Donald Trump’s highly public schism with Volodymyr Zelensky has yielded the kind of doublethink that is common in personality cults. Those believers who approve of the policy hail the great leader’s strategic genius. And those who oppose it cast the blame elsewhere, constructing ever more elaborate accounts of Trump’s strategy to avoid acknowledging the obvious: Trump has an affinity for Vladimir Putin.
In the first category, you can find members of the so-called national-conservative movement, who have long rationalized Russia’s aggression and opposed American support for Ukraine. “Trump understands what establishment figures do not: that U.S. voters are no longer willing to allow Washington to write checks on the American people’s account,” the national-conservative intellectual Rod Dreher wrote exultantly after Zelensky’s Oval Office browbeating. Christopher Caldwell, another natcon writer, argued in The Free Press that Trump’s posture toward Ukraine “is a deeper and more historically grounded view than the one that prevailed in the Biden administration,” rejecting Joe Biden’s view of the war as a “barbaric” invasion. (Perhaps unsurprisingly, Trump’s admirers include the Russian government itself, which has congratulated him for “rapidly changing foreign policy configurations,” which “largely coincides with our vision.”)
In the second category, you have Trump defenders who support Ukraine, and reacted to Friday’s events with dismay. To resolve their cognitive dissonance, or perhaps to retain their influence, they do not blame Trump for initiating the breach with Zelensky. Instead, they blame Zelensky.
The Ukrainian president’s responsibility for the crisis includes such actions as failing to dress properly. “I mean, all Zelensky had to do today was put on a tie, show up, smile, say ‘Thank you,’ sign the papers, and have lunch,” complained Scott Jennings, who had reportedly been considered for White House spokesperson and performs essentially the same function for CNN. “That’s it. And he couldn’t do that.”
Ah yes, the tie. Apparently Trump and his supporters care deeply about the tie. If we take this line of argument seriously, it posits that the United States reversed its foreign policy based on an outfit choice—and this argument is being made as a defense of Trump’s judgment.
A related and only slightly less damning defense is that Zelensky erred by arguing with Trump and Vice President J. D. Vance when they presented him with a series of pro-Russian positions during their photo op. Trump insisted, falsely, that security guarantees for Ukraine were unnecessary because Putin would never violate one. (He praised Putin’s character and spoke wistfully of how the two men had to endure the “Russia hoax” together.) “Why on earth did Zelensky choose to fact-check Trump in front of the entire world rather than debate the wisdom of a ceasefire behind closed doors?” demands conservative columnist Marc Thiessen, a foreign-policy hawk who has sought to steer Trump toward his own view.
This viewpoint has influenced some mainstream media coverage of the fateful White House meeting. A recent Politicostory filled with inside-Trump-world reporting, for example, suggests that Trump was eager to cut a deal, if only Zelensky had flattered him sufficiently: The Ukrainian president “infuriated Trump last week with his public suggestion he was swallowing Putin’s disinformation—a response to Trump’s suggestion that Ukraine started the war.” Or perhaps the source of Trump’s split with Ukraine is revealed by him regurgitating Russian propaganda blaming Ukraine for the war, rather than Zelensky correcting him.
Trump may be vain and childish, but he does have some substantive beliefs. Lindsey Graham, another Trump-worshipping Republican hawk, toldThe New York Times that he had warned Zelensky before the meeting, “Don’t take the bait,” and publicly criticized the Ukrainian president for not following his advice. But how did Graham know there would be bait? Perhaps because Trump has spent years expressing sympathy for Russia and contempt for its enemies, including Ukraine and the Western alliance.
Trump’s Russophilia used to stand almost unique within the Republican Party. But he has brought large segments of the right around to his position, and many of them have turned Zelensky into a hate figure. The enthusiastically anti-Ukraine conservatives are happy to credit Trump for reversing the Biden administration’s support for Kyiv. Say what you want about the tenets of national conservatism; at least it’s an ethos. The more traditionally anti-Russian conservatives, by contrast, need to find a way to disagree with the outcome of the Oval Office meeting without seeming to criticize Trump. That is how authoritarian political cultures operate: The only permissible way to express disapproval of the leader’s choices is to pretend they were someone else’s.
This leads to absurd logical contortions. Anti-Russia conservatives treat their putative objections to Zelenky’s conduct as legitimate standards that he could have met, as if this is a game with fixed rules. Presented with the obvious objection —that Elon Musk had dressed even more slovenly in the Oval Office and a Cabinet meeting just a few days before—the National Review editor in chief, Rich Lowry, retorted, “When Zelensky is named the head of DOGE, he can do the same and get away with it.” Yet no principle of decorum says that a head of state can’t wear a military uniform in the White House but “the head of DOGE” can wear a T-shirt and baseball cap. Everything about this solemn rule is made up, including the position “head of DOGE.” If you have ever watched a school bully, you may recall that accusing their victim of violating some rule or standard, and then flouting the standard themselves, is part of the abuse, a way of signaling that they hold all the power.
Trump’s base was poised to explode at Zelensky—for his shirt, for his alleged lack of gratitude—because Trump has signaled that he is their enemy. In their desperation, anti-Russian conservatives have reversed the obvious causation.
During Trump’s first term, the theory that he loved Putin was complicated by his inability to overcome resistance by bureaucrats and his own hawkish advisers. This created room for analysts to accept explanations for Trump’s stance other than simple affinity for Putin. Now, however, he is able to quickly carry out such steps as cutting off weapons to Ukraine without sneaking around or being slow-walked by mid-level staff. Meanwhile, he publicly blames Ukraine for the ongoing war and accuses Zelensky of being a dictator who spreads hatred against Russia. The theory that Trump trusts and wants to help Putin can parsimoniously explain his rhetoric and actions.
It is the alternative theory, that Trump is playing a clever geopolitical game, that relies on whispered conversations and intricate double-meaning interpretations of his public positions. A Wall Street Journalreporter deduces from “nearly a year of Trumpworld chatter and (sometimes secret) talks with foreign officials” that Trump’s real strategy is to “split Russia from China” and that “there is no way the US will sell Ukraine down the river.” In some foreign-policy circles, analyses discerning a far-reaching plan from wisps of buried evidence are considered sophisticated, while positing that Trump simply believes the things he says almost daily on camera is considered slightly nutty.
Whatever you want to say about the anti-Ukraine right’s moral posture, it is at least able to grasp the reality of Trump’s position: He wants to leave Ukraine at Putin’s mercy. The anti-Russia Trumpers, with their missing-tie theory of Trump’s Russia strategy, and their convoluted efforts to explain away his plain wishes, are the ones who have drifted into the realm of fantasy.
In October 2020, Francis Collins, then the director of the National Institutes of Health, sent an email that maligned a colleague. A few days before, Jay Bhattacharya, a professor of health policy at Stanford University, had, with two others, put out a statement—the Great Barrington Declaration—calling for looser public-health restrictions in the face of the pandemic. In place of lockdowns, the statement contended, the nation could simply let infections spread among most of the population while the old and infirm remained in relative isolation. Collins, like many other scientists, thought this was a dangerous idea. Bhattacharya and his co-authors were “fringe epidemiologists” whose proposal needed a “quick and devastating” rebuttal, Collins wrote in an email that later came to light through a public-records request. Collins doubled down on this dismissal in a media interview a week later: “This is a fringe component of epidemiology,” he toldThe Washington Post. “This is not mainstream sncience.”
So where are these two now? Collins abruptly ended his 32-year career at NIH last week, while Bhattacharya is Donald Trump’s pick to take over the agency. The turnabout has created a pleasing narrative for those aggrieved at scientific governance. “It’s remarkable to see that you’re nominated to be the head of the very institution whose leaders persecuted you because of what you believed,” Jim Banks, a Republican senator from Indiana, said at Bhattacharya’s confirmation hearing yesterday. For Bhattacharya, a man who has described himself as the victim of “a propaganda attack” perpetrated by the nation’s $48 billion biomedical-research establishment, Collins’s insult has become a badge of pride, even a leading qualification for employment in the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services. The “fringe” is now in charge.
Last year, when Collins was asked by a House committee about his comments on the Great Barrington Declaration, he said he was alarmed that the proposal had so quickly made its way to his boss, Alex Azar, who was then the secretary of Health and Human Services. Now that role is filled by another figure from the fringe, Robert F. Kennedy Jr., and presumably, outsider scholars such as Bhattacharya—a health economist and a nonpracticing physician with a predilection for contrary views—will have greater sway than ever. (Collins did not respond to a request for comment.)
“Science, to succeed, needs free speech,” Bhattacharya told the committee during the hearing. “It needs an environment where there’s tolerance to dissent.” This has long been his message—and warning—to the scientific community. In Bhattacharya’s view, Collins helped coordinate an effort to discredit his and others’ calls for an alternative approach to the pandemic; Collins’s role at an institution that disperses billions of dollars in research funding gave him a frightening power to “cast out heretics,” as Bhattacharya put it in 2023, “just like the medieval Catholic Church did.”
Now he means to use the same authority to rectify that wrong. In his opening remarks yesterday, Bhattacharya vowed to “create an environment where scientists, including early-career scientists and scientists that disagree with me, can express disagreement respectfully.” What this means in practice isn’t yet clear (Bhattacharya declined to be interviewed for this story), but The Wall Street Journal has reported that he might try to prioritize funding for universities that score high on to-be-determined measures of campus-wide “academic freedom.” In other words, Bhattacharya may attempt to use the agency’s billion-dollar leverage in reverse, to bully academics into being tolerant.
These aspirations match up with those of his allies who are riding into Washington as champions of the underheard in science. Last month, Kennedy promised in his first speech to his staff that he would foster debate and “convene representatives of all viewpoints” to study chronic disease. “Nothing is going to be off-limits,” he said. Marty Makary, the nominee for FDA commissioner, has talked about his experience of the “censorship complex” and bemoaned an atmosphere of “total intolerance” in public health. Consensus thinking is oppressive, these men suggest. Alternative ideas, whatever those might be, have intrinsic value.
Surely we can all agree that groupthink is a drag. But a curious pattern is emerging among the fringe-ocrats who are coming into power. Their dissenting views, strewn across the outskirts of conventional belief, appear to be curling toward a new and fringe consensus of its own. On the subject of vaccines, for instance, there used to be some space between the positions of Kennedy, the nation’s leading figure casting doubt on the safety and benefits of inoculations, and Bhattacharya. Kennedy has made false claims about the dangers of the mRNA-based COVID shots. Bhattacharya, meanwhile, once called the same vaccines “a medical miracle—extremely valuable for protecting the vulnerable against severe COVID-19 disease.” (He even criticized Anthony Fauci for downplaying the benefits of COVID shots by continuing to wear a mask after being immunized.)
Bhattacharya has in the past been tolerant of others’ more outrageous claims about vaccines. But that neutrality has lately drifted into a gentle posture of acceptance, like a one-armed hug. Under questioning from senators, he said that he is convinced that there is no link between autism and the MMR vaccine (and that he fully supports vaccinating children against measles). But he also floated the idea that Kennedy’s goal of doing further research on the topic would be worthwhile just the same. Last July, despite his past enthusiasm for mRNA-based COVID-19 shots, Bhattacharya said that he was planning to sign on to a statement calling for their deauthorization, because they are “contributing to an alarming rise in disability and excess deaths.” Kennedy has petitioned for the same, on the same grounds. (There is, in fact, no meaningful evidence that the vaccines have caused a spate of excess deaths.) In a post on X, Bhattacharya explained that he’d been hesitant to take this step at first, because some groups might still benefit from the vaccines, but then he came to realize that pulling the vaccine will create the conditions necessary for testing whether it still has any value.
On this and other issues, the dissenting voices have started to combine into a chorus. The lab-leak theory of COVID’s origin provides another case in point. In yesterday’s hearing, Bhattacharya described scientific experts’ early dismissal of the possibility that the coronavirus spread from a lab in Wuhan, China, as “a low point in the history of science.” That’s an overstatement, but the criticism is fair: Dissenting views were stifled and ignored. But here again, what started as mere endorsement of debate has evolved into a countervailing sense of certainty. Although there’s still plenty of reason to believe that the pandemic did, in fact, begin with the natural passage of the virus from an animal host, the most important details about the pandemic’s origin remain unknown. Yet the fringe is nearly settled on the alternative interpretation. Bhattacharya has said that the pandemic “likely” started in a lab (a position that has been endorsed, albeit with low or moderate confidence, by almost half of the government agencies that have looked into it). Makary called the theory “a no-brainer.” And RFK Jr. published a 600-page book, The Wuhan Cover-Up, in support of it.
Based on the Senate’s Republican majority and the precedent of Kennedy’s confirmation, Bhattacharya is almost certain to sail through his Senate vote, and in short order. His prospects of delivering on his mission, though, are hazier. Some of his positions are already being undermined by the Trump administration’s prior actions. According to a new report in Nature, the agency is terminating hundreds of active research grants that may be construed to have a focus on gender or diversity, among other topics. Some work may be permitted to continue as long as any “DEI language” has been stripped from associated documents. This is hardly the “culture of respect for free speech” that Bhattacharya promised yesterday. Other, basic workings of the NIH have been dismantled under the second Trump administration: Approximately 1,200 employees have been fired, grant reviews have been frozen, and policies have been declared that would squeeze research funding for the nation’s universities. Bhattacharya is about to take the levers of power, but those levers have been ripped from their housing, and the springs removed and sold as scrap.
When pressed on these developments yesterday, Bhattacharya kept returning to a single line: “I fully commit to making sure that all the scientists at the NIH, and the scientists that the NIH supports, have the resources they need.” Whether he’d have the authority or know-how to do so remains in doubt. “Dr. Bhattacharya doesn’t really understand how NIH works, and he doesn’t understand how decisions are made,” Harold Varmus, who ran the agency in the 1990s, told me shortly after the hearing ended. As for Bhattacharya’s goals of promoting free speech among scientists and nurturing cutting-edge ideas for research, Varmus said that the problem has been misdiagnosed: Whatever conservatism exists doesn’t really come from the top, he said, but from the grant-review committees and the scientists themselves. “It’s exasperating for me to see what is about to happen,” he told me, “because this guy should not be in my old office.”
For what it’s worth, Bhattacharya has also shared other ambitious plans. He aims, for instance, to make science more reliable by incorporating into NIH-funded research the dreary work of replicating findings. “Replication is the heart and soul of what truth is in science,” he said during the hearing. That might help solve a pressing problem in the sciences, but it would also be a very costly project, started at a time when research costs are being cut. Under current conditions, even just the basic job of running the NIH seems pretty stressful on its own. Bhattacharya has, by his account, experienced lots of stress in recent years due to the many efforts to discredit him. His confirmation may not bring him full relief.
Serena Kocourek dreaded the lullaby. She worked in a hospital, and every time a baby was born, staffers would play the same song over the loudspeaker. She was going through IVF, trying without success to conceive a baby. When the lullaby played, she told me, “I felt like I was two feet further away from finally being a mom.”
One thing helped: messaging her IVF coach, Kristin Dillensnyder. She’d say, “They just played the lullaby thing and I didn’t cry.” “Win,” Dillensnyder would respond. Or she’d remind Kocourek, “Just because somebody else is having a baby doesn’t mean that you can’t have a baby.” Dillensnyder also offered advice for staying hopeful during the grueling process of IVF: She suggested that Kocourek create a playlist of songs to listen to as she gave herself hormone injections. Kocourek liked that Dillensnyder had gone through IVF herself and would help her come up with responses to insensitive questions from family and friends about when she planned to get pregnant. Occasionally, in the middle of her day, she’d think, “I just need to step away. I just need to talk to Kristin real quick.”
IVF coaching may sound niche, but it’s far from the most specialized type of coaching on offer. These days, if a problem exists, there seems to be a coach for it. Having trouble focusing? An “executive function” coach might be right for you. Undecided about having kids? There’s a coach for that too. Too burned out to plan a “transformative” vacation? A travel coach can help you for $597 (a price that does not include the actual booking of the trip).
Discovering all these types of coaches made me wonder: Whatever happened to asking people you know for advice? So I set out to try to understand why people hire coaches and what they get from the experience. Most of the coaching clients I spoke with asked to use only their first name because of the personal nature of the issues they sought help for. One woman, Sarah, sees a meditation coach for $350 a session, justifying it because she does not own “expensive purses or clothes.” Another woman, Liz, has, at various points, had a career coach, an executive coach, a doula (or birthing coach), a co-parenting coach, and two different accountability coaches who focus on diet and exercise. She recently added a Disney “concierge”—a coach for navigating the Magic Kingdom. Each one of her coaches costs at least a couple of hundred dollars a session. She told me that if she hasn’t done something important before and wants to do it right, she tends to hire a coach to help her. “Winging it is so not my style,” she said. “Why not go into it informed if you can?”
People have long sought advice for some of life’s biggest questions—marry that guy or don’t; take or don’t take that job. But over the past few decades, the options for living one’s best adult life have expanded so much that knowing the right or wrong way to do anything can be difficult. Today, many Americans can join a polyamorous triad, remain child-free by choice, launch a new career in their 30s, or dedicate themselves to running ultramarathons, all without ruffling any feathers within their community. “Identities are no longer given,” Michal Pagis, a lecturer of sociology and anthropology at Bar-Ilan University in Israel, who has studied coaching, told me. “They are now achieved … It’s a project.” A number of people seem to crave sounding boards for all of this identity making, especially if they want to do it “correctly”—i.e., in a way that is still impressive, if unconventional. Erik Baker, a Harvard historian and the author of Make Your Own Job, told me that coaching is the latest example of “the therapeutic culture that emerged in the United States in the 20th century: a sense of needing to have some kind of expert to help optimize your performance.” Being “normal” is no longer enough, so people hire coaches to help them transcend normal.
In some ways, coaching stands in for the free, civic sources of support that over the past decade have been slowly fading away. People are less likely now to be members of the kinds of community groups or religious congregations where they might have previously sought help. In some circles, an idea has taken hold that asking strangers for advice without paying is gauche. Emailing someone to “pick their brain” has become a corporate misdemeanor. (“Set the precedent that you are not comfortable talking without a pre-booked and pre-paid official meeting,” goes some typical advice on how to respond to such an affront.)
People today also have fewer close friends than they used to, and they may be reluctant to rely on those friends for help. Overwhelmingly, the coaching clients I spoke with told me that they would not expect their (few, flawed, busy) friends to provide the same level of guidance that their coaches do. Friends and family members are biased. (“You never know if someone has your best interest in mind,” Liz told me.) A stranger who doesn’t know you seems more likely to be neutral. Friends may say clumsy or unsupportive things as they respond to your texts between meetings; a coach’s job is always to have the right mantra at hand.
In her book The Outsourced Self, the sociologist Arlie Russell Hochschild writes that when it comes to advice, “anything you pay for is better.” A coach is like a super-friend—someone very smart and attentive who can help you make the best possible decision. Kiya Thompson, a travel coach, refers to her service “like a best friend pre-trip, during the trip, and … after the trip.” Dillensnyder, the IVF coach, told me that she sees herself as kind of like “a big sister”—one whose counsel is, presumably, better than your real sister’s. “Friends and family are really good,” Dillensnyder said. “However, they often give advice that is not helpful.” Another refrain I heard was that coaches allow you to be messy and depressed around them so that you can be bubbly and interesting around your friends. As another woman, Emily, put it to me about her weight-loss coach, “Your friends don’t want to listen to you talk about that all the time.”
But using coaching in this way undermines one important aspect of friendship: reciprocity. During a common type of friend hang, one person shares their problems for a while and the other person offers their best stab at some solutions. Then they switch. Pagis told me that debts—for example, owing someone a few minutes of uninhibited venting—“are important for social relations.” With coaching, however, “you are avoiding creating these debts.” If part of friendship is being there for each other, what becomes of the institution when you don’t have to be? When the well-heeled can afford to take their problems to a coach, friends risk becoming merely the people with whom we have pleasant catch-up brunches before we rush home to pay by the hour to give the real dirt to a stranger.
Yet the advice a coach dispenses may not be as reliable as clients hope. Coaches, who in many cases bear no qualifications other than personal experience, do not need to adhere to official standards. Some coaches might be only dabbling in the practice: A 2023 report by the International Coaching Federation, a credentialing body for some types of coaches, noted that the average coach spent just 12 hours a week coaching.
The casualness of these arrangements, and the lack of standards, can lead to disappointment—and little recourse—when people pay hundreds for coaching that turns out to be lackluster. One woman I spoke with, Maria, told me she was scrolling through TikTok when she came across a bariatric-surgery coach who promised to help her adjust to the dramatically different eating habits the procedure requires. “I booked a call with her,” Maria said, “and she sold me within, like, 20 minutes.” For about $500 a month, the coach would check Maria’s MyFitnessPal food log and text her an emoji assessing her performance—a fire emoji if she was doing well, for example. But during their one-on-one sessions, Maria felt like she was talking with the coach’s TikTok character rather than with a devoted adviser. “She has, like, five things that she repeats over and over again,” Maria said. She quit after two months.
Coaching can also be a problem if it replaces therapy, which, unlike coaching, is regulated and typically covered by insurance. Most coaches take pains to point out that they are not therapists, and most of the coaching clients I interviewed either have or have had therapists. Still, about 25 to 50 percent of coaching clients have a diagnosable mental-health condition, and they aren’t getting any formal mental-health treatment from their coaches, Elias Aboujaoude, a psychiatry professor at Stanford, told me. “In my clinical work, it’s a common thing that comes up,” he said. “We recommend a therapist to someone, and they’ll say, ‘Oh, but I’m seeing a life coach.’”
I do have a therapist. Even so, the more I dug into coaching, the more I wanted to understand what people saw in it. I soon had the opportunity to find out. In the course of my reporting, I spoke with Nell Wulfhart, a “decision coach” who, for $247 per hour-long session, helps her clients make one big life decision—as varied as whether to have kids or what color to paint their kitchen.
Wulfhart told me that she’s always had a “fixer brain,” and that often, she’s simply listening for what the person really wants to do anyway. “It just helps to have a totally neutral third party to check your work,” she said, “and make sure, ‘Yes, this is not a ludicrous risk you’re taking.’” What qualifications does she have? “Nothing,” she said. “People have said to me, ‘You’re so wise.’ And I was like, I think they mean you’re in your mid-40s.”
I’m allergic to people who embellish their credentials, so I liked that she admitted her lack thereof. I also liked that she has worked as a journalist, a profession I associate with straight shooters. And as it happened, I did have a decision I was struggling with. So I decided to book a session with her.
I told Wulfhart that I couldn’t decide whether to move to Florida or to Texas. She began asking me questions about what was important to me, what else I’d considered, and what each place had to offer me. Unlike my therapist, she didn’t ask about my childhood—in fact, she didn’t seem much interested in my backstory, my neuroses, or any of my usual patterns of behavior. “Why you feel this way is not that relevant,” she said. “The only thing that matters is that you do feel this way.”
It did feel like talking with a super-friend—someone who was smart and likable, but also disinterested and ruthlessly rational. After about 30 minutes, she told me what I should do. It was what I’d wanted to do anyway.
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A book festival in Vilnius, meetings with friends in Warsaw, a dinner in Berlin: I happened to be at gatherings in three European cities over the past several days, and everywhere I went, everyone wanted to talk about the Oval Office performance last Friday. Europeans needed some time to process this event, not just because of what it told them about the war in Ukraine, but because of what it told them about America, a country they thought they knew well.
In just a few minutes, the behavior of Donald Trump and J. D. Vance created a brand-new stereotype for America: not the quiet American, not the ugly American, but the brutal American. Whatever illusions Europeans ever had about Americans—whatever images lingered from old American movies, the ones where the good guys win, the bad guys lose, and honor defeats treachery—those are shattered. Whatever fond memories remain of the smiling GIs who marched into European cities in 1945, of the speeches that John F. Kennedy and Ronald Reagan made at the Berlin Wall, or of the crowds that once welcomed Barack Obama, those are also fading fast.
Quite apart from their politics, Trump and Vance are rude. They are cruel. They berated and mistreated a guest on camera, and then boasted about it afterward, as if their ugly behavior achieved some kind of macho “win.” They announced that they would halt transfers of military equipment to Ukraine, and hinted at ending sanctions on Russia, the aggressor state. In his speech to Congress last night, Trump once again declared that America would “get” Greenland, which is a part of Denmark—a sign that he intends to run roughshod over other allies too.
These are the actions not of the good guys in old Hollywood movies, but of the bad guys. If Reagan was a white-hatted cowboy, Trump and Vance are Mafia dons. The chorus of Republican political leaders defending them seems both sinister and surprising to Europeans too. “I never thought Americans would kowtow like that,” one friend told me, marveling.
The Oval Office meeting, the subsequent announcements, and the speech to Congress also clarified something else: Trump, Vance, and many of the people around them now fully inhabit an alternative reality, one composed entirely of things they see and hear in the ether. Part of the Oval Office altercation was provoked by Zelensky’s insistence on telling the truth, as the full video clearly shows. His mistake was to point out that Russia and Ukraine have reached many cease-fires and made many agreements since 2014, and that Vladimir Putin has broken most of them, including during Trump’s first term.
It’s precisely because they remember these broken truces that the Ukrainians keep asking what happens after a cease-fire, what kind of security guarantees will be put in place, how Trump plans to prevent Putin from breaking them once more and, above all, what price the Russians are willing to pay for peace in Ukraine. Will they even give up their claims to territory they don’t control? Will they agree that Ukraine can be a sovereign democracy?
But Trump and Vance are not interested in the truth about the war in Ukraine. Trump seemed angered by the suggestion that Putin might break deals with him, refused to acknowledge that it’s happened before, falsely insisted, again, that the U.S. had given Ukraine $350 billion. Vance—who had refused to meet Zelensky when offered the opportunity before the election last year—told the Ukrainian president that he didn’t need to go to Ukraine to understand what is going on in his country: “I’ve actually watched and seen the stories,” he said, meaning that he has seen the “stories” curated for him by the people he follows on YouTube or X.
Europeans can also see that this alternative reality is directly and profoundly shaped by Russian propaganda. I don’t know whether the American president absorbs Russian narratives online, from proxies, or from Putin himself. Either way, he has thoroughly adopted the Russian view of the world, as has Vance. This is not new. Back in 2016, at the height of the election campaign, Trump frequently repeated false stories launched by Russia’s Sputnik news agency, declaring that Hillary Clinton and Obama had “founded ISIS,” or that “the Google search engine is suppressing the bad news about Hillary Clinton.” At the time, Trump also imitated Russian talk about Clinton starting World War III, another Russian meme. He produced a new version of that in the Oval Office on Friday. “You’re gambling with World War III. You’re gambling with World War III,” he shouted at Zelensky.
But what was ominous in 2016 is dangerous in 2025, especially in Europe. Russian military aggression is more damaging, Russian sabotage across Europe more frequent, and Russian cyberattacks almost constant. In truth, it is Putin, not Zelensky, who started this conflict, Putin who has brought North Korean troops and Iranian drones to Europe, Putin who instructs his propagandists to talk about nuking London, Putin who keeps raising the stakes and scope of the war. Most Europeans live in this reality, not in the fictional world inhabited by Trump, and the contrast is making them think differently about Americans. According to pollsters, nearly three-quarters of French people now think that the U.S. is not an ally of France. A majority in Britain and a very large majority in Denmark, both historically pro-American countries, now have unfavorable views of the U.S. as well.
In reality, the Russians have said nothing publicly about leaving Ukrainian territory or stopping the war. In reality, they have spent the past decade building a cult of cruelty at home. Now they have exported that cult not just to Europe, not just to Africa, but to Washington too. This administration abruptly canceled billions of dollars of food aid and health-care programs for the poorest people on the planet, a vicious act that the president and vice president have not acknowledged but that millions of people can see. Their use of tariffs as random punishment, not for enemies but for allies, seems not just brutal but inexplicable.
And in the Oval Office, Trump and Vance behaved like imperial rulers chastising a subjugated colony, vocalizing the same disgust and disdain that Russian propagandists use when they talk about Ukraine. Europeans know, everyone knows, that if Trump and Vance can talk that way to the president of Ukraine, then they might eventually talk that way to their country’s leader next.
Leading the FDA has long been one of the greatest professional achievements in American health. At the start of every administration, doctors jockey for the role, hoping to steer an agency that regulates 20 cents of every dollar spent in the United States. To be the FDA commissioner who presides over the approval of a cure for a previously intractable disease, or who launches an investigation into a product that is sickening Americans, is to etch your name into the annals of modern medicine. Perhaps you’ve never heard of David Kessler, the FDA commissioner for much of the 1990s, but he is largely the reason the federal government regulates cigarettes at all.
Marty Makary, Donald Trump’s pick for FDA commissioner, is undoubtedly qualified for the job. A longtime Johns Hopkins surgeon and best-selling author, he has advised the World Health Organization and been elected to the National Academy of Medicine. (Makary, whose confirmation hearings kicked off in the Senate this morning, told Senator Rand Paul that he spent part of yesterday removing a patient’s gallbladder.) Makary is not universally embraced: As a Fox News contributor, he has repeatedly critiqued the medical establishment on air. But he’s still widely regarded as well-credentialed. “He has the ability to become one of the greatest commissioners we’ve seen,” Kavita Patel, a physician and former Obama administration official who considers Makary a personal friend, told me.
But Makary might end up with one of the worst jobs in the entire Trump administration. His scientific bona fides are at odds with the impulses of his boss, Robert F. Kennedy Jr. The newly confirmed secretary of Health and Human Services, who has a penchant for spreading conspiracy theories, has promised lawmakers that he will empower scientists and won’t “impose my preordained opinions on anybody.” But he has also promised to change the agency so radically that delivering on that vision would require Makary to throw much of his medical training out the window. What Makary decides to do will go a long way in determining the extent to which Kennedy is able to remake American health in his image.
That’s not to say that Makary, who did not respond to a request for comment, will be waging a war of resistance against everything RFK Jr. wants and believes. During his testimony this morning, Makary spoke about his desire to improve America’s diet and address chronic disease—both of which Kennedy has made his central focus as America’s health secretary. “We now have a generational opportunity in American health care,” Makary said. “President Trump and Secretary Kennedy’s focus on healthy foods has galvanized a grassroots movement in America.” Last fall, he took part in a roundtable with Kennedy where he lamented that “highly addictive chemicals” lace the U.S. food supply. Tackling that issue will be Makary’s surest bet for delivering on what Kennedy wants.
Contrary to Kennedy’s long-standing anti-vaccine advocacy, Makary reiterated in his Senate testimony that he believes that “vaccines save lives.” But like Kennedy and several other prominent Trump health advisers, Makary has been a vocal critic of how the Biden administration handled COVID. In 2021, he called out the FDA’s decision to approve COVID boosters for young, healthy Americans, citing a lack of clear evidence for their benefits relative to the potential side effects. The government’s “policies are no longer driven by science,” he wrote at the time, and “data is being cherry-picked to support predetermined agendas.” (The FDA pushed forward with boosters for young adults without convening its own independent advisory committee, though the agency said its decision was supported by data.) Other statements Makary has made are more questionable. In an appearance on Fox News in July 2023, he said that “100 percent” of Kennedy’s book on Anthony Fauci was true. He didn’t acknowledge that the book falsely claims that “COVID vaccines were causing far more deaths than they were averting.” (“The Marty you might see on Fox News clips is obviously not the person I know,” Patel told me.)
Much of what Makary actually wants to do at the FDA remains unclear. He spent little time during his testimony on Thursday outlining his moves once confirmed. Still, most of the changes Kennedy wants to see at the agency are untenable for any FDA commissioner concerned about adhering to basic science. Kennedy has said that the FDA’s “war” on treatments such as stem cells and psychedelic drugs “is about to end.” Decisions on how to regulate these products typically don’t rest with the health secretary or the FDA commissioner, but with the agency’s scientists and doctors. In both cases, there is no scientific reason for the FDA to change course. The agency doesn’t allow stem-cell treatments for most conditions because they aren’t proven to work and can cause people serious harm; last year, the FDA rejected what would have been the first MDMA-based medical treatment, likely due to shoddy clinical-trial data.
On his own, Makary can do only so much. The FDA’s powers are actually given by law to the HHS secretary, who then has historically delegated powers to the FDA commissioner, according to Lewis Grossman, a law professor at American University. What is given can be taken away; if Kennedy wants to meddle in Makary’s work, he’s well within his rights to do so.
Still, should Makary stand up to Kennedy, he will not be the first FDA secretary to clash with more powerful officials in the administration. Kessler’s efforts to investigate the tobacco industry were so controversial in Washington that, as he wrote in his memoir, the White House worried he would resign if they didn’t allow him to continue his work. If Makary can conjure up a similar power—using whatever leverage and cache he would have as FDA commissioner to negotiate with Kennedy and the Trump White House—he may hold his own. Makary “has both a mandate and an authority to not feel like he needs to step in line with any secretary, much less RFK Jr.,” Patel said.
The first major test for how willing Makary is to stand up to his boss will likely center on mifepristone, an abortion pill. Kennedy told senators in January that he would order the FDA and NIH to review the safety of the drug to determine whether access to it should be restricted. (Access to mifepristone varies by state, though prescriptions via telehealth have complicated the picture.) But that review has already been done. The FDA recently rereviewed the drug’s safety information, and determined that previous restrictions around the drug, namely that patients needed to physically go to a clinic to get it, were unnecessary. The agency is unlikely to find any new evidence that the drug is especially dangerous. If Makary comes up with a reason to question its safety, and thus meddles with the agency’s previous findings, it will show that his loyalty rests more with Kennedy than FDA’s scientists. During his confirmation hearing, Makary was unwilling to preview how exactly he would come down on the issue, much to the frustration of some Democratic senators.
In any administration, overseeing the FDA’s sprawling, vital work is a colossal undertaking. Should he be confirmed, Makary will be tasked with safeguarding the infant formula Americans feed their newborns, the cosmetics we use on our skin, the painkillers we take when we have a headache, the chemotherapy we receive to fight cancer, the pacemakers that keep hearts ticking, the flu shots we get every fall, and even the hand sanitizer we reach for when our hands are dirty. Makary’s biggest challenge, however, could turn out to be his ability to manage up. His ideal version of the FDA presumably is different from Kennedy’s. They both can’t get their way.
