that create pathways for new citizens to contribute to society. It’s the belief that, given the right conditions, people will thrive and pay it forward. This outlook is inherently optimistic, placing faith in the potential of individuals and communities to contribute to the common good.

On the other side lies a worldview shaped by skepticism, or even fear: the belief that people are inherently flawed, self-serving, and in need of control. This view sees human nature as something to be protected against, where systems and policies should prioritize safety and order over inclusivity and trust. This side doesn’t seek to restrict gun ownership because it assumes that, fundamentally, people might need to defend themselves from each other. It advocates for harsher criminal justice and immigration policies because, in this view, people’s worst impulses are likely to emerge unless tightly regulated or even feared. This approach to policy is driven by the idea that people can’t be trusted to act in ways that are ultimately positive for society without firm boundaries.

This philosophical divide explains why the two sides rarely find common ground: it’s not just a disagreement on how to get things done; it’s a disagreement on who we are as people. One side assumes the best in people and sees investment as a path to shared progress. The other assumes the worst, emphasizing individual responsibility and protection as a defense against a fundamentally dangerous human nature. These differences are embodied in the debates around every social and political issue, from how we manage public health to how we handle crime, education, and the welfare state.

In this light, Trump’s re-election reflects a deeper trend: the triumph of fear over optimism, of control over trust. It suggests that, in 2024, the American electorate may have favored the side that sees human nature not as something to nurture and support, but as something to guard against. This shift challenges those who believe in the goodness of people and the power of investment and support to bring out the best in society. It’s not just a political shift but a shift in our collective moral compass, one that reveals an America that seems more fearful, more guarded, and less willing to believe in the inherent potential of its own people.

The 2024 election has forced me to confront something deeply unsettling: the possibility that I was wrong all along. I believed, as many do, that people are inherently good—that most of us aspire to kindness, empathy, and justice. I trusted that when confronted with a clear choice between decency and divisiveness, Americans would rise above fear and selfishness. But this election has shaken that belief to its core, suggesting that those who view human nature skeptically may have had a clearer perspective all along.

Perhaps the real truth is that, at our core, we are still driven by our primal instincts. Those who view humanity as something to be feared and controlled weren’t just acting out of cynicism—they were right. This election seems to confirm it, proving that people can be swayed by appeals to their basest impulses: fear, self-preservation, anger, and tribalism. Where I saw potential and goodness, this outcome has exposed a vulnerability—a tendency toward selfishness, suspicion, and, ultimately, a readiness to be manipulated by those who exploit our most primitive fears.

I realize now that I was perhaps naive to hope that we had evolved beyond these instincts. My optimism—that people would choose unity over division, and empathy over hate—was perhaps misplaced. The Americans who voted to keep Trump in power have shown that many of us are still driven by that primal need to protect ourselves, even at the cost of compassion and integrity. This election is, in a way, proof that these darker instincts are far more resilient than I believed.

It’s a humbling realization: I was wrong. My faith in the goodness of people led me to believe that Americans would reject a leader whose actions consistently demonstrate a disregard for integrity and decency. Instead, the majority embraced him, confirming that self-interest and fear can easily overshadow our higher aspirations. This outcome has made me question not just my political beliefs, but my understanding of human nature itself. It’s difficult to look at this outcome and still believe that we are, fundamentally, good.

In coming to this realization, I feel the weight of my own naivety. I held onto hope that America would rise above, that people would recognize what was at stake and reject a leader who embodied our worst instincts. Instead, I am left with the painful understanding that those who believed humanity to be inherently flawed may have understood something I didn’t—that fear and self-interest are stronger motivators than unity, and that, at our core, we may never fully transcend our primal nature.

For much of its history, America has cast itself as a beacon of democracy, a defender of human rights, and a leader in justice. But this election has forced me to confront a truth that, embarrassingly, I had the privilege of overlooking for most of my life. The idealized image of America as a moral high ground is not just eroding; for many, it was never there to begin with.

This disillusionment is, in truth, a white and privileged one. The disenfranchised and marginalized communities of America have long known that the nation picks and chooses when it wants to act with integrity. They’ve been witness to our hypocrisy—feeling its effects while those of us with privilege could walk through life unaffected, able to believe in the illusion of a just America. It’s a sobering realization that my belief in America’s moral compass was only possible because I could afford not to see the full truth.

This election is, perhaps, just the latest in a long line of disappointments that others have felt far more acutely and for far longer. For them, America’s so-called values have always been conditional, applied selectively and, often, oppressively. When I look back at the countless instances where our country betrayed its supposed principles, it’s painfully clear: America has always chosen convenience over consistency, power over principle.

The list of injustices is staggering. The Tuskegee syphilis experiments that saw Black men used as test subjects, knowingly left to suffer and die untreated. The draft that sent young Americans—many poor and disproportionately people of color—to fight and die in Vietnam for a war that served political aims rather than any noble cause. The financial crisis of 2008, when banks that gambled recklessly with people’s savings were bailed out with taxpayer money, leaving everyday Americans to shoulder the burden. And now, this election—a choice that seems to confirm that America will tolerate, even reward, divisiveness and corruption if it serves certain interests.

The truth is that good Americans do exist—people who strive every day to make this country better, more compassionate, and more inclusive. But I’ve come to realize that these individuals are not the true face of America; they are exceptions, not the rule. Their efforts, as noble as they are, stand in stark contrast to the actions of a nation that picks and chooses when it will act morally, if at all. The fact that morality is selective in America—conditioned on convenience, optics, and the interests of those in power—means that, in essence, we are never truly acting morally.

This election has confirmed for me what many have known all along: America’s “moral high ground” is an illusion, a selectively applied veneer that hides the reality beneath. And as I come to terms with this, I can’t help but feel embarrassed for how long it took me to see it. This wasn’t a revelation born out of a single election, but a lifetime of contradictions that I could afford to ignore until now. The shame I feel is not just for the state of the nation, but for the naivety that allowed me to believe, however briefly, that we were better than this.

Reflecting on America’s selective morality, my thoughts turn naturally to the military, an institution that embodies the nation’s will. For those of us who serve, we are more than citizens; we are the physical representation of America’s interests, values, and ambitions on the global stage. In uniform, we are tasked with carrying out the nation’s mission—its security, its defense, its foreign policy. But this role comes with a unique kind of disillusionment, especially as we confront the deepening contradictions between the ideals we are told to uphold and the reality of our treatment as service members.

Post-9/11, the demands on the military have intensified, and so has the strain on those of us who serve. We’re asked to bridge the gap between ambitious missions and limited resources, forced to stretch ourselves to meet goals set by a culture that often prizes outcomes over people. The human cost of this strain is felt acutely within the ranks, where the relentless operational tempo has led to exhaustion, mental health crises, and tragically, a marked rise in suicides across the Department of Defense. The disconnect between mission demands and actual support reflects a culture that sees service members as expendable resources, valued primarily for their utility rather than their humanity.

This dissonance is amplified by the broader disillusionment with the American moral core. In serving, we are not only subject to the strains of military culture; we are also instruments of a national identity that increasingly feels compromised. We are the physical tools of a system that picks and chooses when to act with integrity, a system that embraces certain values only when convenient. This realization—that we serve as embodiments of a country whose moral high ground feels increasingly eroded—adds a layer of psychological and emotional harm that is difficult to reconcile.

It’s painful to accept that in both military and national culture, values like honor, loyalty, and sacrifice often take a backseat to power, expediency, and control. This dynamic breeds an insidious form of disillusionment: not only do we feel used by the institution, but we also feel that the ideals we are expected to defend may themselves be hollow. The military isn’t just a detached entity—it’s an appendage of a larger national consciousness that, as we’ve seen in this election, is increasingly driven by fear, self-interest, and a selective application of principles.

Serving as a tool of this broken moral core, we carry the weight of a nation that often seems willing to compromise its ideals. The psychological toll isn’t just about the pressures of military life; it’s about the realization that we are part of a machine that may not be as principled as we once believed. This disillusionment with both the military and the nation it represents leaves a deep and lasting impact, forcing us to question not only the institution we serve but the country we serve it for. In coming to terms with this, I am left to wonder: if the values we are asked to defend are selectively applied, what does that say about the ideals that brought us into service in the first place?

Reflecting on these experiences, I find myself questioning whether humanity can ever truly transcend its primal instincts. There’s a common belief that, with enough cultural, social, and intellectual progress, we can evolve beyond fear, division, and self-interest. This belief in humanity’s potential is at the heart of many of our ideals and institutions; it’s the promise that drives us to pursue justice, equality, and compassion. But this election, along with countless events that have unfolded over my life, challenges that optimism. It suggests that, rather than being fundamentally good, humanity’s goodness may be conditional—fragile, dependent on circumstances that can just as easily drive us toward our darker impulses.

Throughout history, we’ve seen flashes of what humanity could be: movements toward peace, remarkable acts of courage, collective efforts to better the world. These moments inspire us to believe that we are capable of becoming something better. Yet, time and again, these aspirations seem undermined by our inability to escape the gravitational pull of fear, power, and survival. When I look at America today—at the divisiveness, the selective morality, the willingness to overlook harmful actions for personal gain—it’s hard to escape the sense that we may be trapped in an endless cycle, one in which our best moments are outliers rather than indicators of true progress.

It’s a sobering thought that perhaps our hope in humanity’s promise is more aspirational than achievable. We may inch forward, but the persistent sway of our base instincts suggests that we may never fully arrive at the world we envision. This realization doesn’t erase the value of striving for better, but it tempers the belief that we are inevitably progressing toward it.

The 2024 election has been more than just a political event for me—it’s a reckoning, a moment that has forced me to confront unsettling truths about human nature and the country I call home. The belief that Americans, and people generally, are fundamentally good once felt unshakeable. But this election has fractured that belief, showing that when fear, self-interest, and tribalism are on the ballot, they often win. Americans are not immune to these primal instincts, and rather than evolving beyond them, we seem all too willing to embrace them when they align with our comfort or security. This outcome casts a shadow over the very identity of our nation, forcing me to reconsider the values we claim to stand for.

This disillusionment extends beyond the abstract realm of politics into the deeply personal experience of military service. As service members, we are not just citizens—we are the hands and feet of American will, the embodiment of the country’s values and ambitions on the world stage. But when those values become compromised, so does the purpose of our service. The disconnect between what America claims to represent and what it actually upholds trickles down into military culture, creating a parallel tension between the ideals we are told to fight for and the reality of how we are treated.

Serving as agents of a morally compromised society brings an additional burden. It’s not only that we are subjected to a system that views us as expendable, but that we are asked to defend and promote values we may no longer believe in. The idealism that brought many of us to serve is constantly challenged by a culture that prioritizes mission over humanity, convenience over consistency. In this light, our service begins to feel less like a noble sacrifice and more like a reluctant complicity, an uncomfortable role in perpetuating a national identity that may not hold the integrity we once believed it did.

The election, the disillusionment, and the experiences within the military all coalesce into a sobering realization: we are part of a system that reflects the very flaws it purports to transcend. For those of us who joined out of a desire to serve something greater, this understanding is difficult to bear. It leaves us questioning not just the purpose of our service, but the character of the nation we serve—wondering if, in the end, we are striving to defend values that have already been quietly abandoned. This journey has led me to a painful but necessary conclusion: that perhaps America’s ideals are less of a reality and more of a promise we tell ourselves, one that remains heartbreakingly out of reach.

As we confront the events unfolding before us, it’s time to let go of comforting illusions. The belief in humanity’s inherent goodness has been a tempting story, but one that reality seldom upholds. Recent choices, both within our borders and beyond, show a willingness to embrace fear, self-interest, and division. Rather than seeing these as anomalies or failings, we might recognize them as the natural undercurrents of human nature. It’s not cynicism to see this; it’s clarity.

This clarity, however, is not a call to despair, but to realism. It’s a call to approach our institutions, leaders, and even our communities with open eyes, willing to see flaws where we once sought virtue. It’s a call to guard against naivety and to replace trust with vigilance. Trust that humanity will do the right thing may be misplaced. Instead, our actions should be guided by a recognition that people often act out of fear, self-preservation, or power. This is not an indictment; it’s an understanding. And in this understanding lies strength. The resilient among us will see the world as it is, not as we wish it to be, and in doing so, they will be better equipped to protect what truly matters to them.

We need not pine for unity where it may never have existed. Instead, we can embrace a mindset that prepares us for the divisions and tensions that have always been part of our world. Accepting this division is not an invitation to conflict; it’s an act of self-preservation, a way to live practically and intentionally, to make choices that protect us from the betrayals of idealism. We can still choose our values and still act with integrity, but without assuming others will do the same. This mindset isn’t about building walls—it’s about living wisely within the realities of a flawed humanity.

It’s time to leave behind the myth of universal morality, of an America—or a world—that acts out of collective goodwill. Let this be an invitation to a different kind of strength, one that is clear-eyed and prepared, one that finds resilience not in unfounded hope but in an unwavering acceptance of what people are capable of.