Trust. In today’s world, it’s everything—or so we say. Yet, watching the recent US election, you’d be forgiven for wondering where that trust is coming from and why it’s placed the way it is. In this latest round, America’s working class has once again cast its lot with Donald Trump, a billionaire who’s never lived their life, who’s never struggled to cover the bills or faced a family medical crisis with no safety net. And yet, for millions, he’s their man, their fighter, the one they believe will deliver the promises that have slipped through their fingers for decades.
How did we get here? How is it that a convicted felon, a wealthy man, steeped in privilege, can inspire trust as a working-class champion? Well, it’s not simple. There’s the power of rhetoric, sure. Trump’s got that in spades. There’s the disillusionment with the establishment, the sense of betrayal by anyone “in charge.” And then there’s that extraordinary way Trump seems to draw people in—people whose lives look nothing like his own.
Trump’s skill with rhetoric is undeniable. He zeroes in on the frustration and disappointment working Americans feel every day: wages that don’t go up, futures that feel shaky. He tells them he’s going to “drain the swamp,” take down the elites, and shake up a system that so many believe has forgotten them. He talks about bringing back jobs, fighting China, and standing up to the faceless forces keeping them down. His lifestyle may scream luxury, but his words? They speak right to the heart of their struggle.
Then there’s another piece to all this: Trump’s way of connecting with those for whom religion is everything. He talks about defending religious freedom, protecting conservative values, and restoring the “traditional” family in a way that resonates deeply with people who feel their beliefs are under siege. They look past his opulent life because he presents himself as the one willing to safeguard their faith in a secular world.
But here’s the surprising part: his followers don’t seem to need him to walk in their shoes. They don’t demand shared experience. Instead, they want someone to stand up for their right to live their way, protect their jobs, and fight for values they feel slipping away. Trump, for them, is that person.
So, what’s going on here? Rhetoric? Distrust of the establishment? The appeal of a “strongman” who’ll protect their rights? All of that, maybe. But here’s the kicker about Trump’s appeal: it’s not policy, and it’s not empathy. It’s about something much bigger. When people feel overwhelmed, they look for a saviour. They look outward, hoping for someone to come in and take up the burden, someone who says, “Trust me. I’ve got this.” That’s where Trump comes in.
It’s a handover of responsibility. People put their faith in him, hoping he’ll do the heavy lifting. They’re not asking, “Does he understand us?” They’re asking, “Will he take on this battle for us?” And for those weighed down by a world that feels too much, Trump is the easy choice. He promises to shoulder their struggles, to protect their way of life. It’s not about whether he lives like them. It’s that he’s willing to play the role of protector—a modern answer to that old yearning for someone, something, to step in and make everything right.
So, there it is. For many, Trump embodies that saviour figure, letting them look outward for answers and promises of intervention, rather than inward for change. It’s a comfortable, almost timeless choice, and one that’s powerful enough to keep millions of Americans trusting him, election after election.
