Normalcy Bias vs. Alarmism: Wrestling with Reality in Trump’s Second Term

How do we know when its time to break glass and go full 'alarm' mode?

As I journey through Trump’s second term, trying constantly to gauge the level of threat to ‘normalcy’ as I understand it — I find myself struggling with two competing ideas.

One is that we’re doomed—that this country is on a downward spiral into authoritarianism and it’s just a matter of time—and maybe not much time—before democracy as we know it is replaced by something far more brittle, something a lot closer to Putin’s Russia or Orban’s Hungary. Surveillance. Retaliation. Illusionary elections. Strongman culture. Loyalty oaths and forced silence.

But then I think about it some more, take a breath, look at the magnificent institutional landscape that America has developed over 250 years, and I swing in the other direction: Maybe you’re being too alarmist. The courts, the press, the states—maybe they’re stronger than you think. Maybe the worst won’t happen. Maybe America still has enough inertia, enough built-in resistance, to survive even this.

So which is it?

1. What Is Normalcy Bias—and Am I Suffering from It?

Normalcy bias is the psychological tendency to underestimate the possibility—or even the reality—of a large-scale disruption because it hasn’t happened before, or because it would be too destabilizing to believe that it could. It’s not a fringe idea; it’s a well-documented behavior in crisis psychology.

In the words of Amanda Ripley, author of The Unthinkable: Who Survives When Disaster Strikes—and Why:

“Normalcy bias causes smart people to underestimate the seriousness of a crisis. Our instinct is to believe that everything is okay, because everything was okay a moment ago.”

And here’s the thing: normalcy bias feels calm, even rational. It whispers things like: “The guardrails are working.” “Yes, this is chaotic, but it’s survivable.” “This country has survived worse.” It tells you not to panic, not to be dramatic, not to “overreact.”

And sometimes it’s right.

But sometimes it's the voice that keeps you sitting in your chair while the building burns around you. It’s what made Parisians in 1940 believe Hitler would never actually march into the city. It’s what made people keep money in failing banks in 2008.

So I ask myself: Is this what's affecting my thinking when I reassure myself that the system will hold?

Is it rational trust in institutions—or denial of the moment?

2. The Cassandra Problem: When Seeing Clearly Looks Like Losing Your Mind

The flip side of normalcy bias is what I’ll call the Cassandra problem—after the Greek mythological figure cursed to see the future clearly, but never be believed. If you’ve read history, if you understand how fragile democratic norms can be, if you’ve seen how strongmen consolidate power step by step, then the current trajectory looks frighteningly familiar. It really, truly looks like we’re headed down the road that will lead to autocracy. And so you talk about it, write about it. When you raise these concerns, you’re often met with skepticism. Or worse, ridicule. Or a bored sigh. You get painted as a doomsayer. A conspiracy theorist. Someone who “just hates Trump.” A “TDS” sufferer. You wonder if you’re going too far with your critique an3. Reconciling the Two: How Do We Know If We’re Seeing Clearly?

So how do we tell the difference? How do we know whether we’re gripped by normalcy bias—or spiraling down the Cassandra hole?

It’s easy to drift between the two. One moment, you’re telling yourself to calm down, that America has weathered worse. The next, you’re wondering whether you’re the only one still hearing the smoke alarm.

Here’s one way to think about it:

• Normalcy bias downplays risk. It says, “Things will probably be fine—because they’ve always been fine.”

• Alarmism amplifies risk. It says, “Things are doomed—because the trajectory is terrible.”

The goal isn’t to find a false middle between those two. The goal is to find a method—a way of thinking that gives us clarity without paralysis.

A few things I’m trying to rely on to help work through this:

Historical Pattern Recognition

Are we seeing echoes of real-world authoritarian slides? Are we witnessing the same moves that past autocrats made in the years before they fully seized control? Not the dramatic parts—after democracy dies—but the lead-up. What did Hungary feel like in 2011? What did Venezuela feel like in 2000? What did Germany feel like in 1932?

Because that’s the zone we’re living in. And the more fluency we have in those patterns, the better we can map our own moment.

Institutional Indicators

Are the courts holding? Are journalists being silenced—or just ignored? Are watchdog agencies doing their jobs—or being gutted? Are career officials speaking out—or falling in line?

This is something we can track in real time. These are the guardrails. Watch what’s happening to them.

Not just the big crashes—look for the slow corrosion. The retirements. The chilling effects. The unspoken silences.

Scenario Planning

Don’t fall into the trap of focusing only on collapse or triumph—those are cinematic outcomes. Real change often comes as erosion.

Think in terms of plausible in-betweens. What does it look like if the traditional press (i.e. “legacy media”) isn’t shut down but becomes irrelevant? If elections still happen but only one side believes in them? If the courts still exist but become performative?

This isn’t about prepping for apocalypse. It’s about building cognitive flexibility for a landscape that may look “normal” while becoming fundamentally altered. Or not. How do you know?

IV. A Pledge to Stay Awake—But Not Unmoored

So here’s where I land, for now.

I don’t want to be lulled to sleep by normalcy bias. I don’t want to mistake the appearance of stability for the presence of safety. I don’t want to convince myself that “everything’s fine” just because the lights are still on and the institutions still have their nameplates.

But I also don’t want to live in a state of ambient panic—flinching at every headline, catastrophizing every move, wearing out the alarm bell so badly that no one hears it when it really counts.

So I’m going to try—really try—to evaluate this moment with discipline. I’ll watch the patterns. I’ll track the guardrails. I’ll study history, listen closely, and compare notes with people I respect—even when they see things differently.

I’ll do my best not to scream too early. I’ll do my best not to sleep through the smoke.

Because that’s the real fear, isn’t it?

That when the moment does come—when it’s finally time to break the glass and pull the alarm—I’ll be too numb, too jaded, or too late.

So this is my pledge: to stay awake. To stay aware. And to try, every day, to see clearly—not just what I fear, but what is.

Because if I ever have to raise my voice—really raise it—I want people to know I didn’t get there lightly.

The only question, then, will be:

Did I get there in time?