In 2019, a little-known mayor from South Bend, Indiana—decorated with degrees from Harvard and Oxford—stood on a presidential debate stage and made an unlikely pitch, one that ran counter to the era’s preference for sweeping rhetoric: that trust in American democracy could be rebuilt through public service grounded in humility, competence, and local experience. Pete Buttigieg’s rise from Rhodes Scholar to Secretary of Transportation is more than an impressive political arc. It illustrates one viable/potential response to a deeper crisis: the erosion of institutional trust.Three years after Buttigieg arrived on the national scene, J.D. Vance—venture capitalist, Yale Law graduate, and author of Hillbilly Elegy—won a Senate seat in Ohio by appealing to many of the same anxieties: the hollowing out of industrial communities, a widespread cultural feeling of being overlooked by elites, and the erosion of cultural stability. But where Buttigieg spoke the language of restoration and reform, Vance characterized institutions as fundamentally broken—captured, unresponsive to public opinion, and hostile to the very people they were meant to serve. His memoir, like his campaign, offered a personal reckoning with the failure of elites and the abandonment of working-class America. Buttigieg and Vance’s styles could not be more different—one technocratic, the other populist—but both rose to national prominence by recognizing the same crisis : that many Americans no longer believe the system works for them.
At first glance, the two politicians appear diametrically opposed. And it’s true that their prescriptions are: Buttigieg urges that trust must be rebuilt from within institutions, while Vance argues it must be redirected or withheld until institutions are remade. Yet their diagnoses converge: both recognize that institutional trust has fractured, and both frame their appeal on acknowledging that fracture. Where they differ is in what trust means. For Buttigieg, trust is an act of renewal—confidence earned through competent performance. For Vance, trust is a verdict—a conditional response withheld until institutions prove themselves worthy. This distinction reflects a deeper truth about the American system: it was never designed to run on unquestioning loyalty. From the Federalist Papers onward, the framers emphasized that republican government required vigilance and accountability. James Madison, for instance, argued in Federalist No. 51 that the separation of powers was meant to force institutions to “control themselves,” ensuring legitimacy through performance rather than assumed consensus. Trust, then, was always fragile by design—a feature of democratic accountability, not a flaw.
This fragility has become more visible in recent decades. Since the 1960s, public trust in institutions has been worn down by scandal and crisis. Vietnam, Watergate, the 2008 financial collapse, and, most recently, COVID-19 all dealt massive blows to public confidence in the government. According to Pew Research, only about 20% of Americans today trust the federal government to “do the right thing” most of the time, compared to over 70% during the post–World War II era. That decline has coincided with a collapse in other civic pillars: union membership, church attendance, and participation in local organizations have all dropped, leaving fewer spaces where Americans feel seen and represented.
Social distrust cannot be explained by partisanship alone. It is animated by a deeper, structural unease: the sense that decision-making power has become distant, inaccessible, and unaccountable. The federal government has delivered weak results. When public schools decline, roads remain unrepaired, and medical bills threaten financial ruin, people stop expecting anything from institutions—and eventually stop engaging with them at all. Cynicism becomes easier than effort. The result is not just polarization but alienation from policy altogether. When nothing works, nothing feels worth trusting.
Technology has intensified this fragmentation. Social media platforms, optimized for engagement, not accuracy, accelerate disinformation, tribalism, and emotional outrage. They undercut traditional sources of authority while offering no standards for legitimacy in their place. In this vacuum, authority shifts to performance: who can appear most authentic, who can speak most convincingly to a sense of grievance, and who can embody a community’s frustrations becomes the measure of legitimacy. In the process, they shift institutions from being arenas of public responsibility to stages of personal performance. As Yuval Levin, a political theorist, Duke alumnus, and director of social, cultural, and constitutional studies at the American Enterprise Institute, argues in his book A Time to Build (2020), modern institutions no longer function primarily to mold character or cultivate responsibility. Instead, they often serve as platforms for projecting identity and broadcasting personal brand—reinforcing the very erosion of trust they are meant to counter. But trust depends on believing that those in power are constrained by shared norms and principles. When institutions become platforms, they lose the very thing that makes them trustworthy. To be sure, institutions have always had a performative element—Congressional floor speeches, for instance, were designed as much to signal values to constituents as to persuade colleagues. What is different today, as Yuval Levin notes, is the magnitude of it : cameras, 24-hour news, and especially social media have supercharged the performative function, making projection rather than formation the dominant role of institutions.
The solution to such a complex problem requires multiple interlocking parts. Restoring trust requires addressing institutional failure not just in what it delivers, but in how it functions—and in how it is perceived. First, institutions must become more transparent and responsive. This means not only fixing what is broken—schools, hospitals, infrastructure—but also clearly articulating how decisions are made and why they matter. Too often, decisions are announced as faits accomplis, leaving the public to guess at the reasoning behind them. Practically, this requires opening up the black box: explaining trade-offs, acknowledging constraints, and showing how competing values were weighed. A school board deciding on curriculum changes, for instance, gains credibility not by pretending every parent will agree, but by demonstrating that input was heard, criteria were applied consistently, and the final choice aligns with stated goals. Similarly, when hospitals explain why resources are allocated to certain programs over others, or when transportation agencies outline why a project was prioritized, they transform opaque bureaucracy into visible reasoning. People may still disagree with outcomes, but understanding the “why” makes disagreement feel like part of a fair process rather than evidence of corruption or neglect. Bureaucratic opacity breeds suspicion. But procedural clarity, even amid disagreement, can restore legitimacy. When people understand the process, they are more willing to accept its outcomes.
But delivering results alone is not enough. The next generation must feel not only educated about democracy but invested in it. That requires a deliberate reinvestment in civic education—not as rote memorization of the branches of government, but as active participation in democratic life. Programs that combine learning with service—community projects, national service initiatives, school-based volunteerism—must be expanded and adequately funded if they are to reweave civic identity at scale. When young people engage directly in improving their neighborhoods, they learn that government is not distant but participatory. Civic identity becomes lived. And in that practice, institutions once seen as abstract become worthy of trust.
That sense of ownership is at the core of Buttigieg’s theory of public service and, paradoxically, also at the heart of Vance’s critique. Both recognize that Americans do not distrust institutions randomly—they do so in response to patterns of exclusion, neglect, and false promises. Buttigieg frames this as an argument for reform: institutions must be opened up so citizens can once again see themselves in the process. Vance, by contrast, treats distrust as proof that institutions are fundamentally captured and cannot be redeemed in their current form. His rise in places like deindustrialized Ohio, where scores of factories have closed and opioids have ravaged whole towns, reflects not only cultural resentment but the lived reality of communities where institutions—from local governments to healthcare systems—have visibly failed. His success speaks to a political truth: that people may lose faith in authority when authority feels unaccountable. Buttigieg and Vance speak from opposite angles, but both name the same crisis, just as both reflect America’s competing instincts: to fix the house, or to burn it down.
That tension makes the final piece of renewal perhaps the most difficult: political leadership. Leadership matters not because it resolves every issue, but because it models the relationship citizens can have with government. When leaders choose performance over problem-solving, they deepen distrust. When they inflame divisions for political gain, they make cynicism feel wise. But when leaders treat opponents as fellow citizens, prioritize facts over narrative, and build durable coalitions, they can restore a sense of shared project. The most effective leaders do not just represent their constituents—they remind them that institutions, though imperfect, must be constantly tended, not torn down. We have seen glimpses of this kind of leadership: Gerald Ford’s steadying honesty after Watergate (though his pardon of Nixon arguably added to the mistrust issue), John McCain’s gentlemanly 2008 campaign, or, more recently, local mayors who bridge divides in crises by focusing on practical problem-solving over partisanship. These moments suggest the proposal is not unattainable —it is within reach, if leaders are willing to model it.
The task ahead is not to return to blind faith in government; we shouldn’t. Skepticism is essential in a democracy. But sustained contempt corrodes the possibility of any common ground. The real challenge is turning that skepticism into civic action: voting, serving, listening, and rebuilding. Trust, after all, cannot be demanded. It must be earned again and again.
Buttigieg, Vance, and others like them show that while the methods differ, the stakes are shared. People want leaders who take their fears seriously. They want institutions that work. They want to believe that the system, however imperfect, can still respond to them. The paths may diverge, but they all trace back to the same fragile foundation.
Ultimately, politicians are fighting the wrong battle when they try to persuade the public that distrust is unjustified. The distrust is real, and it is earned. The harder task—the one that matters—is to repair what we did not break, to trust cautiously but act constructively, and to reclaim the institutions that were always meant to serve us. American democracy has never run on blind faith. It runs on accountability, on sustained effort, and on the shared conviction that our systems, though imperfect and often strained, can still be strengthened by the people who choose to care.
Trust, once lost, does not return easily. And in 2028, it is possible that Pete Buttigieg and J.D. Vance—two figures who embody starkly different approaches—will stand as the competing presidential candidates. What will be on the ballot, then, is not only which leader prevails, but which vision of authority America chooses to embrace: one that seeks to restore institutions through technocratic competence, or one that demands rupture through populist critique.
by Calvin Cho
