​Donald Trump's presidency cannot be understood without acknowledging the deep discontent that brought him to power. His election was not merely a political shift; it was a reflection of an underlying crisis in American democracy. To grasp the forces that propelled him into office, we must confront the economic grievances, cultural anxieties, and fractured sense of community that has left millions of Americans feeling disillusioned, disconnected, and unheard.

At the core of this discontent is a pervasive sense that self-government—the idea that people have a meaningful say in how they are governed—has been eroded. For decades, many Americans have felt that their voices don't matter, that the decisions shaping their lives are made in distant boardrooms or political offices far removed from their struggles. This alienation has created a breeding ground for frustration and anger, especially among those who feel excluded from the benefits of globalization and modernization.

But the crisis goes beyond governance; it is also a crisis of community. Across the country, there is a palpable hunger for belonging and solidarity—a yearning for a moral fabric that binds people together. This sense of community has been steadily unraveling, leaving individuals to navigate a fragmented society that often feels indifferent to their struggles. From the disintegration of family bonds to the weakening of communal ties, many feel untethered, searching for something to hold onto. Trump's appeal lay in his ability to tap into this yearning, offering a sense of pride and connection to those who felt forgotten.

The grievances that Trump harnessed were not imaginary. For decades, economic inequality has widened, with wages stagnating and jobs disappearing for the working class. Policies driven by both major political parties favored market-friendly globalization, benefiting the wealthy while leaving large swathes of the population behind. The implicit promise that hard work would lead to success began to ring hollow for many, particularly those without college degrees. Instead of economic opportunity, they were met with outsourced jobs, stagnant paychecks, and a cultural narrative that seemed to blame them for their plight.

This narrative was shaped by what I see as a deeply flawed meritocratic ethos. Over the years, society increasingly tied dignity and success to obtaining a college degree. The message was clear: "What you earn depends on what you learn." But beneath this seemingly motivational slogan lay an unspoken insult. For those unable to navigate the barriers to higher education, the implication was that their struggles were their fault. This meritocratic condescension alienated millions, fostering resentment not just toward elites but also toward a system that seemed designed to exclude them.

It is no surprise, then, that many working-class Americans felt abandoned by the Democratic Party. Once the champion of labor and the working class, the party gradually shifted its focus toward the interests of the credentialed elite. While affluent, college-educated voters became its core constituency, the working-class voters who had once formed its base found themselves ignored. The Democratic Party's embrace of globalization and market-driven policies only deepened this divide, leaving many to feel economically marginalized and culturally disrespected. By 2016, this disconnect was stark: Trump performed remarkably well among voters without college degrees, while Democrats struggled to connect with the very people they used to represent.

Adding to this economic and cultural discontent is the myth of the American Dream—a promise that hard work and determination will lead to success. This narrative, once a cornerstone of American identity, has become increasingly disconnected from reality. Intergenerational mobility in the United States now lags behind many European countries, where stronger public systems provide the stability needed for upward mobility. For those struggling to get ahead, the repeated mantra of "you can make it if you try" feels not just hollow but demoralizing. It underscores a broader message that failure is a personal shortcoming rather than a systemic issue.

Trump's rise cannot be attributed to a single factor. His appeal was rooted in a volatile mix of economic grievances, cultural anxieties, and a longing for recognition and respect. Many Americans felt not only left behind economically but also looked down upon by elites who failed to value their contributions. Trump's rhetoric, however divisive, resonated because it acknowledged their frustrations. He positioned himself as a voice for change in a system that seemed rigged against the average person.

This discontent has also been exacerbated by the erosion of public spaces and shared experiences—what some might call the "commons." The widening gap between the affluent and the working class has led to a kind of societal segregation. From schools to neighborhoods, and even sports stadiums, those with means increasingly live separate lives from those without. This division corrodes the very foundation of democracy, which relies on shared spaces and common experiences to foster a sense of unity. Without these, the idea of a shared national identity begins to fracture.

As I reflect on these dynamics, I am struck by the failure of progressives to articulate a compelling vision that addresses these grievances. While many have proposed policies to combat economic inequality, they often overlook the deeper cultural and psychological dimensions of the crisis. People want more than financial security; they want dignity, respect, and a sense of purpose. They want to feel that their work and their lives matter.

The challenge for progressives is to bridge this divide—not by dismissing the frustrations of working-class Americans but by acknowledging and addressing them. This requires rethinking the emphasis on meritocracy and instead valuing all forms of work and contribution. It also means investing in the public spaces and institutions that bring people together, from schools to parks to cultural programs that foster a sense of community.

Moreover, progressives must reclaim the language of patriotism. For too long, this rhetoric has been ceded to the right, allowing movements like Trump's to monopolize the narrative of national pride. But patriotism does not have to be exclusionary or xenophobic. It can be a unifying force that celebrates shared values and mutual obligations. A progressive vision of patriotism would emphasize the dignity of work, the importance of community, and the need for economic policies prioritizing people over profits.

The discontent that propelled Trump to power is not going away. If anything, it is deepening, fueled by the same forces shaping American society for decades. To move forward, we must confront these issues head-on, not with condescension or empty promises but with a renewed commitment to justice, solidarity, and shared purpose. The future of American democracy depends on it.