Four times this week, I was confronted with something so unbelievable that my first instinct wasn’t outrage or analysis. It was to question reality. I caught myself thinking, No. That can’t be real. Come on. That’s fake. And then I went to check. Not once. Not twice. Four separate times.
That alone should worry us.
This wasn’t about fringe rumours or anonymous posts. This WAS reality. These were official actions and announcements tied directly to the presidency. And yet, they landed with the same credibility as internet hoaxes. In one case, after I posted photos of the newly added presidential plaques on my social media channels, several people didn’t argue the politics at all. They argued the existence. More than one person insisted it was “clearly AI,” that no administration would ever do something so overtly partisan in a presidential space. Others said the media was exaggerating or outright fabricating the story just to make Trump look bad.
That reaction is telling. Not because skepticism is wrong, but because it shows how badly reality itself has been warped. We’ve reached a point where official presidential actions are assumed to be fake, manipulated, or maliciously framed by default. When people trust the idea of media deception more than their own eyes, something fundamental has broken in how public life is understood.
The first moment that stopped me cold came on December 15, with a presidential post reacting to the murder of Rob Reiner and his wife. Their deaths were shocking and tragic on their own. What followed only deepened the sense that something essential has broken. The post claimed, without evidence, that Reiner suffered from “Trump Derangement Syndrome” — whatever that is supposed to mean — and implied that his political views were somehow connected to his death.
This is where a basic question should have answered itself: where was the respect, and where was the decorum? This wasn’t a policy dispute or a heated exchange. It was a violent crime and a grieving family. There was no obligation to comment at all, let alone to inject personal grievance into a moment that demanded restraint and humanity. Presidents used to understand that difference.
That wasn’t a slip. It was a choice. A decision to turn tragedy into content.
Two days later, on December 17, new plaques were added to the presidential walk. These weren’t neutral historical summaries or thoughtfully contextualized reflections. They were blunt, partisan judgments, written in a tone that would feel more at home on Trump’s personal Twitter wall than on the walls of a public institution. Commentary like that belongs in campaign rhetoric, not etched in bronze inside a space meant to symbolize continuity, restraint, and shared national memory.
The presidency once came with an understanding that personal opinion stopped at the door. These plaques erase that boundary. They turn history into grievance and governance into performance. And they raise a question no one seems eager to answer: where are the checks and balances when the symbolism of the office itself is being reshaped to reflect one person’s narrative?
The very next day, December 18, came the announcement of the so-called “Patriot Games.” According to the plan, two young people from each district — I mean, each state — one male and one female, would be selected to compete in a nationally televised athletic competition tied to the country’s 250th anniversary celebrations.
It’s framed as patriotic and unifying. But the structure and language are hard to ignore. State-based selection. Youth competitors. National spectacle. Heavy symbolism. Even mainstream outlets noted how closely it resembles The Hunger Games, and not as a joke. That comparison didn’t come from online snark. It came from people paid to take public policy seriously.
This isn’t a criticism of sports. It’s a concern about how easily civic identity is being staged as entertainment. National pride is packaged, broadcast, and consumed rather than discussed or examined. Democracy becomes a backdrop for spectacle instead of a system grounded in participation, accountability, and restraint.
And just as that settled in, news broke about a push to rename the Kennedy Center, a cultural institution established by Congress as a living memorial to President John F. Kennedy. A board stacked with political allies moved to add Trump’s name to it, despite serious legal questions about whether it even has the authority to do so.
Public memory, public institutions, public symbolism — all treated as malleable, negotiable, personal.
Each of these moments is disturbing on its own. Taken together, they point to something larger and more dangerous: a steady erosion of decorum, restraint, and institutional respect that edges uncomfortably close to authoritarianism. This is how democratic norms don’t collapse in a single dramatic moment, but thin out slowly, until they barely hold. The presidency no longer acts as a stabilizing force. It behaves like a brand platform. Governance feels less like stewardship and more like self-curated mythology. At some point, the question has to be asked plainly: when do the American people say enough is enough?
That unease doesn’t stop at the border.
Here in Canada, we’re talking seriously about arming up and bulking out our military. For what, exactly? A potential threat from the south? From a country that is supposed to be our closest ally? The fact that this question can even be asked without sounding absurd should give us pause. When long-standing assumptions about stability and trust begin to wobble, it isn’t paranoia to ask why. It’s responsibility.
I don’t think I’m losing my grip on reality.
I think reality is being bent in public, reshaped without oversight, and handed back to us as normal. And that leaves many of us quietly wondering how far this goes, who is supposed to stop it, and whether anyone still remembers that public office was never meant to be personal property.
