Robert Reich has become the poster child for everything that makes the modern Democratic Party unbearable — moral panic dressed as principle, weakness masquerading as wisdom. He speaks like a man convinced that cowering is a form of courage. Every post, every column, every clipped video carries the same tone: a sermon of despair delivered from behind a screen.
His recent newsletter, America’s Trauma, reads like the diary of a nervous breakdown with a Wi-Fi connection. Reich likens Trump’s presidency to collective abuse, calls his followers “lapdogs,” and paints the entire country as a therapy session gone wrong. To read him is to feel smothered — not by Trump, but by Reich’s own hand-wringing. There is no conviction, only complaint. No leadership, only lament. He mistakes emotional exhaustion for moral depth, as if sighing loudly enough might change the course of the country.
Some dismiss him as just a writer, a retired bureaucrat playing pundit. But that’s precisely the problem — he’s not. Reich’s voice carries weight. He has 1.4 million followers hanging on his every anxious word. He’s taught generations of students at Berkeley, he’s a regular on MSNBC, a contributor to The Guardian, and he shapes the moral tone of the Democratic Party’s intellectual class. He’s not fringe but part of the furniture. When Reich speaks, others echo. His words filter through podcasts, think tanks, and campaign talking points. He embodies the mood music of a movement that confuses vulnerability with virtue, self-pity with substance. His handwringing is contagious.
And the contagion has spread. This is the problem with so many men in the modern Democratic Party: they sound like patients, not patriots. They apologize before they speak. They talk endlessly about trauma, anxiety, and “healing the nation,” yet never once speak of duty, courage, or sacrifice. The party of Roosevelt and Kennedy has become a chorus of counselors. (RELATED: The Rise of the Male Bimbo)
There’s a kind of narciss...