Day to day, most people can safely ignore that New Zealand rests along the boundary between the Indo-Australian and Pacific tectonic plates. But nature has a way of asserting itself. At 12:51 p.m. on February 22, 2011, the city of Christchurch was rocked by the aftershock of an earthquake that had struck more than five months earlier. Nearly 200 people died in this tragedy; some 70,000 were displaced.

According to the Insurance Council of New Zealand, at more than $31 billion, this was the “biggest insured event” in the nation’s history. Ten thousand homes needed to be rebuilt and another 3,500 demolished. As a result of this sharp decrease in housing supply, the cost of shelter spiked. In the aftermath of the Christchurch earthquake, New Zealand activated emergency authority to require local governments in the metro area to rezone land for housing, and the city proper was forced to allow denser townhouses as well. According to a 2021 report to the Department of the Prime Minister and Cabinet, the rezoning was described as “releasing decades of land in one go.”

The Christchurch City Council estimated that 41 percent of the housing growth from 2010 to 2018 was a result of legalizing denser housing in the city. More ambitious changes followed elsewhere, most notably in the nation’s largest city, Auckland, which was pressured to allow—and fast-track—lots of new housing. A number of economic studies have subsequently shown that these reforms increased the supply of new houses while moderating prices: According to one study, rents would have been 28 percent higher without such reforms. The policy was a success, yet New Zealand still struggles to provide sufficient housing, and residents spend 30 percent more of their income on housing than the OECD average. Even with smart policies, it can take years, if not decades, to fully address a shortage.

New Zealand shares many similarities to the United States. It’s a car-dependent, heavily suburbanized country; more than 80 percent of the nation’s homes are detached, single-family homes—20 percentage points more than in America. And today, America’s second-largest city is facing its own natural disaster, and a set of choices for how to rebuild.

There are few places in the U.S. with a tougher housing market than Los Angeles, meaning there are few places where the destruction of several thousand homes would be harder to bear. By one estimate, Los Angeles County is 500,000 affordable homes short of having sufficient housing for its residents; an appalling homelessness crisis has resulted. Now, on top of this, one estimate predicts that the Los Angeles fires have consumed up to $275 billion in total damages and economic losses. According to Redfin, 6,354 homes have been destroyed or damaged, resulting in significant downstream consequences. “A rental listed for $16,000 per month got bid up to $30,000,” one agent recounted.

[Read: How well-intentioned policies fueled L.A.’s fires]

In the coming months and years, the Los Angeles housing market, already extremely tight, will feel the strain of displaced homeowners and renters looking for a way to stay in the region as their neighborhoods undergo the long process of rebuilding. And it is a long process—just look at the state of Hawaii, where just three of the 2,000 homes destroyed by the 2023 wildfires have been rebuilt, Reason reported last week. The interminable pace is due in large part to the local and state governments’ failure to shape the regulatory environment to encourage housing production.

At least in California, policy makers are showing some signs of life: California Governor Gavin Newsom signed an executive order waiving some of the red tape that holds up housing production, such as the California Environmental Quality Act (CEQA). But Newsom’s order applies only to properties that burned down or were substantially damaged, and it prevents new housing from exceeding 10 percent of the original structure’s footprint and height. This means, in most cases, that only a single-family house like the one that existed previously can be built.

“I’m glad the governor and the mayor have issued executive orders to try to make it easier for people to get quick permits,” California State Senator Scott Wiener, a leading housing advocate, told me. “But I think it’s really important not to force homeowners to automatically rebuild the same way as before.”

Wiener and others, such as newly minted Representative Laura Friedman, whose district covers parts of Los Angeles, have argued that exempting infill housing from CEQA—not just rebuilding what was there before—is a crucial part of the solution. In a phone call last week, Friedman told me of a friend who’d lost her Pacific Palisades home of 50 years to the ongoing fires. But, Friedman went on, the family doesn’t necessarily need to replicate their old home. “She and her family are devastated,” Friedman told me, “but she told me that at her age, she prefers to now move into a condo in a place where she’s not going to be worried every night about another fire.”

The persistent threat of future wildfires means that California’s challenge is not just to rebuild what was lost, but also to build much more housing in areas less prone to wildfires to begin with. It sounds remarkably elementary: If you don’t want people to live in places that are likely to burn down, you have to build in places that aren’t likely to burn down.

[Read: How Los Angeles must rebuild]

Los Angeles has tried this. Days after being sworn into office in December 2022, Los Angeles Mayor Karen Bass signed a directive to ensure that housing developments where all the units are affordable would get their permits within 60 days rather than languishing for months or even years, bypassing some of the onerous requirements and regulations that usually accompany multifamily housing. This change spurred production of apartments affordable to people making less than $100,000. After a little more than a year, developers submitted plans for more than 13,770 affordable units—nearly as many as the city approved in 2020, 2021, and 2022 combined, CalMatters reported last year. Some studio units are expected to go for as little as $1,800, a remarkable coup for unsubsidized new construction in expensive Los Angeles.

It’s exactly the type of policy that would weaken incentives to build farther out into wildfire-prone territory. In fact, the program was so successful that Bass has been backpedaling on it ever since. As the story often goes, the triumph of the program meant that a lot of new buildings were allowed, sometimes in neighborhoods where at least a few residents opposed new development and complained to their local officials. Soon enough, the policy reversals began. Bass exempted areas with single-family homes from accessing the streamlined affordable-housing permits (which make up 74 percent of the city’s residential land) and then layered on a series of requirements that turned the policy from “remarkable” to “status quo,” one economist remarked.

Andrew Slocum, a developer who has affordable-housing projects approved under this program, told me he is frustrated by the rollbacks and his sense that political leadership isn’t taking the housing crisis seriously enough. Slocum recently sent an email to the Los Angeles Department of Building and Safety as well as to Bass’s office arguing that the city is illegally holding up housing projects contra state law. This is not an isolated complaint. Last fall, a county judge ruled that L.A. had violated state and local law when it blocked 360 affordable apartments near single-family homes. Los Angeles is not the first California city to be accused of flouting state requirements to permit housing more quickly: Malibu, Berkeley, Huntington Beach, and other localities have all come under scrutiny.

I reached out to Bass’s office and the L.A. Department of Building for comment, and the mayor’s spokesperson Zach Seidl replied in an email, “Since taking office Mayor Bass has executed a comprehensive strategy to confront housing unaffordability in Los Angeles.”

Seidl also told me that L.A. permits more Accessory Dwelling Units “than anywhere else in California.” This is unsurprising. Los Angeles is the second-biggest city in the nation and is almost three times as large as the next-biggest city in California. Last year, the Los Angeles Times looked at ADUs permitted per 1,000 housing units and found that L.A. barely cracked the top 10 of cities in Los Angeles County.

[Read: The truth about NIMBYs]

This is the trap California has set for itself. In order to prevent costly damages from wildfires and further residential incursions into fire-prone areas, you have to provide more housing in dense urban corridors. But in order to satisfy NIMBY gadflies and antidevelopment members of the Democratic coalition, you have to make it difficult to build new housing basically everywhere.

Los Angeles and even California are not alone in trying to balance these concerns. And in most contexts, it’s easier to fold to short-term political pressure that prevents new construction. But the math is quickly changing. In acceding to critics, policy makers might think they are satisfying their residents’ desire for stability and maintaining the neighborhood character of these communities. But by hell or high water—quite literally—change is coming anyway.

In a Massachusetts cellar in 1873, Lydia Pinkham first brewed the elixir that would make her famous. The dirt-brown liquid, made from herbs including black cohosh and pleurisy root, contained somewhere between 18 and 22 percent alcohol—meant as a preservative, of course. Within a couple of years, Pinkham was selling her tonic at $1 a bottle to treat “women’s weaknesses.” Got the blues? How about inflammation, falling of the womb, or painful menstruation? Lydia E. Pinkham’s Vegetable Compound was the solution. Pinkham’s matronly smile, printed on labels and advertisements, became as well known as Mona Lisa’s.

Lydia E. Pinkham’s Vegetable Compound was one of thousands of popular and lucrative patent medicines—health concoctions dreamed up by chemists, housewives, and entrepreneurs—that took the United States by storm in the 19th and early 20th centuries. These products promised to treat virtually any ailment and didn’t have to reveal their recipes. Many contained alcohol, cocaine, morphine, or other active ingredients that ranged from dubious to dangerous. Dr. Guild’s Green Mountain Asthmatic Compound was available in cigarette form and included the poisonous plant belladonna. Early versions of Wampole’s Vaginal Cones, sold as a vaginal antiseptic and deodorizer, contained picric acid, a toxic compound used as an explosive during World War I. Patent-medicine advertisements were unavoidable; by the 1870s, 25 percent of all advertising was for patent medicines.

After the Pure Food and Drug Act was passed in 1906, the newly created Food and Drug Administration cracked down on miracle elixirs. But one American industry is still keeping the spirit of patent medicine alive: dietary supplements. In the U.S., vitamins, botanicals, and other supplements are minimally regulated. Some can improve people’s health or address specific conditions, but many, like the medicines of old, contain untested or dangerous ingredients. Nevertheless, three-quarters of Americans take at least one. Some take far more. Robert F. Kennedy Jr., the longtime conspiracy theorist and anti-vaccine activist who’s awaiting Senate confirmation to run the Department of Health and Human Services, has said he takes a “fistful” of vitamins each day. Kennedy has in recent years championed dietary supplements and decried their “suppression” by the FDA—an agency he would oversee as health secretary. Now he’s poised to bring America’s ever-growing supplement enthusiasm to the White House and supercharge the patent-medicine revival.  

The newly created FDA eventually required all pharmaceutical drugs—substances intended for use in the diagnosis, cure, mitigation, treatment, or prevention of disease—to be demonstrably safe and effective before they could be sold. But dietary supplements, as we call them now, were never subject to that degree of scrutiny. Vitamins were sold with little interference until the “megadosing” trend of the late 1970s and ’80s, which began after the chemist Linus Pauling started claiming that large amounts of vitamin C could stave off cancer and other diseases. The FDA announced its intention to regulate vitamins, but the public (and the supplement industry) revolted. Mel Gibson starred in a television ad in which he was arrested at home for having a bottle of Vitamin C, and more than 2.5 million people participated in a “Save Our Supplements” letter-writing campaign. Congress stepped in, passing the 1994 Dietary Supplement Health and Education Act, which officially exempted dietary supplements from the regulations that medications are subject to.

Since then, the FDA has generally not been responsible for any premarket review of dietary supplements, and manufacturers have not usually had to reveal their ingredients. “It’s basically an honor system where manufacturers need to declare that their products are safe,” says S. Bryn Austin, a social epidemiologist and behavioral scientist at the Harvard T. H. Chan School of Public Health. The agency will get involved only if something goes wrong after the supplement starts being sold. As long as they disclose that the FDA hasn’t evaluated their claims, and that those claims don’t involve disease, supplement makers can say that their product will do anything to the structure or function of the body. You can say that a supplement improves cognition, for example, but not that it treats ADHD. These claims don’t have to be supported with any evidence in humans, animals, or petri dishes.

In 1994, the dietary-supplement industry was valued at $4 billion. By 2020, it had ballooned to $40 billion. Patent-medicine creators once toured their products in traveling medicine shows and made trading cards that people collected, exchanged, and pasted into scrapbooks; today, supplement companies sponsor popular podcasts, Instagram stories are overrun with supplement ads, and influencers make millions selling their own branded supplements. The combination of modern wellness culture with lax regulations has left Americans with 19th-century-like problems: Pieter Cohen, an associate professor of medicine at Cambridge Health Alliance, has found a methamphetamine analogue in a workout supplement, and omberacetam, a Russian drug for traumatic brain injuries and mood disorders, in a product marketed to help with memory.

Last year, Kennedy accused the FDA of suppressing vitamins and other alternative health products that fall into the dietary-supplement category. But “there is no truth about the FDA being at war on supplements over the last several decades,” Cohen told me. “In fact, they have taken an extremely passive, inactive approach.” Experts have repeatedly argued that the FDA needs more authority to investigate and act on supplements, not less. And yet, Kennedy continues to champion the industry. He told the podcaster Lex Fridman that he takes so many vitamins, “I couldn’t even remember them all.” Kennedy has vocally opposed additives in food and conflicts of interest in the pharmaceutical industry, but has failed to mention the dangerous additives in dietary supplements and the profits to be made in the supplement market. (Neither Kennedy nor a representative from the MAHA PAC responded to a request for comment.)

In an already permissive environment, Kennedy’s confirmation could signal to supplement manufacturers that anything goes, Cohen said. If the little regulation that the FDA is responsible for now—surveilling supplements after they’re on the market—lapses, more adulterated and mislabeled supplements could line store shelves. And Americans might well pour even more of our money into the industry, egged on by the wellness influencer charged with protecting our health and loudly warning that most of our food and drug supply is harmful. Kennedy might even try to get in on the supplement rush himself. Yesterday, The Washington Post reported that, according to documents filed to the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office, Kennedy applied to trademark MAHA last year, which would allow him to sell, among other things, MAHA-branded supplements and vitamins. (He transferred ownership of the application to an LLC in December. Kennedy’s team did not respond to the Post.)

A truly unleashed supplement industry would have plenty of tools at its disposal with which to seduce customers. Austin studies dietary supplements that make claims related to weight loss, muscle building, “cleansing,” and detoxing, many of which are marketed to not just adults, but teenagers too. “Those types of products, in particular, play on people’s insecurities,” she told me. They also purport to ease common forms of bodily or mental distress that can’t be quickly addressed by traditional medical care. Reducing stress is hard, but ordering the latest cortisol-reducing gummy on TikTok Shop is easy. Your doctor can’t force vegetables into your diet, but a monthly subscription of powdered greens can.

Judy Z. Segal, a professor emerita at the University of British Columbia who has analyzed patent-medicine trading cards from the 19th and 20th centuries, told me that supplement-marketing strategies “have not changed that much since the patent-medicine era.” Patent medicines appealed to ambient, relatable complaints; one ad for Burdock’s Blood Bitters asserted that there were “thousands of females in America who suffer untold miseries from chronic diseases common to their sex.” And the makers of patent medicine, like many modern supplement companies, used friendly spokespeople and customer testimonials while positioning their products as preventive care; according to one ad for Hartshorn’s Sarsaparilla, “The first deviation from perfect health should receive attention.”

In 1905, the muckraker Samuel Hopkins Adams lamented that “gullible America” was so eager to “swallow huge quantities of alcohol, an appalling amount of opiates and narcotics, a wide assortment of varied drugs ranging from powerful and dangerous heart depressants to insidious liver stimulants; and, far in excess of all other ingredients, undiluted fraud.” Compounds and elixirs go by different names now—nootropics, detoxes, adaptogens—but if Adams walked down any supplement aisle or browsed Amazon, he’d still find plenty of cure-alls. He could even pick up a bottle of Lydia E. Pinkham’s Herbal Supplement, which is sold as an aid for menstruation and menopause. Pinkham’s face smiles at buyers from the label, though its advertised benefits are now accompanied by a tiny disclaimer: “This statement has not been evaluated by the FDA.”

The first time I recall my mother mentioning Amway, we were in the car late at night, coming back from a meeting at her boss’s house. Ten years old, I’d gone upstairs to play and missed the whole point of the whiteboard sitting on an easel downstairs. My mother, however, had been rapt. Riding home with my brother and stepfather, she seemed almost to glow, as if she were throwing off sparks in the darkness.

The name Amway, she told me, was short for the “American Way.” We could sign up and buy products we already needed for the house, then sign up friends and neighbors to buy things, too. We would get rich by earning a little bit from everything they sold.

It was 1978. I didn’t realize that this was one of those moments, like Waterloo or Watergate, after which nothing would be the same. Amway—or, as we soon began to call it, the business—would become the load-bearing beam of my mother’s existence for the next four decades.

The business as then practiced in our West Virginia river town had its own culture. I found myself plunged into religious nationalism, anti-communist obsessions, denunciation of the very idea of public schools, and the worship of money. Across my lifetime, versions of these ideas would be marketed again and again to working-class Americans. Amway leaders would help elect presidents. Familiar characters from my childhood—the Amway celebrity Doug Wead, members of the DeVos family, which co-founded the company—would reappear in Republican administrations. In many ways, Amway adherents embraced a fusion of conspiratorial thinking and populism that would remain a central thread of America’s political story, prefiguring the Trump era.

But for many years, I had no context for what had swallowed my family. I had no way to understand how I’d managed to lose my mother.

Amway products began to appear around the house. We changed our laundry detergent to SA-8 and swapped our toothpaste for Glister. I rode with my mother to upline distributors’ houses to pick up the boxes that had been shipped from headquarters in Michigan. My mother and stepfather sponsored people into the business, who in turn came to our house to pick up their own orders: makeup, hair spray, a liquid soap you could use to clean anything, a portable medicine case of expensive daily vitamins called Nutrilite Double X.

My stepfather, who ran a local charity, began to introduce himself as a businessman. My mother was even more smitten with the beautiful future that Amway offered. Everywhere we went—the mall, state parks, grocery stores—she’d ask people whether they could use a little more money each month. “I’d love to set up a time to talk to you about an exciting business opportunity.” The words should have seemed suspect. Yet people almost always gave her their number. Her confidence and professionalism were reassuring, and her enthusiasm was electric, even, at first, to me. “What would you do with $1 million?” she’d ask, spinning me around the kitchen.

My mother and stepfather stayed out late on weeknights and weekends, bringing new recruits to see “the plan.” They paid to go to meetings and rallies. I had no idea at the time that these events were hosted not by corporate Amway but by high-level distributors, who were technically independent business operators. We bought books and cassette tapes by the Amway personalities Doug Wead and Dexter Yager, with titles such as Tales of the Super Rich and Becoming Rich: Eleven Principles of Material and Spiritual Success. Wead had been an evangelical minister before gaining a higher profile with Amway. Yager had sold cars and Utica Club beer before becoming one of a handful of top distributors. Their wives wrote a book together. We bought that, too.

We ended up collecting more “motivational tools” than cleaning supplies. A few people sold soap or makeup to their friends at parties, Mary Kay–style. But for us, the business mostly meant recruiting people to sign up and buy products they would use themselves, while earning points toward advancing to the next level and higher bonuses.

We became students of success, advised to set goals of a bigger house and more expensive cars, as if wishing alone could make it happen. But by this point, whatever cash we had was spent on Amway. I had a pair of bell-bottom jeans with three bright satin stripes sewn diagonally across one knee. They were the only pants I owned.

One weekend during the summer of 1980, we packed jars of peanut butter, loaves of bread, and fruit into our car, then drove 300 miles east for a rally at the Washington, D.C., Hilton. On the road, my mother and I imagined what we would do when we reached the Diamond level of the business, when true wealth would arrive.

After we checked in, my brother and I were left to our own devices, running the halls and playing in the elevators. I read a pamphlet about how John Lennon’s “Imagine” threatened America as a Christian nation, which introduced me to the (dangerous) phrase secular humanism. I listened as leading Amway distributors denounced public schools for brainwashing children.

In the hotel ballroom, distributors sang along to songs like “Rut Job Blues,” about how stupid it was to work a regular job: “I feel so D-U-M-B / I’ve got a J-O-B.” Cheers went up at any mention of Ronald Reagan, who had embraced Amway for years—and would soon be president. (A few years earlier he’d told a crowd of Amway distributors that “for me to come here and talk to you about free enterprise is like saving souls in heaven.”)

We went to more rallies—in Pittsburgh, Cleveland, and other faltering Rust Belt cities where people were laid off and looking for hope. We ate up testimonials to God’s grace and to his desire that everyone should become as rich as possible. High-ranking distributors encouraged low-level distributors like us to Drop that stinkin’ thinkin’ and Fake it till you make it.

At one rally, my brother and I ran into Doug Wead’s son, who was about our age. After walking around the hotel, the three of us sat in our room and talked. I said how great it would be when our mother and stepfather became Diamonds, so we would be rich, too.

He told me I had it all wrong. His dad didn’t make serious money through Amway products. Most of what he earned came from writing books and recording talks. That was how people got rich in Amway—selling motivational books and tapes to distributors like my parents. Didn’t I know?

He spoke honestly, without malice, and the words rattled around in my brain for the rest of the trip. I picked at the upholstery on the seat of the car on the ride home. We would never be rich. There was no other plan. We were doomed.

What was it about Amway that so captured a bright, extroverted woman like my mother? Abandoned as a child when her own mother ran off to become a nightclub singer, she’d been raised by her grandparents. She graduated high school with a journalism scholarship to college, but met my father that summer and never left town. She became a stringer for the local paper, later working as a lunchtime anchor and interviewer for our local television station. When I was a preschooler, she took night classes and earned a bachelor’s degree in social work. By the time she discovered Amway, my mother had divorced and remarried. My stepfather had a more fundamentalist view of religion than I had been raised with—a view that dovetailed with many Amway leaders’ emphasis on biblical literalism and wives submitting to their husbands.

My mother couldn’t imagine life without a husband. More crucially, she believed herself destined for something extraordinary. But how could someone achieve greatness in Parkersburg, West Virginia? Amway promised to deliver what nothing else in our town could—or at least to give her a community that would pretend along with her.

For some Americans, joining the business might have been harmless. For us, it was not. Soon my mother and stepfather had no other job. Their bad decisions ricocheted in the echo chamber of Amway culture, where they were encouraged to dedicate themselves more deeply. Surely, any day now, we would make it. Within three years, we were living in a filthy house without electricity, eating food out of a cooler that we kept filled with ice. Then we were evicted, and my mother and stepfather declared bankruptcy. Ordinary people might have thought twice about sticking with Amway. But by that point, we had left the small dreams of ordinary people behind.

A few months later, we climbed in a van headed to New York to stay at another Hilton. It was New Year’s Eve. My parents went to see the Rockettes and to hear the same speakers they’d cheered on in other cities, singing songs, giving glory to God, and talking about his vision for America.

When I was a teenager and my mother was in her early 40s, she stopped talking to me about Amway. She filed for divorce from my stepfather and started a graduate-school program in behavioral psychology in hopes of becoming a therapist.

Despite being more than a decade older than her classmates, she was well liked and a good student. My brother and I had already escaped to college, thanks to cobbled-together loans, grants, and multiple part-time jobs. I didn’t talk to either of them often, because in 1988, long-distance phone calls were expensive. But my mother called one day to chat.

“Going crazy isn’t like being hit by a car,” she said in the middle of our conversation. “People make a small but conscious decision to give up. At some point, it’s easier than living in reality.”

She was deep in clinical work with the mentally ill at the time; I assumed she was drawing on that experience. Still, the line stayed with me. In recent years, I’ve wondered whether she was talking about herself, and whether there might have been some way to intervene that I didn’t see. Because, just two years later, in the last semester of her Ph.D. program, my mother decided to quit and marry a third husband, one who would do Amway with her.

Only much later would I hear stories about distributors like us who had declared bankruptcy and begin to understand how common our experience was. A 1980 study of tax returns conducted by Wisconsin’s attorney general showed that the top 1 percent of Amway distributors in that state had lost, on average, $900 in the business. In 1994, Dexter Yager and Amway faced a class-action lawsuit claiming that they had fraudulently misrepresented how much distributors were likely to earn and illegally pressured people to buy books and tapes. The case was settled with Amway promising compensation and changes that would require distributors to make clear that motivational tools were optional and didn’t guarantee success. The FTC had determined in 1979 that Amway was not a pyramid scheme, but the company continued to face allegations to the contrary. In 2010 it settled another class-action suit alleging that it operated a pyramid scheme. The company did not admit to guilt but did agree to pay plaintiffs $56 million, in the form of cash and Amway products.

In the years that followed, my mother and I would sometimes talk about real life—a birth, a death, a grandchild—and flashes of who she used to be would shine through. But she also shared long lists of people the Clintons had supposedly murdered, and continued to insist on Amway’s tremendous potential. She always sounded a little embarrassed by the things she said, as if she understood that they were hard to believe. I think she wanted me to see that she knew that the most cultlike aspects of the business were over the top, that she hadn’t been taken in entirely, that she wasn’t some kind of fool. But it didn’t matter. In the end, Amway owned her as fully as if she’d believed every word. Despite interventions my brother and I attempted, despite the money she continued to lose year after year, our mother never gave up on the business.

Illustration by Anthony Gerace

When I tell people how I grew up, I get a few different reactions. Sometimes I meet people who thought about joining Amway, and are relieved they never signed up. Sometimes they’re surprised that Amway still exists—they thought it disappeared decades ago. Most barely know what it is. And why should they? They themselves might never fall for such a hustle. But whether they know it or not, Amway has deeply influenced American politics for decades.

Amway supported Reagan’s candidacy in the 1980s. In the ’90s, a co-founder of the business, Rich DeVos, gave the GOP what was believed to be the largest-ever-recorded individual political donation. Less than a decade after I first listened to him on Amway tapes, Doug Wead became Vice President George H. W. Bush’s liaison to right-wing Christians. The Bush-era term compassionate conservatism may have been an Amway invention—Wead is said to have coined it. Dexter Yager, who had paid Reagan and Bush to speak at his events, reportedly mass-distributed voicemails pushing support for Republican candidates and accusing Bill Clinton of trying to “force the emergence of deviant lifestyles, of a socialist agenda.”

I grew up hearing rumors about the satanic influences motivating Procter & Gamble, which Amway considered a business competitor—stories that led to another lawsuit and required distributors to pay $19 million in damages. Amway didn’t invent the art of communal delusion via disinformation—the John Birch Society had already perfected it in the 1960s. The Birchers’ influence was in decline by the time we joined the business, but Amway’s culture helped carry their unhinged style into the digital era.

In 2021, Doug Wead died. At the time, he was under federal indictment—not for anything related to Amway, but for allegedly funneling Russian money into Donald Trump’s 2016 campaign. In Trump’s first administration, he nominated Betsy DeVos as secretary of education. An advocate for school choice and religious education, she is married to Rich DeVos’s son, Dick, who was president of Amway himself in the 1990s, and whose family still co-owns the company. She said she’d be open to returning to the post, “with the goal of phasing out the Department of Education.” The rallies leading up to Trump’s latest election, with their euphoric resentments and tent-revival energy, recalled nothing so much as a 1980s Amway function.

My mother had fallen so deep into the delusional communities of Amway and religious extremism that I took a while to realize she was developing dementia. Her Alzheimer’s manifested in part as paranoid psychosis. Over time, as her memory failed and her sense of her own importance ballooned, she exchanged my actual childhood for one in which we’d been staggeringly wealthy. She had once been engaged to Trump, she told me. When a court-appointed attorney came to assess her legal competence, my mother threatened to have Trump fire her. For months, my mother believed she was working as Trump’s campaign director for Ohio and Michigan. They had met through Amway, of course.

It’s hard to leave a delusion behind. In the run-up to the 2024 elections, I noticed the ways in which Trump’s political followers likewise struggled to abandon him. Some prominent Trump supporters may see him as a means to wealth or power. Others find meaning and community—or even vindication—in accepting the lies he tells. Maybe, eventually, when they see what his second administration delivers, some voters will peel away.

That’s what happened with Amway. The company is still a multibillion-dollar, global enterprise, though its domestic profile is now so much smaller that it has a page on its own website answering the question: “Does Amway still exist?” In the end, more people left than stayed. Those who came to their senses or were unable to sustain the delusion eventually quit. But things can get bleak in the middle.

My mother was an outlier. As the illness devoured her mind, she stopped recognizing her friends. But she still remembered the business. At the beginning of 2020, just three weeks before the pandemic began, I brought her to live with me and my brother in Virginia. She set off the fire alarm and constantly announced that the belongings she’d misplaced had been stolen. But the hardest part was her insistence that we all inhabit her imaginary world—one where she lives in grievance and terror, a place of invented enemies.

When I cleaned out her old house for her, I found storage shelves in the basement filled with Amway binders, makeup tutorials, old catalogs, and hundreds of motivational CDs and cassettes. Like some ritual to release the dead, I emptied the binders one by one. I filled a dozen Hefty bags, and then more. When the outdoor bins could no longer contain the trash, I stacked the rest on the ground by the curb: relics that would help no one, souvenirs of a lost life.

Yesterday, the United States suffered the first fatal crash of a U.S. airliner in 16 years. American Airlines Flight 5342, a regional jetliner, originated in Wichita, Kansas. Just before landing at Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport in northern Virginia, it collided with a military helicopter over the Potomac River. Scores of people were feared dead late Tuesday. Authorities haven’t yet determined the cause of the collision. The National Transportation Safety Board will lead an investigation, hoping to determine what happened and prevent any similar accidents in the future.

There is no reason to believe that the dramatic changes to the federal government made by the Trump administration, or the chaos they introduced, played any role in this tragedy. But the success of regulators in improving the safety of commercial aviation is among the great triumphs of the last half-century. And in its first week in office, the Trump administration did take one unrelated step that suggests a cavalier disregard for the consequences of politicizing those efforts: it dismissed all of the members of the federal Aviation Security Advisory Committee, a body which advised the Transportation Security Administration.

“The aviation security committee, which was mandated by Congress after the 1988 PanAm 103 bombing over Lockerbie, Scotland, will technically continue to exist but it won’t have any members to carry out the work of examining safety issues at airlines and airports,” the Associated Press reported last week. “Before Tuesday, the group included representatives of all the key groups in the industry — including the airlines and major unions — as well as members of a group associated with the victims of the PanAm 103 bombing. The vast majority of the group’s recommendations were adopted over the years.”

My colleague James Fallows, a longtime pilot who has reported on aviation for decades, noted yesterday that dismantling the committee one week ago “wasn’t part of tonight’s tragedy,” but argued that it is a thoughtless destruction of a taken-for-granted institution that will erode safety over time, when the United States should instead be conserving the gains of recent decades. Pointing his readers to a list of the board’s former members, Fallows wrote that it “was collaborative; it combined public, private, military, civilian, academic, and other institutions to pool knowledge; it avoided blame; but it focused relentlessly on lessons learned.”

I favor a smaller federal government, and will likely cheer some cuts that the Trump Administration makes. My hope is for a bureaucracy that does fewer things and does them well.

But aviation safety in America is the envy of the world––it’s among the few things that was working well, having improved significantly in recent decades under a status quo that Trump is disrupting. To what end? Perhaps the Trump administration has some compelling rationale that it hasn’t shared for disbanding the Aviation Security Advisory Committee. If so, it should speak up.

Instead, a Department of Homeland Security official offered a vague and unpersuasive statement to Aviation International News: “The Department of Homeland Security will no longer tolerate any advisory committee which pushes agendas that attempt to undermine its national security mission, the President’s agenda, or Constitutional rights of Americans,” he said.

Congress should demand better answers, for the sake of the due diligence that airline safety warrants, and because stripping a mandated board of all its members would seem to thwart its legitimate power with a technicality. If Congress judges that the board is still useful, it should use the power of the purse to force its restoration, rather than giving in to the president.

Will Republicans, who hold a majority in the House and the Senate, jealously guard the legislature’s powers and diligently discharge its oversight responsibilities? Perhaps not. Deferring to presidents from one’s own party is a bipartisan sin, however derelict it makes legislators in their duties. While Trump undoubtedly has a popular mandate for aspects of his agenda, however, no voter sent him to Washington to end an aviation safety committee. He is owed no deference on that move.

Trump is making a lot of changes very quickly. If GOP legislators won’t probe this one to see if it is arbitrary or ill-considered, it’s hard to imagine what will spur them to exercise their oversight responsibilities––after all, most members of Congress are frequent flyers.

Put on the spot, a lot of Americans might hesitate over the difference between Medicaid and Medicare. People who aren’t affected by one of these programs, which together enroll about 150 million people in the U.S., don’t generally have a need to be well versed in their intricacies, and the two programs sound quite similar. The names don’t really hint that Medicare is a federal program that covers older Americans and Americans with disabilities, and that Medicaid covers low-income people in the United States.

Most Americans, though, are not nominated to become secretary of the Department of Health and Human Services. Robert F. Kennedy Jr. is. And yet today, at his confirmation hearing before the Senate Finance Committee, he made clear that he also does not know very much about Medicare and Medicaid.

As HHS secretary, Kennedy would oversee a suite of government agencies, including the FDA, CDC, and National Institutes of Health, that are focused on improving American health. He also would oversee the Centers for Medicare and Medicaid Services, which, as the name implies, manages those two programs. HHS services, in other words, touch the lives of every American—and Medicaid and Medicare are, in particular, two of the most common ways for people to directly benefit from the government’s services.

During the three-and-a-half-hour hearing, in which the Senate committee pressed Kennedy on a range of issues—his anti-vaccine views, endorsements of conspiracy theories, stance on abortion, potential financial conflicts—senators grilled Kennedy on various aspects of the two government programs. In his new role, Kennedy could be charged with overseeing substantial changes to one of them. Donald Trump has pledged to preserve Medicare. He has made no such promise about Medicaid, which health-policy experts anticipate may be targeted for spending cuts. (On Tuesday, Medicaid reimbursement portals abruptly stopped working after the Trump administration ordered a freeze on federal grants and loans; states have since regained access to the portals.) Some Republicans have argued that an increased focus on public-health insurance in the U.S. won’t make Americans healthier, and Kennedy appeared to echo that viewpoint today when he criticized Medicaid, saying “our people are getting sicker every single year,” and lamented the program’s expansion to people with higher incomes. “The poorest Americans are now being robbed,” he said.

But Kennedy also seemed to mix up the two programs when he described them. Part of the issue with Medicaid, he said, is that “the premiums are too high, the deductibles are too high.” The majority of people enrolled in Medicaid don’t pay premiums or deductibles; federal law actually prohibits premiums for the program’s lowest-income enrollees. (He did seem better versed in Medicare Advantage, a program that provides private insurance coverage for older Americans and that he himself is enrolled in.)

To be fair, Kennedy was in a high-pressure situation. But being HHS secretary is a high-pressure job. Kennedy had time to prepare in advance of today’s hearing. If confirmed, he won’t need to master every minute detail of Medicare and Medicaid, but he will need to be able to navigate both programs—their differences, their weaknesses, and how they might evolve. People who are eligible for both programs, for instance, have created sticking points in the health-care system, in part because coordinating coverage between the two is difficult and can complicate care. When pressed by Senator Bill Cassidy of Louisiana on how to deal with that issue, Kennedy suggested that the programs should be “consolidated” and “integrated”—but when asked how that might happen, said, “I’m not exactly sure.”

Kennedy struggled with other policy specifics, too. One of his goals, Kennedy said, is to fulfill Trump’s directive to improve the quality of care and lower the price of care for all Americans. But he was vague on any plans to reform Medicaid, explaining that he’d “increase transparency” and “increase accountability.” When pushed by Cassidy to clarify, Kennedy said, “Well, I don’t have a broad proposal for dismantling the program.”

Nor did Kennedy have a clear sense of how he would approach one of the more contentious and legally sensitive health questions of the past few years: whether women whose lives are threatened by pregnancy should be able to receive emergency abortions under EMTALA, the law that requires emergency rooms that receive Medicare funding to provide care to anyone in a life-threatening situation. The Biden administration argued that this federal law supersedes state abortion bans, and in 2024, after the Supreme Court demurred on the issue, the administration made clear to doctors, in a letter co-authored by Health and Human Services Secretary Xavier Becerra, that abortions could qualify as emergency treatment. Kennedy admitted this morning that he didn’t know the scope of the authority he’d have to enforce the law in his new job.

Jacinda Abdul-Mutakabbir, a clinical pharmacist at UC San Diego, told me that Kennedy's apparent failure to understand the intricacies of the two programs wasn’t just a harmless fumble. If the health secretary is not well versed in the programs he’s tasked to run, he might not appreciate the impacts of his decisions. Should health coverage for some of the most vulnerable Americans be altered—perhaps even taken away—then health disparities in this country would likely widen. And if any part of his agenda does include increasing transparency, as Kennedy described in today’s hearing, expertise will have to be a prerequisite. “You can’t increase transparency on something you don’t have clarity on,” Abdul-Mutakabbir told me. (Kennedy’s press team did not immediately return a request for comment on his performance at today’s hearing.)

During the hearing, Kennedy’s more radical views on vaccines and infectious disease did come up. He copped to describing Lyme disease as “highly likely a militarily engineered bioweapon.” (The bacterium, which has been around for at least tens of thousands of years, is not.) He stood by his assertion that the measles vaccine killed two children in Samoa in 2018. (The vaccine did not; those children died following the administration of an improperly mixed vaccine by two nurses who were ultimately sentenced to five years in prison for the act.) He said that young children are at “basically … zero risk” from COVID-19. (Young children are at risk, especially babies under six months of age, who have similar hospitalization rates from the disease as adults 65 to 74 years old.) Kennedy’s falsehoods about infection and immunity were already well known, though. What the country learned today was that he may lack basic competency in some of the most wide-reaching aspects of his future job—and didn’t take the time to prepare answers for Congress, which he’ll ultimately have to answer to.

The staff was still setting up dinner on Mar-a-Lago’s outdoor patio on a balmy early-January evening when Donald Trump sat down. He was surrounded by several top advisers who would soon join him in the West Wing and who wanted to get his input before his attention shifted to his wealthy guests and Palm Beach club members.

Susie Wiles, the incoming chief of staff, led the conversation, listing some of the dozens of executive orders that had been teed up for Trump’s signature once he reclaimed the presidency. She wanted to talk about sequencing, according to a Trump adviser present at the meeting, speaking on the condition of anonymity to discuss private conversations. How would he like to stagger the orders over the first few weeks back in office?

“No,” Trump replied, this person told me. “I want to sign as many as possible as soon as we show up.”

“Day one,” he said.

Trump has followed through on the promise of an onslaught, unleashing in his first week more than two dozen executive orders, holding a nearly hour-long news conference and other question-and-answer-filled public appearances, and posting several times a day on social media. Some of this, of course, is in Trump’s nature. He is an inveterate showman whose instincts are to seek attention and dominate the discussion.

[Jonathan Chait: Trump’s second term might have already peaked]

But this time around, Trump’s ubiquity is also a deliberate strategy, several of his aides and allies told me. Part of the point is to send a message to the American people that their self-declared “favorite” president is getting things done. The person at the Palm Beach meeting and another Trump adviser, who also requested anonymity to describe private conversations, told me that the White House’s flood of orders and news is also designed to disorient already despairing Democratic foes, leaving them so battered that they won’t be able to mount a cohesive opposition.

Trump’s actions in his first week have been a mix of signal and noise, of distraction and seriousness. He has taken some defeats. But Trump has succeeded, at least, in creating a stark contrast with the quiet of his predecessor, and in (yet again) shifting the nation’s political discourse back toward him. And compared with 2017, the resistance has been far more muted. The Democrats, without an obvious head of the party and still digging out from November’s election disappointment, have yet to make a focused counterargument to Trump, instead getting largely drowned out in the national discourse.

“This is four years in the making. It’s days of thunder. The scale and the depth of this has blown the Democrats out. It’s blown out the media,” Steve Bannon, a former senior White House aide who still informally advises Trump, told me. “He vowed to start fast and now knows what he’s doing. This is a totally different guy than in 2017.”

When Trump left office in disgrace after the January 6, 2021, insurrection, former administration officials, conservative lawyers, and think-tank researchers began drafting orders and legislation—most famously, the Heritage Foundation initiative known as Project 2025—that could act as the foundation of a Trump revival. And after he won, his inner circle made clear that this time the administration would be staffed with true loyalists.

Wiles, who also co-chaired Trump’s campaign, told a closed-door gathering of Republican donors in Las Vegas in the early days of the transition that the president’s first moves would be to reinstate some executive orders from his first term that President Joe Biden had revoked, according one of the Trump advisers and another person familiar with the meeting. Wiles told the private gathering, for a group called the Rockbridge Network, that Trump would begin by withdrawing from the Paris climate treaty and the World Health Organization. Trump, indeed, signed those orders on his first day back in office, but they were only two of the directives to which he affixed his signature—with a giant Sharpie—in ceremonies held at the Capitol; inside a sports arena in Washington, D.C.; and in the Oval Office during his inauguration festivities and in the days that followed.

His executive orders so far have covered immigration, trade, demographic diversity, civil rights, and the hiring of federal workers. Trump ordered DEI (diversity, equity, and inclusion) programs in the federal government to be eliminated. He curtailed the Department of Justice’s civil-rights investigations. Federal health agencies were ordered to halt public communications. And he moved to expand presidential power by eliminating protections for federal workers—so he could more easily staff agencies with supporters—and by refusing, without citing any legal authority, to uphold the U.S. ban on TikTok despite a unanimous Supreme Court ruling in the ban’s favor.

“The EOs are so much better-executed now,” Bannon told me. “Back in 2017, we were writing things on the back of envelopes. It was like a playground game, shirts and skins. Now they have good people working, real lawyers.”

Some of Trump’s moves have been symbolic, such as one order to rename the Gulf of Mexico as the Gulf of America and another to insist that, even in national times of mourning, flags be flown at full staff on Inauguration Day. Others ordered government reviews—to examine China’s compliance with trade deals, for example, or the feasibility of creating an External Revenue Service to collect tariffs—but might not have real heft. If it was hard to tell the difference between what was real and what was for show, that was by design, the two advisers told me—to make it difficult for Trump’s opponents to focus their outrage.

His aides debated for weeks about how to enact his campaign pledge to pardon the January 6 rioters, whom the incoming president had declared “hostages.” Days before Trump took office, many advisers, including Vice President J. D. Vance, expected that pardons would be issued for many of the offenders but not, at least immediately, for those convicted of violent crimes, including assaulting police officers. But Trump overruled them, issuing a blanket pardon, and he included commutations for the leaders of the Oath Keepers and Proud Boys, each of whom had been sentenced to more than 15 years in prison for seditious conspiracy. The two Trump advisers said that Trump thought leaving anyone out would invalidate the underpinning of the Capitol riot—his insistence that he won the 2020 presidential election. Trump also decided that any blowback would be manageable.

[Read: Trump’s first shot in his war on the ‘deep state’]

Not everything has worked out for Trump in his first week. Even some staunch Trump allies recoiled from the pardons for violent January 6 offenders; Senator Lindsey Graham called them “a mistake” on Meet the Press. Perhaps most notable, Trump’s move to end birthright citizenship generated a wave of legal action and was blocked by a federal judge. On his first day in office, Trump took on the Fourteenth Amendment by issuing a directive to federal agencies to stop issuing citizenship documents to children born on U.S. soil to parents in the country illegally or under temporary visas. The U.S. government has long interpreted the Fourteenth Amendment to mean that those born on American soil are citizens at birth, regardless of their parents’ immigration status. The U.S. district court judge who blocked the order, John Coughenour, called it “blatantly unconstitutional” and told a Trump administration attorney, “I have difficulty understanding how a member of the bar could state unequivocally that this is a constitutional order.”

Trump has also struggled to achieve his goal of fast-tracking Cabinet confirmations in the early days of his administration. His choice for secretary of defense, Pete Hegseth, became the first Pentagon nominee to require the tie-breaking vote of the vice president to be confirmed. And Trump’s team is even more concerned about his pick for director of national intelligence, former Representative Tulsi Gabbard. The president’s aides are not certain that she has the needed support, and Trump himself has expressed some doubt that she’ll be confirmed, the two Trump advisers told me.

Despite these stumbles, the White House has reveled in Trump’s bombastic, over-the-top style, believing that his message is breaking through. Immigration officers have conducted raids in Chicago; Newark, New Jersey; and other cities. A dozen Guatemalan men in shackles were boarded onto a military aircraft in El Paso, Texas, for the deportation flight to their native country, according to the Department of Homeland Security. Trump threatened tariffs on Colombia in a tiff, now seemingly resolved, over deportation flights. His advisers have also aimed to keep the media off-balance. The White House press office has not sent out a daily schedule to reporters, and has given little notice for Trump’s events. White House Press Secretary Karoline Leavitt has yet to hold a formal briefing (though the first is tentatively slated for later today).

The speed and volume of Trump’s orders so far seem to be scrambling the left. Millions of protesters marched in cities across the nation on January 21, 2017. Democratic civic groups exploded in popularity, liberals organized voter-registration drives, and cable-TV ratings and newspaper subscriptions soared. Late-night comics made Trump their top punch line. Trump’s hastily written travel ban on Muslim-majority countries went into effect seven days into his term in 2017, sending lawyers and even ordinary citizens sprinting to airports to assist those who were suddenly subject to detainment. That moment, in many ways, was the early high-water mark of the resistance and set a template for the Democrats’ defiance going forward.

Yesterday marked the first week of Trump’s second term. No large-scale protests have taken place. House Minority Leader Hakeem Jeffries argued during last week’s caucus meeting that Democrats cannot chase every outrage, because the Trump administration will “flood the zone” with maddening changes, one person in the room told me. In a Saturday Night Live sketch this past weekend, the show’s Trump character shut down a performance based on Lin-Manuel Miranda’s Hamilton, which became a liberal totem a decade ago. The mood among Democrats, at least in some quarters, feels more like resignation than resistance.

So far, the action on the left has been centered more in the courtrooms than in the streets. Deirdre Schifeling, the chief political and advocacy officer of the American Civil Liberties Union, told me that the organization has filed lawsuits to contest a variety of Trump’s immigration orders and has worked to train volunteers in dozens of states to help local officials in responding to the administration’s plans.

“We’re in a different moment. People are not as surprised as the first time. But I would not mistake that for a lack of willingness to fight,” Schifeling said. “It seems like this first week is one giant test balloon—seeing what will stick, seeing what they can get away with. It’s incumbent on all of us to stay calm and firmly push back on them. Don’t give them an inch.”

[David A. Graham: It’s already different]

Jennifer Palmieri, a longtime Democratic strategist who served as White House communications director for Barack Obama and worked on Hillary Clinton’s and Kamala Harris’s campaigns, told me that Democrats “can’t stay demoralized” and must recognize that Trump proposed “an agenda that people bought into”—that even gave him a popular-vote victory.

“Now [we need] to stay most focused on those issues—like prices—which he is the most vulnerable on,” Palmieri said. Inflation was a core campaign issue, and Trump himself noted during the transition that he “won on groceries,” telling Meet the Press in December, “We’re going to bring those prices way down.”

“It’s a tangible thing, and he needs to deliver,” Palmieri said.

That hasn’t started happening yet. For all the shock and awe of Trump’s first week, none of his initial actions directly took on inflation. But nor are Democrats making Trump look particularly vulnerable.

Updated on January 25, 2025 at 2:31 p.m. ET

Dear Mr. Secretary,

Tradition dictates that I begin by congratulating you on your confirmation. You seem like a man who appreciates frankness, and so I will spare you empty decorum: It would be disingenuous of me to deny that I have been opposed to your nomination to lead the Department of Defense from the moment it was announced. But the Senate has voted, and you are now the leader of the most powerful military on the planet.

Rather than offer you insincere congratulations, I hope you will accept—in the spirit of the love of country that I know we both share—some unsolicited advice. You face unique challenges: You are among the least qualified major Cabinet nominees in modern American history, you have no background in leading a large organization, and you come into office with serious questions about your character and fitness, even from some in your own party. I must tell you that I believe you should have told Donald Trump last fall that you could not, in good conscience, accept his offer.

But you did accept it, and so I write to you today not as a critic, but as a fellow American. I know—as you do—that your success is essential to the security and safety of our nation, and so all of us with something to offer owe you our best efforts, including our direct and honest views.

I send these thoughts to you without partisanship or ill will: The time for that is over. We live in dangerous times and you cannot fail in your new duties. I have no interest in lecturing you about your personal life, or your reported use of alcohol. I have been through such struggles myself, and I believe that even—perhaps especially—in challenging moments, you will choose to approach your new responsibilities with both physical and intellectual sobriety.

I worked in national security and defense affairs for nearly 40 years, including a quarter-century in which my responsibility was to educate American officers. I do not know how to be a Secretary of Defense, but based on my experience, I have three recommendations for you that I hope will contribute to a successful tenure leading America’s military.

First, and most important, I implore you to listen to the men and women working for you who have served our nation. Listening is a sign of strength, Mr. Secretary, not weakness. Every bad senior leader I ever encountered in my career, including generals, admirals, and elected officials, all had the same flaw: Insecurity. They talked and opined and issued orders instead of listening. (From your own military days, you probably remember this expression: They only had Transmit Mode, no Receive Mode.) I know you’ve been charged with shaking up the Pentagon, but the dangerous world around us will not put their plans on pause if you get distracted by a superficial domestic culture war.

You will have the power of decision on almost anything that crosses your path, but you are not omniscient. You are surrounded by a wealth of experience and expertise. Yes, some of the people under you will not be happy about the election or your confirmation, but they respect the terrible burden you’re carrying, and they are there to help you. They share your love of country, and your sense of duty. Their success is your success. They are not the enemy. Hear them out.

Speaking of enemies, you must contend with the reality that you are entering office with almost no credibility with your opposite numbers in Moscow and Beijing (and elsewhere). I say this not as an insult, but to describe in plain terms the conditions you face abroad. I have long experience with the Russians, in particular, and while they will treat you with formal courtesy, make no mistake: These are hard and dangerous people who will have no respect for a former O-4 and talk-show host. I realize it is an uncomfortable truth, but defensiveness about this will only distract you from the work ahead.

You must cover a lot of distance with those opponents. Your previous skills as a public commentator will be of no help and in fact will prove counterproductive in such situations. You cannot bully and speechify your way to respect with such people; they are tough in a way that cannot be countered with macho posturing or rants about DEI. The facile charm that worked for you in public life will be a vulnerability in dealing with our enemies, who will seek to exploit every thoughtless word. The combative punditry that works so well on cable television in America might have helped you burn time during your confirmation hearing, but none of that will serve you well in negotiations or discussions with our dedicated foes. (It won’t do you much good talking to our allies, either.)

Instead, you will find that you must rely on people who have been in the rooms you’ve never seen until now. You are not required to take their advice, Mr. Secretary, but when your counterparts call you, your staff will be able to assist you in ways you might not have considered. They can warn you about your opponent’s strategies—and weaknesses—before you even pick up the phone. Your previous career has rewarded bombast and bluster; now you will have to master judiciousness, restraint, and the strategic use of silence.

Finally, I hope that you will leave behind the kind of rhetoric that brought you to prominence. I know that you gained this post by being a loyal soldier for President Trump. The truth is that most Americans—including the Americans who serve in the U.S. military—don’t really care nearly as much as you’d think about the cultural issues that brought you into the Trump administration. You are no longer a pundit or a provocateur: From today, your fellow citizens are trusting you with the lives of their children. (“Thank you for giving us your son,” a general told one of my friends whose boy, like you, went through ROTC. “We’ll take good care of him.”)  

The rest of us are trusting you with all our lives. You could well be the last person to speak to the president before he decides to go to war—or considers using nuclear weapons. Partisan attachments will be meaningless at such moments.

When I was barely 30 years old, I advised a Republican senator who was trying to decide whether to support President George H. W. Bush’s 1990 decision to go to war against Iraq in Kuwait. “Am I doing the right thing?” he asked me. At that moment, I felt as if the world had fallen on my shoulders. Nothing else mattered. “Yes, I think so,” I stammered. And then we spent hours in the gloom of a winter afternoon discussing his eventual vote to send young Americans into battle.

You will face decisions galactically greater than my one small moment with my boss 35 years ago. Some decisions you make will feel small to you, but they will have an impact on hundreds of thousands of people in the military community, and others will live with them long after you’ve left government service. More importantly, some of your answers may have existential consequences for humanity itself. The election and the speeches are over. The lives of millions—or perhaps billions—now depend on things you say that no one but the president might hear.

You are a man of faith, Mr. Secretary. We have that in common. And so I’ll close with my sincere wish that the Lord keep you and guide you in the days to come.

This article has been updated to correct Hegseth’s rank in the Army.

“I’d summarize it as: fuck.” That’s what one senior university administrator told me when I asked about the chaos that erupted at the National Institutes of Health this week. Academics are in panic mode in the face of sudden new restrictions from the Trump administration. The Department of Health and Human Services has told employees of several health agencies, including the NIH, to stop communicating with the public. Even more disruptive for universities, the committee meetings for reviewing NIH grant proposals have also been abruptly put on hold until at least February 1.

“This will halt science and devastate research budgets in universities,” Jane Liebschutz, a medical doctor and professor at the University of Pittsburgh, posted on Bluesky, in reference to the grant-review shutdown. The UCLA professor Lindsay Wiley echoed the sentiment, adding on Bluesky that the pause, which affects the distribution of a multibillion-dollar pool of public-research money, “will have long-term effects on medicine & short-term effects on state, higher education & hospital budgets. This affects all of us, not just researchers.”

Even if the mayhem ends early next month, it would still represent a large and lasting threat to universities in years to come. The NIH funds a major portion of the research that gets done on campus, and money from its grants also helps pay for universities’ general operations. The fact that this support has been switched off so haphazardly, for reasons that remain unclear, and despite the scope of troubles it creates, suggests that higher ed will be profoundly vulnerable during the second Trump era.

It’s hard to overstate the role of HHS, and the NIH in particular, in funding universities. In 2023, the department contributed $33 billion in research grants to American institutions of higher education, representing more than half of all federal spending on academic R&D. Indeed, HHS alone accounts for nearly one-third of all funding for university research—most of which is distributed by the NIH.

This situation makes the NIH a golden goose for universities, and also a canary in a coal mine. Researchers know just how much research capital comes from the agency—and they worry about the calamity that might ensue if those funds were to be tied up more than momentarily. NIH money funds everything from basic science research (figuring out what a particular gene does, for example) to the work that makes that knowledge useful (inventing a new gene-editing treatment, say). And its resources are put to use well beyond the field of medicine, with grants for work in biology, chemistry, physics, engineering, social sciences, and social work, among other fields. Take that all away, all at once, and a mess of different kinds of researchers are left uncertain as to whether and how long their labs, personnel, and experiments can be sustained.

Not only is the NIH the most generous provider of government funding for research, but it also gives out money in a way that has secondary benefits for grantees and their institutions. For one thing, it generally doles out funds in larger chunks than other agencies. That’s good for individual recipients: Writing grant proposals is a lot of work, so the fewer grants you have to chase, the more time you can spend doing actual science. Some NIH programs allow researchers to ask for standardized, “modular” allocations—say, $250,000 a year—instead of itemizing every element of a budget request. That saves time for science.

NIH grants have their own appeal for university administrators too, in the form of payments for what are called “indirect costs.” Most federal grants pay fees to cover overhead for whatever research has been funded. That money helps pay for all of the campus infrastructure that goes into doing the research. This includes the buildings and labs in which the work gets done; the maintenance and management of those facilities; specialized equipment; the badge scanners, payroll services, and other costs associated with the postdoctoral researchers or research scientists who staff the labs; and other operational expenses.

Exactly how much federal grant money gets added to a grant for “indirect costs” is subject to negotiation. Universities work with federal agencies to determine the percentage, which may change from year to year. Some funding sources, such as the Department of Agriculture, tend to pay lower rates, with perhaps a 30 percent premium going to indirect costs. But the NIH goes very high, in general: Its rates will at times exceed 60 percent. Under such an arrangement, for every $1 million the agency gives to a scientist, that scientist’s university gets $600,000.

These overhead funds, of which the NIH is such an important source, are mysterious and complicated. Many universities rely on them to balance their budget. The problem is, schools almost always have to spend more money to support research than they take in from grants. They do the work anyway both because research is part of their mission and because it helps them compete for better students, faculty, and rankings. But with grant-funded research already operating at a loss, any long-term interruption of schools’ indirect-cost revenue could create a real financial crisis on campus.

Holden Thorp, the editor in chief of Science and a former university chancellor and provost, told me that many schools could weather these disruptions without issue: A university with a big hospital, for example, might use clinical revenue to offset uncompensated research costs. But some schools could be destabilized by even a small-scale interference with the flow of agency grants, and most research institutions would be thrown into at least some disarray.

An extended pause on grant funding isn’t happening, or at least not yet. And Thorp said that panic isn’t a useful response to whatever is happening at the NIH. It’s totally understandable for researchers, students, and administrators to be unnerved, he said, but there are many possible explanations, and “it’s best to keep calm and carry on.” My own university, Washington University in St. Louis, made the same suggestion in a statement sent to faculty from the vice chancellor for research. It read, in part, “While these disruptions are frustrating, they are occurring government-wide and are not focusing on university research activities or targeting specific scientific disciplines.”

But the NIH freak-out may have less to do with the present disruption (however long it lasts) than with what it signifies. If the viability of university research, and of universities themselves, can be so upended by a disarrangement of a single unit of the Department of Health and Human Services, then what might be coming next? Donald Trump’s nominee to run the NIH, Jay Bhattacharya, has floated the idea of linking grants to measures of free speech on campus, according to The Wall Street Journal. And Trump’s executive orders have already made clear that any federal grantee will have to answer for its own DEI initiatives. The Trump administration has many bones to pick with higher education, and it seems willing to abide—and even encourage—whatever chaos those squabbles may produce. The present situation might be a fluke, or it might be a test.

“I was okay with being a convict,” Jason Riddle told me this week, not long after learning that he was among the roughly 1,500 recipients of sweeping presidential pardons. Some Americans, including President Donald Trump, believe that Riddle and others who rioted at the Capitol on January 6, 2021, were unjustly persecuted and thus deserving of clemency—if not celebration. Riddle, a 36-year-old New Hampshire resident, rejects this framing. “I’m not a patriot or a hero just because the guy who started the riot says it’s okay,” he told me.

On Thursday, after consulting with his public defender, Riddle sent a pithy email to the Department of Justice:

To whom it may concern,

I’d like to reject my pardon please.

Sincerely,
Jason Riddle

Sent from my iPhone

Declining the pardon falls within Riddle’s legal rights. Many other January 6ers are holding out their hands for the president’s gift. “I can’t look myself in the mirror and do that,” Riddle said. Rather than whitewash his unsavory past, he feels called to own his behavior, even his most shameful moments—a tenet of Alcoholics Anonymous, which he says has saved him.

Some insurrectionists stormed the Capitol as true ideological warriors. Enrique Tarrio, a former leader of the Proud Boys, and Stewart Rhodes, founder of the Oath Keepers, for example, were convicted of seditious conspiracy against the United States (and both men are now free). But many others who participated in the violence and destruction that day were similar to Riddle—people with ordinary lives and ordinary problems who found community and catharsis in the MAGA movement.

None of the above is an excuse for taking part in one of the ugliest moments in American history. But actively planning to carry out violence is arguably different from getting swept up in a mob. Today, Riddle doesn’t shirk his complicity. But the path that led him to the Capitol sheds light on how someone without much direction suddenly found it in a day of rage and mayhem. His story also raises an intriguing possibility: A person who stumbled into the darker corners of Trumpism can also stumble out.

For Riddle, the road to January 6 began after he graduated from high school, years before Trump’s first campaign. He served in the Navy and, according to his sentencing memo, “was honorably released from active duty to the naval reserves in light of reocurring [sic] struggles with alcohol use.” In college, at Southern Connecticut State University, as an older student, he decided to major in political science. On campus, he recalls feeling surrounded by younger Bernie Sanders supporters, while he took a liking to Trump. He described himself and another early Trump-supporting buddy as “obnoxious,” noting that they’d frequently drink in class. During Trump’s first presidential campaign, Riddle drove to rallies all over the country. At first he told himself that, as a poli-sci major, he was making anthropological field trips. In truth, he was becoming swept up in MAGA world.

He liked the excitement and controversy that surrounded Trump. “There was this aggression. I think I really enjoyed it,” he said. He’d pregame before the rallies, then join the crowds listening to the future president rant. “You go, you know, bond with these strangers,” he said. At that time in his life, Riddle remembers having barely any other interests or hobbies. He didn’t watch sports or exercise. He’d sit at home, drinking and trolling. “I spent all my time in those comments [sections] on social media, arguing with strangers,” Riddle said. “It was all about proving someone wrong. That would make me feel good about myself.”

After college, he struggled to hold down a job. Eventually, he found work as a mail carrier for the Postal Service. On his route, he’d ruminate. He’d carry on long conversations with a drinking buddy. “I would just be on the phone with my Bluetooth in, talking to another maniac who thinks like me, while just slowly going crazy,” Riddle said.

Radicalization can be a gradual process. He described himself as more of a libertarian than a MAGA Republican. In Trumpism, though, Riddle found an always-there outlet for his pent-up dissatisfaction with how his life was unfolding. But Trump’s time in office was running out. As he plotted to cling to power by desperate means, the president and his allies were spreading conspiracy theories about alleged voter fraud, including lies about mail-in ballots. “So I’m, like, literally working at the mail, which is what I believed to be part of the problem with the election,” Riddle said. In the weeks before the insurrection, he told me, he was drinking more heavily than ever. Sometimes, he’d stash additional booze in the mailbag he carried for the day’s rounds.

One day, drunk on the job, he abruptly quit, leaving piles of mail in his truck. Soon, he and two friends were driving from New Hampshire to Washington, D.C. One was a Trump supporter; the other, Riddle now thinks, was just along for the ride. Riddle’s own commitment to the “Stop the Steal” narrative involved some doublethink. “I know I’m wrong,” Riddle recalls telling himself. “Fuck it; I’m going down anyways.”

He recalls very clearly when he stepped over a barrier and marched into the Capitol. His friends stopped following him. “I remember actually seeing politicians from where I was standing,” he told me. “I could tell they were scared. I do remember enjoying that.”

Images of some of the other Capitol invaders soon spread on social media: the Viking-helmeted QAnon Shaman, the man with his feet up on Nancy Pelosi’s desk, the guy carrying the speaker’s lectern. Riddle, too, achieved a kind of immortality: He was the insurrectionist hoisting a bottle of wine. In the immediate aftermath of the event, Riddle felt no remorse, or shame, or need to hide. He bragged about his exploits on a local newscast, and briefly enjoyed his newfound virality. He soon received a visit from the FBI.

In addition to pilfering booze from the Senate parliamentarian’s office, Riddle had stolen a leather-bound book labeled Senate Procedure, and quickly hawked it to a fellow rioter for $40. On April 4, 2022, at federal court in Washington, he was sentenced to 90 days in prison. “Three months for trying to stop the steal, one sip of wine at a time?” Riddle bragged to a New Hampshire newspaper. “Totally worth it.”

Even in prison, he still had his fame—or infamy. He remembers a correctional officer muttering “Let’s go, Brandon” to him on his first day, he told me, and that his fellow inmates nicknamed him “Trump.” But unlike some January 6ers, Riddle wasn’t further radicalized in prison, where he spent the summer of 2022. But neither did his conviction immediately lead him to repudiate the cause that had taken him to the Capitol. Riddle talked about running for Congress, leveraging what remained of his fleeting celebrity. He once filed paperwork, but never got any campaign off the ground.

Riddle thought he’d be able to manage his drinking after his release. But he struggled, and soon began attending daily Alcoholics Anonymous meetings. He has relapsed a few times, but thanks largely to what he calls the “forced intervention” of his encounter with the criminal-justice system, he’s been living his “new life” for a little more than two years. Although sobriety remains a daily project, he feels he has finally gained insight into the reckless and self-destructive behavior that led him to the January 6 insurrection.

These days, he’s working at a restaurant in Concord, New Hampshire. He told me he feels comfortable in chaotic environments, and he’s thinking about looking for a job at a hospital or in mental-health services. Sobriety has changed his political perspective, too. Whereas he once viewed Trump as a bold truth teller, raw and unvarnished, he now sees the president as self-serving. When Trump called for public protests around the time of his indictments, Riddle felt especially played. “And I remember thinking, like, why would he do that? People died at the Capitol riot,” Riddle said. “That was the ‘duh’ moment I had with myself: Well, obviously because he doesn’t care about anybody other than himself, and you’re an idiot for thinking otherwise.”

Last fall, he donated to the Kamala Harris campaign, and voted for her in the election. An irony for him, after Trump’s reelection, is that he could be reliving his 2021 viral popularity—if he were still willing to exchange his version of reality for Trump’s. “One common thing I always hear is, like, ‘Good for you for going down there and expressing your views,’” he told me. “People who say that obviously don’t understand what they’re saying.”

The frustration in his voice was audible. “If I accept this pardon, if I agree to this pardon,” Riddle told me, “that means I disagree with that forced intervention.” Truth has finally collided with the president’s lies. Riddle may be enjoying one last hit of attention over his refusal of a pardon, but after the experience this week of seeing the insurrection’s ringleaders walk free, unrepentant, he is choosing a different path.

Joe Biden has now left office, but the fight over the meaning of his Middle East policies is only just beginning.

Biden’s defenders argue that he left the incoming Trump administration with the strongest American position in the region in decades—and that his decision to back Israel to the hilt following the Hamas attacks was hard but ultimately strategically correct. Biden’s detractors within the Democratic Party argue that he caused irreparable harm to America’s interests and undermined international norms by what they see as his unquestioning support for Israel regardless of a steadily mounting civilian death toll.

Both sides’ arguments have their merits—and which of them ends up winning the debate matters, because the Trump administration and administrations to come will set their policies based in some part on how Biden’s foreign policy is remembered.

Undeniably, the Trump administration inherits a region that looks dramatically different—in a way that favors U.S. interests—from the one that Donald Trump left in 2021. America’s principal adversaries in the region—Iran, Russia, Hezbollah, and Hamas—are all in retreat.

Iran in particular has suffered humiliating losses over the past six months, mainly but not exclusively at the hands of the U.S.-backed Israel Defense Forces. For more than four decades, Iran had worked to construct a “Shia crescent” of aligned forces that stretched from its territory through Iraq and into Lebanon to squeeze Israel and its majority Sunni Muslim neighbors.

This would-be Iranian empire has collapsed. The regime of the Syrian strongman Bashar al-Assad, and his father before him, is gone after half a century in power. Israel has eliminated much of Hezbollah’s senior leadership and has otherwise battered the group beyond recognition. Aides to President Biden swept into Lebanon while bombs were still falling to negotiate a cease-fire and shepherd a political process. In a rare diplomatic triumph for the administration, those efforts helped Lebanon usher in a new president and prime minister, both of whom Hezbollah would surely have blocked were that group still powerful enough to do so. Biden’s aides also deserve credit for working closely with Trump’s team to win a cease-fire in Gaza during the administration’s waning days.

Iran’s regional power has long rested on three pillars: support to militant groups such as Hamas and Hezbollah; conventional missiles and other weapons; and an incipient nuclear program. Other than Yemen’s Houthis, Iran’s proxies have been humbled. So, too, has its conventional military posture, as Israel and its partners, including the United States, swatted Iran’s missiles aside not once but twice in 2024. Only Iran’s nuclear program remains (more on that in a bit).

[Read: How Israel could be changing Iran’s nuclear calculus]

But Iran isn’t the only U.S. rival on the retreat in the Middle East. Russia, bled dry by the war in Ukraine and unwilling (and likely unable) to intervene again on Assad’s behalf, finds its treasured warm-water port in Syria now at risk, because the new government in Damascus is anxious to expel foreign militaries from its territory.

Some of Biden’s aides have been telling their colleagues and journalists that the position in which they are leaving the region vindicates the president’s decision—backed by his closest aides but disputed by many other advisers—to support Israel to the fullest extent since the horrific October 7 attacks by Hamas and other Palestinian militant groups. Sources in the administration have told me that, as they see it, no U.S. president will have inherited such favorable terrain in the globally strategic region since Bill Clinton came into office in 1993.

These claims infuriate the president’s many critics in the Democratic Party. They argue that Biden and his team, through their policies in the Middle East, have done incalculable damage to America and its image across the globe, and that any strategic gains will ultimately be proved ephemeral as Hamas and Hezbollah rearm and reassert themselves in Gaza and Lebanon, respectively. Pointing to tens of thousands of dead Palestinian and Lebanese civilians—and the use of American weapons in killing them—they claim that Biden undermined international norms to a greater extent than Trump did in his first term. These critics are largely unpersuaded by and impatient with American and Israeli arguments that Hamas alone necessitated this level of carnage by using human shields, or that a high civilian death toll was inevitable in densely urban terrain. The Department of State under Antony Blinken, they complain, had no evident problem assessing war crimes in other jurisdictions yet never seemed to have enough evidence to do so in the Palestinian territories.

Some of Biden’s Democratic critics are particularly despondent that Trump—never a huge fan of Israel’s wars, which don’t play very well on television—was able to seize the mantle of peacemaker, forcefully directing Israel to arrive at a cease-fire agreement before even taking office. Many Americans have embraced isolationism after the conflicts in Iraq and Afghanistan, and some progressives worry that the Democratic Party anachronistically remains “the party of war.” Other critics—and I include myself here—argue that largely ceding all major questions of policy and strategy to Israel in 2023 and 2024 was an unforgivable choice for the world’s only superpower to have made.

The Biden administration will not be remembered for injecting much fresh thinking into American foreign policy. Almost all of Biden’s senior aides were also senior aides to President Barack Obama, and many of the most senior stayed the full four years rather than making room for younger talents. Whether the next Democratic administration similarly staffs itself with alumni from the Biden administration will largely depend on which assessment of the president’s policies prevails within the party.

My biggest worry about the next four years is that a weakened Iran will seek solace and protection in the acquisition of nuclear weapons. A new nuclear era in the Middle East could erase many of the past year’s strategic gains. The Trump administration can try to degrade or slow Iran’s nuclear development through military action, but the only way to stave it off altogether is through a process of diplomatic engagement, similar to the much-hated Iran deal of 2015. Trump, ever the pragmatist, might confound his more hawkish aides by reaching out to Iran in its moment of weakness and his moment of strength. He would be wise to do so.

*Sources: Samuel Corum/Getty; Ilia Yefimovich / picture alliance / Getty; Ashraf Amra / Anadolu Agency / Getty.