He’s the kind of man you’d want as a neighbor in a storm.

Big guy. Strong hands. The person you’d call if your car slid into a ditch. He lives rural, works hard, supports a wife and young son, and helps care for his aging mom. Life has not been easy, but he shows up anyway.

He doesn’t vote anymore—because he’s convinced it doesn’t matter. In his early 40s, his entire adult life has seen unjust wars, economic crashes, shutdowns, culture wars, and endless partisan screaming. To him, the government isn’t broken; it’s rigged. Over dinner, his worldview became clear.

He thinks Trump won the 2020 election.
He’s sure all government is corrupt.
He leans libertarian and trusts almost no institution.

He is my friend. As he talked, two stories wrestled inside me:

One said, “He’s been brainwashed.”
The other whispered, “And you haven’t?”

It would be easy to diagnose him from a distance: He’s swallowed propaganda. He’s in an alt-right echo chamber. He’s been targeted by Christian Nationalist rhetoric, even though he is atheist.

There’s some truth there. He seeks out voices that confirm his belief that the government is bad. He trusts outsiders over “the establishment.” Stories of stolen elections fit neatly into his conviction that elites will do anything to keep power.

From where I stand, I see something else layered on top: media companies that profit from outrage, political operatives who stoke fear, a disinformation machine that keeps people angry and exhausted. That steals our hope for a brighter future. My instinct is not to join the outrage, but to zoom out and ask: What kind of system produces this? Who benefits when he feels this hopeless and certain at the same time?

Still, as I listened, another truth nudged me: I’m shaped by stories and systems, too.

The Water We’re Both Swimming In

His media diet leans independent, anti-establishment, suspicious of government. I curate mine toward analysis and civic health: people who study democracy, institutions, and polarization. I’m less drawn to fiery takedowns and more drawn to frameworks and “how did we get here so we can chart a course out?”

But my preference is also a lens.

He is primed to mistrust the government as such.
I am primed to mistrust anything that smells like strongman rule or zero-sum politics.

He looks at the same chaos and sees proof that the state is the problem.
I look and see incentives and feedback loops that are breaking trust at scale.

From the inside, both positions feel obvious. That’s the trick with “brainwashed.” It suggests there are only two types of people: the duped and the clear-eyed—and we always put ourselves in the clear-eyed group.

In truth, neither of us has access to “all the facts.” We each see through a narrow lens: shaped by experience, media, class, fear, hope—and, in my case, a strong commitment to systems-level explanations that can also become their own kind of comfort.

He’s Never Seen Government at Its Best

He hasn’t experienced a period where the government feels competent and trustworthy. He’s watched distant leaders shout and posture while his own life has remained precarious. When he says “they’re all corrupt,” he’s not trying to be edgy. He’s describing what it looks like from where he sits: working hard, struggling to get ahead, watching politicians parse words while nothing changes. From that vantage point, “the whole thing is rotten” sounds like realism. And if the game is rigged, why bother to vote?

Listening Past the Talking Points

If I focus only on his claims, I want to reach for data and court rulings. If I listen underneath, I hear:

• exhaustion from years of financial strain,
• the stress of caregiving,
• fear of failing his family,
• a deep sense that nobody in power really cares.

Those feelings are not solved by fact-checking.

I did, at times, say, “That’s not true,” or “I see that differently,” especially around the 2020 election. I’m not interested in pretending conspiracy theories are just another “side.” Shared reality matters.

But I also didn’t want to turn our time together into another unwinnable debate. We changed the subject. Later, I wished I had these questions ready instead:

• When did the government stop being for people like you?
• What would a government you could trust look like?
• What would have to change for you to feel hopeful about society again?

Questions like these could help me stay in the conversation we, as a nation, desperately need to have.

Admitting I’m Not Immune

Here’s the part my ego resists: I like to think my system's view keeps me centered and unbiased, “above the fray.” I don’t marinate in outrage. I try not to have “a side” so much as a long view: What keeps a society healthy? What breaks it down? Who’s gaming the system? How do we upgrade it to something better for all?

But that, too, can become its own story:

• that I am the observer, not the participant,
• that I see the game more clearly than the players,
• that my distance protects me from being captured.

It doesn’t.

I still choose which analyses to trust. I still lean toward explanations that fit my sense of how power and polarization work. I still inhabit a world where people with my outlook reassure one another that we are the reasonable ones. And sometimes, I use my systems overview as an excuse not to take action with friends and family.

If I refuse to see this, then “brainwashed” as a label becomes a moral insult I hurl outward instead of a human vulnerability we all share.

Maybe the more honest framing is:

• We are all persuadable.
• We are all limited.
• We are all swimming in polluted information waters—and in systems that reward simplistic stories.

The question isn’t “Are we brainwashed or not?” It’s, “Are we willing to question our own lens, comforting facts and biases as seriously as we question others?”

Holding My Line, Keeping the Connection

None of this means I abandon what I believe.

I don’t think the 2020 election was stolen.
I still believe some form of shared, accountable government is necessary.
I still see rising authoritarianism and contempt for pluralism as serious threats.

But I am experimenting with a different stance:

• I can hold my line without cutting him off.
• I can disagree deeply without deciding he’s my enemy.
• I can name harm without reducing him to the worst thing he’s said.

For him, not voting feels like self-respect in a rigged game.
For me, participation—including voting—is one way to keep systems responsive and reformable.

We’re both trying, in our own way, to protect what we love in a world that often feels like it’s coming apart.

Maybe the Divide Isn’t What We Think

Maybe the real divide isn’t between the brainwashed and the clear-eyed.

Maybe it’s between people who only question everyone else’s stories and people willing to question their own—and the systems that generate those stories in the first place.

My friend and I see different villains and different paths forward. But we share something: we’re both trying to make sense of a noisy, manipulative world with very human, very limited minds.

I don’t know exactly how we heal a country like ours. But I suspect it won’t start with writing each other off as lost causes.

It might begin with something smaller and harder:

• admitting none of us has all the information,
• remembering that we are each shaped by forces we can’t fully see,
• noticing how entire systems steer us toward certain conclusions,
• and choosing, anyway, to stay in relationship with the people we love, even when their stories clash with our own.

That choice won’t fix our democracy overnight.

But it might keep a crack in the door—just wide enough for something more honest, more systemic, and more human to get through.

Loving Someone Who Thinks the Election Was Stolen was originally published on Debilyn Molineaux's Substack and republished with permission.

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