The Biden administration passed $3 trillion of legislation aimed at revitalizing the American economy and fostering green, equitable, “middle-out” growth. It sent checks to voters, canceled student-loan debt, made direct deposits to parents, showered the country in tax credits, and financed the construction of roads, transmission lines, and bridges. Kamala Harris ran as Joe Biden’s successor in the midst of what some financial analysts described as the greatest economy ever, characterized by strong wage growth, low unemployment, falling inequality, and world-beating GDP.

Harris’s loss has spurred finger-pointing, soul-searching, and garment-rending. For years, thinkers on the left had urged the White House to not just talk about popular issues but also deliver on them—a concept referred to by wonks as deliverism. The Biden-Harris team embraced the idea, and many staffers believed they’d delivered.

Deliverism is just a long word for one of the most basic tenets of electoral politics, buttressed by decades of studies as well as by common sense: Make voters richer, win more of them. Why, if Biden did that, did the Democrats lose?

[Josh Barro: Democrats deserved to lose.]

“When the economy does well for most households, and when programs help create security and opportunity for more people to participate in that economy, political rewards follow,” Mark Schmitt of New America wrote the week before the election, when polls showed the contest as close but likely lost for the liberal side. “What I’m looking for in the 2024 election is some indication of whether this feedback loop still works at all, and if not, whether we can ever hope to recreate some connection” between policy and politics.

Democrats may be tempted now to answer in the negative. But there is a strong case to be made that the 2024 election demonstrates that the feedback loop between policy choices and electoral outcomes does in fact endure—even if it is weakening and weirding. The issue is not that deliverism failed. It is that Democrats convinced themselves that they had delivered, without listening to the voters telling them they had not.

If you look at the headline economic statistics, Donald Trump’s broad-based and definitive win makes little sense. The jobless rate has been below 4.5 percent for three years. The inflation rate has been subdued for more than a year. Real wages—meaning wages adjusted for inflation—are climbing for all workers, and particularly the lowest-income workers. Inequality is easing. The stock market is on fire. Productivity is strong, and start-ups are booming. The United States’ GDP growth rate is double that of the European Union.

The Biden administration helped create that economy. With a narrow legislative window, the administration nevertheless passed a gigantic COVID stimulus bill, the American Rescue Plan. It sent $1,400 checks to millions of families, provided thousands of dollars to parents to defray child-care costs, and shored up local-government coffers.

Then it passed a trio of heavy-infrastructure bills aimed at reshoring the semiconductor industry, transitioning businesses and homes to green energy, and fixing up transportation infrastructure across the country. Biden staffers talked about the trio as a kind of New Deal Lite. Folks might “one day come to remember this as the Big Deal,” Pete Buttigieg, the transportation secretary and eternal political hopeful, told The New Yorker this past summer. “Its bigness is the defining factor.”

Yet one could select other defining factors, among them the infrastructure bills’ lack of easy-to-grasp deliverables. I cover economic policy. I would be hard-pressed to explain what constitutes the Big Deal without putting someone to sleep; when I summarize the legislation, I often say “green-energy stuff.” Moreover, many of those deliverables were not instantaneous; today, it is hard, though certainly not impossible, to point to projects that Bidenomics built. “Much of the work we’ve done is already being felt by the American people, but the vast majority of it will be felt over the next ten years,” Biden said on X last week.

The much bigger issue has to do with the Biden-Harris administration’s social policies and the economy it fostered. To be clear, the headline economic numbers are strong. The gains are real. The reduction in inequality is tremendous, the pickup in wage growth astonishing, particularly if you anchor your expectations to the Barack Obama years, as many Biden staffers do.

But headline economic figures have become less and less of a useful guide to how actual families are doing—something repeatedly noted by Democrats during the Obama recovery and the Trump years. Inequality may be declining, but it still skews GDP and income figures, with most gains going to the few, not the many. The obscene cost of health care saps family incomes and government coffers without making anyone feel healthier or wealthier.

During the Biden-Harris years, more granular data pointed to considerable strain. Real median household income fell relative to its pre-COVID peak. The poverty rate ticked up, as did the jobless rate. The number of Americans spending more than 30 percent of their income on rent climbed. The delinquency rate on credit cards surged, as did the share of families struggling to afford enough nutritious food, as did the rate of homelessness.

Government transfers buoyed families early in the Biden administration. But they contributed to inflation, and much of the money went away in the second half of Biden’s term. The food-stamp boost, the extended child tax credit, the big unemployment-insurance payments—each expired. And the White House never passed the permanent care-economy measures it had considered.

Interest rates were a problem too. The mortgage rate more than doubled during the Biden-Harris years, making credit-card balances, car payments, and homes unaffordable. A family purchasing a $400,000 apartment with 20 percent down would pay roughly $2,500 a month today versus $1,800 three years ago.

Indeed, the biggest problem, one that voters talked about at any given opportunity, was the unaffordability of American life. The giant run-up in inflation during the Biden administration made everything feel expensive, and the sudden jump in the cost of small-ticket, common purchases (such as fast food and groceries) highlighted how bad the country’s long-standing large-ticket, sticky costs (health care, child care, and housing) had gotten. The cost-of-living crisis became the defining issue of the campaign, and one where the incumbent Democrats’ messaging felt false and weak.

Rather than acknowledging the pain and the trade-offs and the complexity—and rather than running a candidate who could have criticized Biden’s economic plans—Democrats dissembled. They noted that inflation was a global phenomenon, as if that mattered to moms in Ohio and machinists in the Central Valley. They pushed the headline numbers. They insisted that working-class voters were better off, and ran on the threat Trump posed to democracy and rights. But were working-class voters really better off? Why wasn’t anyone listening when they said they weren’t?

A better economy might not have delivered the gains that Democrats once could have relied on. Voters do seem to be less likely to vote in their economic self-interest these days, and more likely to vote for a culturally compelling candidate. As my colleague Rogé Karma notes, lower-income white voters are flipping from the Democratic Party to the Republican Party on the basis of identitarian issues. The sharp movement of union voters to Trump seems to confirm the trend. At the same time, high-income voters are becoming bluer in order to vote their cosmopolitan values.

But I would not assume that we are in a post-material world just yet. “You got to tell people in plain, simple, straightforward language what it is you’re doing to help,” Biden said after passing his sweeping COVID rescue bill. “You have to be able to tell a story, tell the story of what you’re about to do and why it matters, because it’s going to make a difference in the lives of millions of people and in very concrete, specific ways.”

The Biden-Harris administration did make a difference in concrete, specific ways: It failed to address the cost-of-living catastrophe and had little to show for its infrastructure laws, even if it found a lot to talk about. And it dismissed voters who said they hated the pain they felt every time they had to open their wallet.

No wonder voters decided to see what Donald Trump might deliver.

Europeans should pay Donald Trump the compliment of believing what he does and says, not what they desperately want to hear. He has clearly indicated that he wants the United States out of the Ukraine war as soon as possible. Both the president-elect and his most important supporter, Elon Musk, have reportedly been in frequent contact with Russian President Vladimir Putin. Vice President–elect J. D. Vance has outlined a “peace” deal with Ukraine that would serve Russian interests. American aid to Ukraine, which has been vital to the beleaguered country’s ability to resist Russia’s ongoing invasion, could stop not long after Trump is inaugurated. European nations must accept this reality and make their own plans—not just to support Ukraine in its existential fight but also to protect their own security as America’s global role shrinks.

Perhaps the best that Ukraine and its supporters can hope for is that Trump doesn’t walk away from NATO and allows European states to purchase U.S. weapons for Ukraine. This minimal position might represent a victory of sorts for Europeans who believe in democracy and the transatlantic alliance—but it would still signal a historical break. The United States will likely stop leading the global opposition to Russian aggression, and perhaps stop caring about the results of the largest war in Europe since 1945. Indeed, the president of the United States will be closer personally to the head of Europe’s largest dictatorship than to any of the continent’s democratically elected leaders.

[Anne Applebaum: The case against pessimism]

Those leaders should have started preparing for another Trump presidency long ago. They had been warned. But for the past year many Europeans have been surviving on hope. Surely the American people won’t vote for Trump, particularly after the January 6 insurrection. The prudent assumption now is that the U.S. will no longer guarantee Europe’s security from Russia and other threats. Leaders should envisage a world where NATO no longer exists—or where the United States is no longer the leading force in the alliance.

In some ways, this is more scary psychologically than in practice. Europe—which is to say, the democratic countries enmeshed in institutions such as NATO and the European Union—has the economic and technological resources to underwrite a serious defense effort. It has a large and educated enough population to staff modern armed forces. It also has some strong and growing military capabilities. For instance, European states either have received or will receive in the coming years as many as 600 F-35 fighters—the most advanced and capable aircraft in the world. Such a force could dominate the skies against a clearly inferior Russian opponent.

Yet Europe also has many weaknesses. It has developed a shockingly large number of military-hardware systems but then only builds a small number of each. This boutique way of addressing military capability has been exacerbated by a weakness in investing in logistics and a limited ability to produce supplies and equipment quickly and reliably enough to sustain a war effort.

Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine in early 2022 prompted a lot of dramatic talk. The continent had supposedly reached a turning point—a Zeitenwende, in the phrase of German Chancellor Olaf Scholz. But Europe has frittered away much of the past two and a half years, making the smallest and most incremental of changes even as a grotesque war raged to the east; even as Russian forces regularly attacked civilian targets; even as military technology, particularly relating to drone systems, raced forward. European defense spending has only crept up. Even now, a number of NATO states fail to meet the alliance’s agreed-upon target of spending at least 2 percent of their GDP on defense. The United States, even after a significant decline in defense spending after the War on Terror, spends 3.5 percent. Two percent—a standard set in 2014, when European states felt far more secure than they currently do—won’t cut it now.

[Read: I’ve watched America and Ukraine switch places]

Scaling up defense systems quickly will be difficult, but it is essential. In the meantime, the highest priority from the European perspective should be to keep Ukraine supplied and in the fight in case Trump pulls the plug on American military support for Kyiv. Europe can provide more ammunition and more ground-based air-defense equipment. It can give Ukraine long-range weapons, such as German-made Taurus cruise missiles.

Just as important, European democracies can work with Ukraine to upgrade and expand its drone capacity—and in doing so help establish that industry elsewhere in Europe. Europe and even the United States have much to learn from Ukraine about unmanned aerial vehicles. The innovation cycle in Ukraine is quick; major advances take mere months or even just weeks. In this dynamic environment, where homegrown Ukrainian technology looms so large, few Western systems are of much use if sent whole. What Ukraine needs is the ability to mass-produce the drone technology that its engineers develop, working with European partners. That will require specialized components and equipment—and Europe can help with that.

If the United States abandons Ukraine, European states can start taking steps that the Biden administration, in its excess of caution, did not allow. The four most powerful states in Europe today—the U.K., France, Germany, and Poland—could give Ukraine their blessing to attack any Russian military targets. After all, Russia is using its weapons—and those provided by its allies, such as Iran, to attack targets in Ukraine; the American refusal to let Ukraine use Western systems against military infrastructure in Russia itself makes no sense.

European countries could go still further, by openly deploying their forces at least to western Ukraine. They could take over air-defense responsibilities—shooting down Russian missiles and drones without directly killing Russian soldiers. European forces could also openly assist in training Ukrainian forces in Ukraine and assist with air defense and training. Moves like these will reassure the Ukrainian people that they are not alone if the U.S. withdraws—and that their future is in Europe.

To be sure, the continent suffers from a collective-action problem. French President Emmanuel Macron asked this week, “The question we, as Europeans, must ask ourselves, is: Are we ready to defend the interests of Europeans?” Detractors might ask why he was raising the issue only now. In Germany, Scholz’s government appears on the verge of collapse. Even if it survives, it likely lacks the boldness to move decisively to help Ukraine.

And yet the greatest obstacle is a mental one. After decades of expecting the United States to act wisely and forcefully in defense of the broader democratic world, Europe needs to start thinking and acting on its own and in its own interests. Trump’s return means that things previously inconceivable must be faced. And in Ukraine, a new Europe can be born.