... is not just a political shift.
It’s not merely a pendulum swing between parties or a difference of economic opinion. What we are witnessing is the accelerated dismantling of the very scaffolding that supports human dignity and social cohesion. We’re watching the slow, cold erosion of essential lifelines—programs that quite literally keep people alive—under the guise of “fiscal responsibility” and “reform.”
Programs like Medicaid, food assistance (SNAP), disability support, public housing, energy subsidies for low-income families, even protections for digital access and education—they’re all under siege. And not in some abstract bureaucratic way. These cuts and policy changes translate to real-world suffering: diabetics rationing insulin, disabled people losing their home care, families choosing between heat or groceries, veterans sleeping in cars, kids logging onto school through public Wi-Fi in a McDonald’s parking lot. These are not exaggerations. These are daily American realities.
Yes, there’s greed here. Absolutely. The redistribution of wealth upwards, the stripping of protections and oversight to favor corporations, the obscene tax breaks for the wealthiest individuals and conglomerates—it’s all right there. But I would argue, as disturbing as that is, the truth goes even deeper. Because this isn’t just about money. It’s about worldview. It’s about a belief system.
You see, what we’re contending with isn’t just economic elitism—it’s psychological, sociological, and almost quasi-theological in its fervor. A deeply ingrained form of Social Darwinism has reemerged, dressed up in the modern clothes of meritocracy, personal responsibility, and market logic. It’s an old disease with a new face.
Social Darwinism, at its core, is the belief that success and power are indicators of inherent superiority—that those who “rise to the top” are biologically or morally better, and those who struggle are simply less fit to survive. It’s pseudo-evolutionary logic applied to human society, and it’s been used historically to justify colonialism, slavery, eugenics, fascism, and the crushing of worker and poor rights across the globe. And while no one may openly say “the poor deserve to die” (though some nearly do), the sentiment echoes in the policies being passed and the smug rhetoric that accompanies them.
The most chilling part? Many of the individuals driving this ideology aren’t fools. They’re not all crass populist puppets like Trump—he’s just the loud distraction, the bloated orange decoy flailing in public view. Behind him are people who are calculated, highly intelligent, and disturbingly dispassionate. These are people who have grown up or ascended into spheres of extreme wealth and social isolation, removed from the daily experiences of the average person. That level of separation leads to a profound empathy deficit. It also leads to cognitive distortions—pattern recognition that mistakes privilege for providence.
When you’re surrounded by people who look like you, live like you, succeed like you—it’s easy to begin believing that you are exceptional. That the system is just. That those who fail do so because they are weak, lazy, or stupid. This self-reinforcing delusion breeds arrogance and, eventually, cruelty disguised as realism.
It’s not just the ultra-rich tech billionaires, hedge fund execs, or defense contractors. It’s lawmakers too—the very people supposedly elected to represent everyone. They aren’t immune. In fact, they’re some of the worst offenders. Many politicians, once inside the Beltway, lose themselves in the same warped feedback loop of power and prestige. Their social circles narrow. Their donors and lobbyists become their echo chambers. And soon, the people they were elected to serve become abstractions—anecdotes on a policy brief, statistics in a quarterly review.
The result is policy driven not by compassion or even practicality, but by a perverse ideology that views empathy as weakness and solidarity as an obstacle. That’s why healthcare becomes a privilege, not a right. That’s why food assistance gets slashed while corporate subsidies grow. That’s why student debt relief is called a handout, but tax cuts for oil giants are called “investment in growth.”
They may not say it outright, but you can see it in their eyes when they talk about the “deserving” and “undeserving.” You can hear it in the sneer behind phrases like “entitlement culture” or “pull yourself up by your bootstraps.” This is the rhetoric of modern feudalism.
They don’t want a functioning public anymore. They want a labor force—an expendable, desperate one. A sick, stressed, undereducated public is easier to control. Easier to exploit. Too tired to fight back. That’s why we see moves not just against social programs but against education, against libraries, against organized labor, against independent media. They’re dismantling every institution that builds informed, healthy, connected citizens—because informed, healthy, connected citizens don’t go quietly.
To put it bluntly—many of these elites have begun to believe their own mythology. That they are the gods of this age—engineers of fate, bearers of civilization, owners of the future. And the rest of us? We are the disposable many. Workers, consumers, data points. They’re not trying to fix society—they’re trying to escape it. Into bunkers, space, privatized medical enclaves, offshore banks. They’re hollowing the world out behind them.
But here’s the thing: none of this is sustainable. Social Darwinism always ends in collapse. It’s a death spiral disguised as strength. Societies can’t thrive when they forget their duty to one another. Civilizations don’t survive when they treat compassion as weakness and justice as a luxury.
The antidote to this isn’t just voting differently or arguing online—it’s rekindling a cultural value for human dignity, mutual aid, and solidarity. It’s educating ourselves and others, calling out the rhetoric when we hear it, and refusing to internalize the logic of cruelty. It’s reminding each other that worth is not earned through wealth, and that survival should not be contingent on winning the brutal lottery of capitalism.
Yes, it’s dark right now. But I still believe—truly—that we’re capable of choosing a different path. That we can refuse this future and write a new one, one rooted in care rather than conquest, in love rather than profit.
So I’m not giving in to despair. I’m angry, yes. I’m tired. But I’m also clear-eyed. And I know that as long as we keep resisting this sickness—naming it, calling it out, organizing against it—then it doesn’t get to win. Because while they may have the wealth and the platforms, we still have each other. And that’s worth a hell of a lot more.
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