01/12/2026
The Moment I Didn’t Expect: What Decline Taught Me About Our Politics
What shocked me most wasn’t what I suddenly saw.
It was how long it took me to see it.
I recently lost someone very dear to me to a slow loss of mental clarity. Even though I loved this person deeply and was close to them, I didn’t understand what was happening right away. Not at all. I was confused. So confused that I eventually went to classes and sought help just to make sense of what I was seeing.
And even then, understanding came slowly.
I’ve since learned that many people who live through something like this never fully understand it. Not because they don’t care. Not because they aren’t smart. But because this kind of decline doesn’t show up in obvious ways at first. It comes and goes. Some days feel normal. Some moments feel sharp and present. Other moments don’t.
It can look like stress. Or stubbornness. Or aging. Or personality.
It doesn’t announce itself clearly.
Looking back, I realize that others around me—people who loved this person as much as I did—were just as confused. Some never came to understand what was happening at all. That isn’t a failure. It’s just life. We are not taught how to recognize these things, and we’re not taught how to talk about them.
That’s why a moment I had recently took me by surprise.
I was reading a comment from a very loyal political supporter, and what I felt wasn’t anger. It was recognition. What I saw was loyalty so strong it felt familiar. The kind of loyalty that shows up when someone you care about is slipping, and you’re trying—almost desperately—to keep them steady, to keep them grounded, to keep them themselves.
People who have lived through this kind of loss know that feeling.
There is sadness even while the person is still here.
There is hope mixed with denial.
There is fierce protectiveness.
And very often, there is resistance to understanding what’s really happening—because understanding feels like giving up.
As I get older, this is not an abstract idea to me. I question myself. I pay attention. I want to know early if I’m slipping. Many of the people around me are in the same stage of life. This isn’t about “other people.” It’s about all of us.
That’s why it startled me so deeply to realize that if I—someone who has lived through this, someone who has tried to understand it—could miss what was unfolding around us for so long, then many others must be missing it too.
This isn’t about blame.
It isn’t about politics first.
And it certainly isn’t about mocking or condemning anyone.
It’s about the fact that we don’t talk honestly enough about what it looks like when someone begins to lose their footing mentally. How it can affect judgment. How it can affect emotional control. How it can make a person more vulnerable to influence—especially when power, money, or identity are involved.
When we don’t talk about this calmly and kindly, the space gets filled with cruelty, denial, and people taking advantage of the situation.
In private life, most families eventually learn that stepping in can be an act of love. It’s painful. It’s confusing. It often feels wrong at first. But it’s meant to protect the person and the people around them.
In public life, we don’t seem to know how to do this at all.
Empathy doesn’t mean pretending nothing is wrong.
Understanding doesn’t mean standing back and doing nothing.
In fact, when the stakes are high, honesty becomes more important—not less.
This is a hard conversation because it reminds us of our own future. None of us are exempt. Decline is not rare. It is not shameful. And it is not a sign of moral failure.
It is part of being human.
If we could talk about this more openly—with less fear, less anger, and more care—we might handle moments like this better. We might treat one another with more patience. And we might protect both people and institutions more wisely.
This is written with love.
Not rivalry.
Not rage.
Just the hope that understanding, shared gently, can help us find our way through something that touches every life sooner or later.
