I first encountered Leszek Kołakowski, the Polish political thinker, as an undergraduate. It was he who warned of “an all-encompassing crisis” that societies can feel but cannot clearly name. His insight reads less like a relic of the late 1970s and more like a dispatch from our own political moment. We aren’t living through one breakdown, but a cascade of them—political, social, and technological—each amplifying the others. The result is a country where people feel burnt out, anxious, and increasingly unsure of where authority or stability can be found.
This crisis doesn’t have a single architect. Liberals can’t blame only Trump, and conservatives can’t pin everything on "wokeness." What we face is a convergence of powerful forces: decades of institutional drift, fractures in civic life, and technologies that reward emotions over understanding. These pressures compound one another, creating a sense of disorientation that older political labels fail to describe with the same accuracy as before.
For generations, the institutions that shaped everyday life acted as the community’s informal infrastructure, propping up society. Churches didn’t just offer a place to worship, but also offered childcare, shared meals, and weekly bingo nights that gave people a place to gather. Local newspapers kept residents informed about school tax referenda, zoning disputes, and neighborhood issues. Political party associations held fish fries and ward meetings where voters could meet the candidates seeking their support. Today, many of these anchors have thinned out or disappeared. A church that once ran a weekly food pantry shutters after membership declines. A small-town paper closes, leaving residents dependent on cable news and social‑media rumors. Local parties dissolve into little more than automated fundraising emails. Screens replace shared spaces, and as those real-world ties fade, so does the trust and connection they once made possible. None of this should surprise us—Neil Postman and Robert Putnam warned more than two decades ago that these civic foundations were eroding—and why--and that the consequences would be far-reaching.
That erosion leaves citizens mentally exhausted. Protest movements draw millions, but engagement rarely translates into sustained civic renewal. People show up in the streets, go home, and feel just as unmoored as before. The vocabulary of past ideological battles—left vs. right; big government vs. small—doesn’t capture the hollowing out of confidence that Kołakowski and others identified. This moment is about something deeper: a frayed sense of meaning. The connective tissue that once gave politics its purpose has worn thin.
Technology has accelerated this shift. What once promised connection now delivers outrage cycles instead. Social platforms sort people into warring tribes, reward the loudest voices, and spread half-truths faster than accurate reporting can catch up. Algorithms built to keep people engaged now drive wedges between them. Instead of broadening public debate, digital platforms splinter it into hostile enclaves. As misinformation grows easier to produce—thanks to AI-- and harder to correct, trust in both institutions and each other falls further.
Some remedies are already visible. Stronger privacy protections in Europe have curbed the most aggressive forms of surveillance advertising. Experiments that reduce the reach of engagement bait show real drops in viral misinformation. Several cities that invested in community journalism, public libraries, and adult media-literacy programs report higher turnout and more civic participation. These may be small steps, but they show how concrete local initiatives can rebuild public life.
At the national level, the work begins with restoring competence and clarity to the federal government. Congress can reestablish its role by passing a real data privacy law, strengthening oversight of digital platforms, and updating antitrust rules so a handful of companies cannot dominate public discourse. The White House can improve public confidence by speaking consistently, limiting policy whiplash, and giving agencies the stability they need to do their jobs. The courts can help by strengthening judicial ethics rules and explaining major decisions more clearly, closing the distance between legal reasoning and public understanding.
Trust grows when institutions do what they claim to do. People notice when benefits arrive on time, when rules are applied evenly, and when large projects move forward without years of delay. Visible competence matters. It’s one of the few things that reliably cuts through polarization.
But the deeper work to be done concerns meaning. No policy—however well-crafted—can endure without a public that believes in the institutions carrying it out. Technology transformed how Americans live together; now those institutions must shape the conditions under which technology operates. They must reward behaviors that strengthen the civic commons rather than erode them. And they must do so in a way that benefits ordinary people, not just the already powerful.
Kołakowski’s point remains as urgent now as it was then: a crisis without a name is still a crisis. The task ahead is more than fixing broken systems. It is rebuilding a politics capable of producing meaning rather than noise—one that encourages people to trust one another enough to act together. If we fail at that, the crisis will no longer be unnamed. It will simply feel permanent.
Robert Cropf is a Professor of Political Science at Saint Louis University.
