Donald Trump has repeatedly used the phrase “holding the cards” during his tenure as President to signal that he, or sometimes an opponent, has the upper hand. The metaphor projects bravado, leverage, and the inevitability of success or failure, depending on who claims control.
Unfortunately, Trump’s repeated invocation of “holding the cards” embodies a worldview where leverage, bluff, and dominance matter more than duty, morality, or responsibility. In contrast, leadership grounded in duty emphasizes ethical obligations to allies, citizens, and democratic principles—elements strikingly absent from this metaphor.
Take Ukraine as a case in point. In the peace talks on Ukraine this year, Trump has insisted that Russia “holds the cards” in the ongoing conflict. But if Russia does indeed hold them, it is not because of some immutable law of geopolitics. It is because the United States—and Trump himself—has ceded those cards by failing to fully back Ukraine’s defense.
Power in international relations is not simply a fixed hand dealt by fate. Instead, choices, commitments, and the willingness to stand by allies all shape it. By declaring that Russia holds the cards, Trump disregards the moral responsibility the United States bears to ensure that Ukraine is not left vulnerable to aggression.
This card-game metaphor strips away the human stakes, treating war and diplomacy as transactional contests. By contrast, principled leadership recognizes national purpose and moral duty. When leaders use only the language of leverage, they obscure the deeper truth: democratic nations have a duty to resist authoritarian expansion, not just calculate strength. Trump’s language thus reflects a broader erosion of social or humanitarian responsibility.
America’s role in the world is not defined by who holds the cards alone. Far more important is whether those cards are played in defense of freedom or surrendered to expediency.
Trump has used this metaphor countless times. He asserted that the United States “held the cards” in its trade war with China, basing his claim on the size of America’s consumer market. Yet the data contradicts this claim. Even as U.S. tariffs reduced Chinese exports to America by nearly 30%, Beijing redirected its goods elsewhere, fueling a record $1 trillion trade surplus. Exports to Europe and Southeast Asia rose significantly, demonstrating China’s ability to reroute supply chains and blunt the impact of U.S. consumer leverage.
Moreover, China has repeatedly used its dominance in rare earth minerals as a counterweight—a sector worth billions annually and vital to defense systems, semiconductors, and electric vehicles. By imposing export controls on rare earths and finished magnets, Beijing makes clear that leverage is not one-sided. The U.S. may have a vast consumer market, but China’s grip on critical materials and its ability to diversify trade partners show that America’s “cards” are far from decisive. Trump’s metaphor thus often clouds reality. Global trade leverage is fluid. China has proven adept at offsetting Trump’s strategic claims.
Of course, Trump also loves to claim leverage over Congress. His constant insistence that he “held the cards” reveals a deeper pattern: he treats constitutional checks not as guardrails, but as obstacles to be bulldozed. In 2025, he tried to cancel nearly $5 billion in foreign aid—already approved by lawmakers—through a rare maneuver called a pocket rescission. He also deployed thousands of National Guard troops to cities such as Los Angeles and Chicago without the governor's consent. Courts later ruled these moves unlawful. He even fired independent agency officials at the Federal Trade Commission and other bodies, flouting statutory protections and claiming these actions proved executive leverage.
The reality, however, is more complex. Unlike the unilateral leverage Trump describes, real power is balanced by constitutional design. Courts have struck down several of his maneuvers, and even members of his own party questioned their legality. Congress retains the power of the purse, oversight authority, and the constitutional mandate to check executive overreach. Trump’s card-game metaphor focuses on unilateral action, whereas the constitutional system demands collaboration within shared powers. In truth, the cards are distributed by design in our Constitution, and democracy depends on respecting that principle.
Trump’s repeated use of the “holding the cards” metaphor may resonate with some as a symbol of dominance, but it ultimately fails to provide moral direction. Leadership is measured not by who bluffs or claims leverage, but by who upholds responsibility and principle.
Reducing governance to a card game overlooks the values that define America: freedom, trust, and a commitment to democratic institutions.
America needs leaders who play not just to win, but to serve the people and defend democratic values.
David Nevins is the publisher of The Fulcrum and co-founder and board chairman of the Bridge Alliance Education Fund.
A golden tray sits on the Resolute Desk as President Donald Trump speaks during an announcement on American nuclear innovation in the Oval Office at the White House on July 24, 2026, in Washington, D.C. Trump is signing multiple executive orders targeting the nuclear energy sector and easing rules for new reactors and nuclear fuel supply chains.
Trump’s hubris rivals the fallen heroes of ancient Greek mythology
In January, the New York Times asked President Donald Trump if there were any limits on his global powers.
“Yeah,” the president responded, “there is one thing. My own morality. My own mind. It’s the only thing that can stop me.”
That was eight months ago, but fortunately Christopher Nolan’s blockbuster adaptation of “The Odyssey” has made ancient Greek literature newly relevant. Before that window closes, I’d like to talk about hubris.
Today, the term mostly means excessive pride or arrogance. That’s part of what the Greeks meant by it too, but the meaning was a bit richer and more specific. Hubris was an insolent or outrageous act that offended the gods, often because the transgressor was claiming abilities or authorities that solely belonged to supreme beings.
Nolan renamed and slightly modified the concept of xenia for the film, calling it “Zeus’ law.” In the director’s telling, mortals should follow the rules laid out by the gods, specifically the requirement to treat strangers with respect lest they be gods in disguise.
In a sense, hubris is the opposite, or at least the rejection, of xenia. The hubris of the suitors, and at times Odysseus himself, invites punishment by the gods and their mortal instruments.
Which brings me back to Donald Trump. His claim that there are no constraints on his personal power to dictate events on the global stage was one of the greatest expressions of hubris ever uttered by a political leader.
Trump’s claim was obviously false when he made it.
He vowed that he could end the Russia-Ukraine war in 24 hours. He’s proved powerless to make that happen. If he had divine powers to work his will, why would he have balked at implementing his tariffs so often that Wall Street adopted the “TACO trade” term for his deals? “TACO” stands for “Trump always chickens out.”
And why would Trump have made so many embarrassing concessions to China — from rescinding tariffs on Chinese goods to allowing them to buy crucial and incredibly valuable computer chips?
But Trump saw his success at capturing Venezuelan strongman Nicolas Maduro as proof of his ability to launch missiles to the same effect as Zeus’ lightning bolts. Trump believed he was the most powerful man who ever lived.
This is no exaggeration. In March, when the Iran invasion seemed successful, Trump gave a document penned by“Presidential Historian David King” to New York Times reporters Maggie Haberman and Jonathan Swan purporting to prove that Trump was “the most powerful person to have EVER walked this planet.” King was, in fact, a businessman and occasional caddy for legendary golfer Gary Player.
King compared Trump favorably to many of history’s most powerful, and often heinous, figures: Alexander the Great, Attila the Hun, William the Conqueror, Napoleon Bonaparte, Joseph Stalin, Genghis Khan, Mao Tse Tung, Adolf Hitler and Vladimir Lenin. Many of these men thought they were the most powerful person in the world, too. And many were defeated precisely because they believed it.
At least Napoleon and Hitler had a string of truly impressive victories before they learned the folly of hubris. The limits on Trump’s power have been exposed by far less august forces than the combined might of the allies in World War II or the fearsome Russian winter.
Iran is a comparatively middling power. But the regime’s ability to absorb punishment while imposing its will on the Strait of Hormuz has proved to be a greater constraint on Trump’s power than his morality or mind. We should note that, at least rhetorically, his morality has not proved much of a constraint. He has repeatedly promised to destroy Iranian “civilization” if the regime refuses to capitulate.
But they haven’t — and won’t anytime soon — because the regime’s tolerance for pain far outstrips Trump’s. The combined fear of skyrocketing oil prices, outrage of Gulf state potentates, diminishing weapon supplies and domestic unpopularity is doing the work that international law, congressional oversight and the collective opinion of foreign policy experts can’t or won’t do.
If I considered Trump more heroic than reason and facts could allow, I would say his Sisyphean predicament has the whiff of Greek tragedy to it. Trump is vexed by the fact that the Iranians won’t honor deals or ratify his countless premature claims of victory — giving new meaning to his vow that his presidency would make people tired of winning. It’s almost like they’re out-Trumping Trump.
Things might have gone better if he’d heeded that great Greek tragedian Sophocles: “For Zeus utterly abhors the boasts of a proud tongue.”
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Jonah Goldberg is editor-in-chief of The Dispatch and the host of The Remnant podcast. His Twitter handle is @JonahDispatch.