Tim Miller sensed the Republican Party was changing well before the rise of the current president. As a former staffer and big supporter of the 2008 John McCain campaign, he watched as vice presidential nominee Sarah Palin stumbled through Katie Couric’s foreign policy questions in a now-infamous interview. More unsettling to Miller, then in his 20s, was how quickly Palin’s populist appeal shifted the tone of the campaign, veering into what many saw as grievance-driven politics more interested in division than persuasion.
“I felt very out of place then,” says Miller, a former Republican strategist and MSNBC contributor. As Miller became more immersed in Republican campaign politics, his sense of alienation from the party he idealized growing up only deepened.
Raised in Littleton, Colorado, Miller came of age with a vision of the Republican Party as a beacon of values that made America what it was: a nation that respected individual rights and the rule of law, embraced immigrants, and prized leadership rooted in character. As a teenager, he got goosebumps watching Bob Dole’s Republican National Convention speech and carried around a pocket Constitution. He got his first rush of winning on the campaign of Colorado gubernatorial candidate Bill Owens, where he worked on weekends as an earnest 16-year-old intern.
As Miller climbed the ranks of Republican campaign politics, relishing the competition, he witnessed the party shift from the pragmatic conservatism of the George W. Bush and McCain era to today’s populist, anti-establishment fervor, driven by what he saw as inflammatory rhetoric, a casual disregard for truth, and a growing tolerance for conspiracy theories.
Even as his disenchantment deepened, Miller believed he could help steer the party back to a principled, reality-based conservatism. In 2011, he went to work for Jon Huntsman Jr., the former moderate Utah governor, then running for the Republican presidential nomination. “I thought I could be part of the fight to bring the GOP back from the brink,” Miller wrote in his 2022 memoir “Why We Did It,” which chronicles how the class of Republican elites, himself included, paved the way for Donald Trump’s rise. After working as communications director for Jeb Bush’s failed 2016 presidential campaign, Miller became a vocal critic of the reality TV star who had clinched the Republican nomination. In one TV interview after another — then as part of anti-Trump Republican group Our Principles PAC — Miller sparred with Trump supporters and warned of the dangers of the candidate’s potential presidency.’
Political identity is no longer shaped primarily by party elites or legacy media, but by a decentralized, fast-moving online ecosystem.
On Nov. 8, 2016, the Election Day that ended with Trump’s win over Hillary Clinton, Miller had a panic attack. The following morning, for the first time in years, he went to church for a reason other than making his mother happy. As Trump’s first presidency unfolded, supporting the Republican Party felt like betrayal of the values that had drawn him to it in the first place. As his political tribe became increasingly unrecognizable, he went looking for a new one.
For the past six years, The Bulwark, an independent media outlet first launched in 2018 as a refuge for Republicans disillusioned by Trump’s takeover of the GOP, has become Miller’s political and professional base. From his home studio in Louisiana, he reacts daily to a stream of executive actions he views as deeply alarming: mass deportations without due process, overtures to Russian President Vladimir Putin amid relentless attacks on Ukraine, destabilizing tariffs, crypto schemes and defiance of Supreme Court rulings. Miller’s bewildered expressions and theatrical eye rolls have become a signature of “The Bulwark Podcast” — a visual shorthand for a party, and a nation, unraveling.
As Trump reshaped the Republican Party with his brand of populism, The Bulwark became a hub for conservatives who rejected their party’s direction but also felt unrepresented by the establishment Democrats — emerging alongside other pro-democracy, center-right media like the viral Lincoln Project and the analysis-focused Dispatch, all pushing back against the collapse of traditional conservatism. Even among those who once resisted him during the 2016 campaign, Republican opposition to Trump has largely vanished since he first came to power.
That resistance may be regaining traction, and The Bulwark is helping to harness the momentum. In six years, what began as an aggregator news site for Never Trump Republicans has grown into a robust independent media operation. In the past year, it added over a million subscribers on YouTube, now totaling 1.5 million, and has more than 882,000 Substack subscribers, with over 108,000 of them paid. In the last 12 months alone, Substack subscriptions have more than doubled. And the offerings are abundant: Under The Bulwark brand, there are nine newsletters and 14 podcasts, with new content arriving in the inbox multiple times a day.
The headlines scream for attention: “Trump’s BIGGEST Grift Yet — We Have RECEIPTS!” and “‘No MAGA Left Behind’?! Trump’s Pardons Are a Corrupt Free-For-All.” But there’s substance behind them. The day after the news broke that The Atlantic’s editor-in-chief Jeffrey Goldberg was inadvertently included in a Signal chat by now-ousted national security adviser Mike Waltz, Miller had Goldberg on The Bulwark’s eponymous flagship podcast. In a recent effort to understand MAGA-minded youth, Miller and his “For You Pod” co-host Cameron Kasky interviewed Natalie Winters, the 24-year-old protégé of former Trump strategist Steve Bannon. The newsletters teem with original reporting by journalists recruited from Politico and The Washington Post.
The hunger for what The Bulwark offers comes amid seismic political shifts, blurring traditional definitions of liberal and conservative, Democrat and Republican. As these familiar identities are reimagined, The Bulwark has stepped into the void left by a party that has drifted from its Reagan- and Bush-era conservatism — leaving many traditional conservatives feeling politically unmoored. “The Bulwark is a voice of a Republican Party that dominated Republican politics for 50 years — that was principled, (supported) small government, strong defense, strong individual rights and that was more interested in doing than showing,” says Peter Loge, the director of the School of Media and Public Affairs at George Washington University. “It’s articulating values and ideas that I think people largely share.”
The Bulwark has stepped into the void left by a Republican Party that has drifted from its Reagan and Bush-era conservatism — leaving many of its former supporters politically unmoored.
And it’s doing it in ways that people can relate to. As audiences flee traditional media for more personal, conversational formats, The Bulwark’s emotionally tinged commentary, streamed from the hosts’ homes, offers a more relatable alternative to the polish of mainstream news. “These strangers are in your bedroom — it feels like you’re interacting with them,” says Loge. “They’re clever, funny, smart, a bit snarky. They’re not an old man yelling at the clouds.” One listener compared “The Next Level” podcast, co-hosted by Miller, to “cathartic therapy sessions.”
Although hosts disagree on policies — and they’ll banter about it on air — The Bulwark sees its overarching ethos rooted in one singular and urgent concern: the threat the current administration poses to America’s liberal democracy. “Everyone speaks for themselves, but at our core, we will not do blocking, tackling, or water carrying for Donald Trump and who he is,” Sarah Longwell, publisher and founder of The Bulwark, told me. Neither is the outlet bogged down by conventional political binaries. “I don’t care so much about right or left,” Longwell explained during our conversation in her Washington, D.C., office, her hand lightly pounding on the table to emphasize the point. She also runs a political communications firm, Longwell Partners, which shares the office with The Bulwark staff. “I care about up and down, I care about right or wrong.” Today, the outlet operates as a for-profit, funded entirely through subscriptions and advertising. Back in The Bulwark’s early days as a nonprofit, its donors included the likes of James and Kathryn Murdoch, the relatively more left-leaning son and daughter-in-law of conservative media mogul Rupert Murdoch.
In a media ecosystem increasingly defined by ideological silos, The Bulwark has positioned itself as a moderate, principles-over-party alternative — offering a middle ground between left-wing “Pod Save America” and the right-wing Daily Wire. And while it’s vehemently opposed to Trump, it’s also more than willing to call out the left. For instance, Longwell and Miller called on then-President Joe Biden to step down and criticized the abrupt evacuation from Afghanistan. On The Bulwark subreddit, one fan, who described themselves as “leftist,” wrote: “I honestly don’t agree with almost any of your politics but I find myself listening to you more than any other news source. I need someone who sees the threat and isn’t bogged down in party loyalty or purity tests.”
In this sense, The Bulwark aims to be something more than just another outlet of resistance, but a community that harnesses the postpartisan energy to imagine a future that no longer includes reviving the Republican Party of the past. “I just believe that the conservative project that at the time we all believed in isn’t coming back,” Longwell said. “That party is gone.”
But the very success that has turned The Bulwark into a media force also raises a thorny question: Who exactly is listening? Are these still conservatives searching for a political home — or mostly Democrats who find solace in hearing former Republicans roast the party they left behind?
The meeting of the concerned
In 2017, Sarah Longwell joined an invite-only group that met in the basement of the CNN building near the Capitol — “the meeting of the concerned,” as the participants called it. Hosted by the Niskanen Center, a libertarian think tank, the crew included prominent conservatives, including Bill Kristol, the co-founder of the Weekly Standard, a now-defunct conservative publication that took an anti-Trump stance, as well as Mona Charen, a columnist who worked in the Reagan administration, and now hosts a podcast on The Bulwark. “That’s exactly what it was — a bunch of conservatives, who were concerned,” says Longwell, who describes her pre-Trump political identity as an old-school Republican “squish,” a jargon term used by stringent conservatives to describe the moderates in their ranks.
Longwell recalled getting agitated in one of the meetings over lots of talk and not enough action on the part of the group. She still believed she could steer the Republican Party back to the vision closer to the one embodied by Mitt Romney and John McCain. “Let’s do something,” she interjected. When Kristol, also in the room, asked what it was that they should do, Longwell suggested: “Well, you’re Bill Kristol, you’re famous.” Kristol, the son of renowned neoconservative Irving Kristol, gained prominence during the 1990s as a Republican strategist and neoconservative intellectual who defended the 2003 invasion of Iraq. Longwell and Kristol soon began meeting for tea or drinks at the Madison Hotel in D.C., half a mile from the White House (the hotel has since been rebranded to Le Méridien). Longwell’s big idea then was to recruit an independent candidate to run against Trump in the primary. Kristol had attempted this in 2016: he had approached Mitt Romney, Nebraska Sen. Ben Sasse and even lawyer David French, who was at the time a National Review writer and is now a columnist at The New York Times. (Eventually Utahn and former CIA officer Evan McMullin, who called himself “the opposite of Trump,” agreed to run but made little national impact.)
To convince candidates they could beat Trump — and to make sense of what voters thought of him — Longwell started holding focus groups. The first round was especially eye-opening, she says. “One thing I remember totally missing was how much people wanted someone who was not a regular politician and also how many people had watched ‘The Apprentice,’” Longwell told me. She’d never seen “The Apprentice.” Despite some objections to Trump’s character, voters were drawn to his promise of disruption, and they just felt like they knew him. “There was reticence, but they just hated Hillary Clinton more.”
Although Kristol and Longwell were unable to recruit a challenger to Donald Trump for the 2020 election, they joined forces on other ventures. Republicans for the Rule of Law, which they launched during the Mueller investigation, tries to protect legal proceedings from political interference — an initiative that’s part of their joint organization Defending Democracy Together. The partnership also led to The Bulwark.
In 2018, tensions between Kristol’s publication The Weekly Standard and its parent company, Clarity Media Group, came to a head over the magazine’s critical coverage of Trump, ultimately leading to its shutdown. Kristol turned to Longwell for help. “He said: ‘Can you help my friends? All these kids just lost their jobs,’” Longwell recalls.
The Bulwark soon absorbed several Weekly Standard staff, including editors Charlie Sykes, Jim Swift and Jonathan V. Last, who goes by JVL. And Longwell, for her part, tapped a longtime friend of her own.
Miller’s breaking point
During his years as a republican operative, Tim Miller developed what he later described as “championship-level compartmentalization,” a mental skill that allowed him to rationalize behavior he knew, deep down, was corrosive. This inner conflict was amplified by a more personal struggle around reconciling what it meant to be a gay man within a party that largely opposed same-sex marriage.
Intoxicated by “the game” of politics, he had thrown himself into opposition research and smear campaigns, targeting fellow Republicans like Mitt Romney, and helped shape a political culture that rewarded outrage, fear, and performative loyalty over honest debate and principled leadership. In his book, Miller describes how these tactics weren’t just tolerated but were celebrated within GOP circles. This kind of cynical, win-at-all-costs politics helped enable forces that led to Donald Trump’s power, he writes. But as Miller began to feel increasingly alienated from the Republican Party, many of his closest friends remained entrenched within it: “At first gradually, and then suddenly, nearly all of us decided to go along.”
Miller’s breaking point came in 2020 when Trump sought to overturn the election and maintained false claims of widespread voter fraud. Though speaking out against fellow Republicans drew media attention at the time, Miller wasn’t interested in any of it. “I just didn’t want to be that person anymore,” Miller told me. “I wanted to be honest with people about where I was at mentally and ideologically.”
In a Bulwark post that year, Miller announced his public resignation from the Republican Party. Trump’s victory, he wrote, reshaped the political priorities and values he once took for granted like protecting free and fair elections, supporting pluralism and religious freedom, and upholding the rule of law. “As it turns out, my old party was on the wrong side of basically all of those,” he wrote.
Leaving the Republican Party felt like ending a “toxic” relationship, but it also meant losing a core part of his identity. “You kind of put on that jersey and that did define you — you were part of a team in Washington,” Miller told me. What was he if he wasn’t a “Republican PR flack” guy? The party divorce fractured his social and professional networks. He described getting emotional, hearing other former Republicans talking about the loss of a tribe, when they voted for a Democrat. But he was unwavering. Around that time, Miller considered leaving politics altogether. He even interviewed for a public relations job for the Los Angeles Lakers, before finding a new home at The Bulwark.
“The democracy they’re trying to protect is one defined by their class, their access, and a political status quo that has already failed millions of people.”
His raw and unscripted style is now central to the appeal of the media outlet. “Taking it as a whole, the story continues to be the most outrageous … thing that happened during Trump 2.0,” he said on camera after watching a “60 Minutes” segment about the White House’s deportation of over 200 Venezuelans to a maximum-security prison in El Salvador. His forehead furrowed, eyes narrowing in a mix of disbelief and revulsion. “Something that is beyond comprehension in a free country, something that is maybe among the worst things that this country has done in a long time.”
Ideologically, Miller describes himself as part of a broad, heterodox center with a mix of views that align with both Maryland Gov. Wes Moore, a moderate Democrat and a recent guest on Miller’s podcast, and moderate Republicans like Utah Gov. Spencer Cox — as long as he doesn’t cozy up to Trump, he clarifies. “I see myself in that broad middle,” says Miller, who was heading to Coachella the day after we spoke (he’s a big music buff and features his favorite artists in his episodes’ outro music). Miller’s fans may share his small “l” liberal outlook, he says, even while disagreeing with him on policy — all united by a desire for straightforward, unfiltered analysis. Among The Bulwark listeners are “red dog Democrats,” former Republicans who now vote Democrat, and more “swingy-ish” voters, as Longwell put it, a decisive minority she hopes to persuade. “We want our influence to be that people care about preserving the American experiment,” Longwell says.
A bulwark or a failure?
For all its success, The Bulwark can also be read as a kind of failure. After all, The Bulwark never intended to be just another niche media brand, cranking out newsletters and podcasts. Its ambitions were much larger. The point of all the chatter, all the eye rolls and snark and late-night recordings, was to serve as a bulwark — literally — against the destruction of American democracy. Or as they saw it, to stop Donald Trump.
And on that score, it has failed. Trump is more powerful than ever before. During his first term, The Bulwark trained its fire on particular figures — Stephen Miller, Steve Bannon — with the hope that public shaming might force the administration to cut them loose. Not only were those efforts ignored, the same cast of characters is now circling back with even more influence. If the goal was to protect the GOP from Trump or protect the country from Trumpism, The Bulwark has done neither.
This leads to a deeper question. Who, exactly, is The Bulwark speaking to now? Its audience numbers are undeniable, but are those listeners truly conservatives looking for a political home? Or are they mostly frustrated Republicans, Democrats and independents who have found in Miller and his colleagues a kind of cathartic entertainment — a place to laugh, fume, and process the daily outrages of the Trump era with people who know the GOP from the inside? The risk is that The Bulwark has become less a conservative voice than a community of Never Trumpers.
The irony is hard to miss: in trying to defend conservatism from Trump, The Bulwark may have lost its ability to speak as conservatives at all.
Parasocial politics
On a recent Thursday evening, about 3,500 subscribers tuned in for an Ask Me Anything session with Longwell, Miller and Last, their heads forming a triptych on the screen. The chat flashed with a stream of questions and fan comments: “my favorite trio,” “What to make of Trump moving Waltz to the U.N.?” and: “Why do I have a crush on so many Bulwark hosts?”
This parasocial familiarity — where the audience feels like they personally know their hosts — and the emotional connection it creates makes The Bulwark a compelling alternative to the stiffness of the mainstream news. For similar reasons, shows like “Pod Save America,” “The Fifth Column,” “The Ben Shapiro Show” and “Chapo Trap House” have attracted large and loyal followings. Today nearly a third of Americans get their news from YouTube regularly, according to Pew Research Center. (About 20 percent turn to Instagram for news and 17 percent to TikTok.) An early adopter of Substack, The Bulwark began expanding its YouTube content “to meet people on the platforms where they are,” Longwell says.
That emotional bond helps drive the engagement. To the Bulwark fans, the new political reality is less about party loyalty and more about personal alignment with voices that feel resonant and authentic. “People are drawn to the nonpolitical qualities of these YouTubers — their voice, whether they have a jerk-like persona,” says Reece Peck, associate professor of media culture at the College of Staten Island at CUNY, who is working on a book about political YouTube. “They start off just interested in their style and their performance. But then once they establish that bond, that parasocial bond, they start to adopt their policy positions.”
The AMA that night kicked off with a question from a woman named Hillary, who wondered what the post-Trump era could look like. Longwell laid out her vision for getting there — driving Trump’s approval ratings to 32 percent, a threshold she considers “failure territory.” That kind of shift, she argues, could fracture Republican loyalty and diminish Trump’s grip on the party. To speed up the downfall, she wants voters to share their “negative personal consequences” — stories of how Trump-era policies have affected their lives, from job loss to rising grocery bills to missed medical treatments due to halted research. “I think (the Republicans) become a shell of a party once he’s gone,” said Longwell.
Someone asked whether starting a third party could be a viable way to challenge Trump. “It’s so cute, I love it,” Miller chuckled and smiled. “It’s a classic Q&A question.” It’s a long shot, he went on, and offered a few ideas, including a rare outsider candidate, a “unicorn” with broad, cross-cutting appeal. “The third party is not a thing,” Longwell said, noting that the two parties are too dominant for a third-party alternative.
What makes these Republican strategists-
turned-analysts great YouTube performers is a kind of pugilistic and hard-nosed edge, says Peck. “They are a little more bullish and more in tune with your normie, average voter,” he told me.
But the portrait of the average Republican voter today has changed with Trump’s scrambling of traditional party coalitions. The GOP, once the party of business and the educated, has become increasingly working-class and racially diverse, while Democrats have grown more reliant on affluent, highly educated voters — many of them former suburban Republicans. One Bulwark subscriber, who identifies as “center-left,” told me that he’s found helpful checks from The Bulwark on the Democratic Party that helped him “nuance his own thoughts and opinions more.”
“The crisis isn’t just about Trump. It’s also about the system that produced him — a system they still serve.”
Yet some see serious blind spots. Evelyn Quartz — a former Capitol Hill staffer who also served as a press secretary at the Lincoln Project — argues that the juggernauts of the pro-democracy centrist movement, including The Bulwark, are promoting a narrow version of democracy that seeks to maintain existing power structures that benefit elites, rather than confronting the deeper systemic failures that have eroded public trust and that enabled Trump’s rise in the first place.
“The democracy they’re trying to protect is one defined by their class, their access, and a political status quo that has already failed millions of people,” Quartz says. In her piece titled “Why the ‘Pro-Democracy’ Center Can’t Save America,” published in Compact, a cross-ideological magazine, she writes that The Bulwark “now functions as a content mill for elite self-reassurance.” While she doesn’t question the sincerity of The Bulwark’s efforts, she writes, “beneath that moral clarity is a problem they can’t — or won’t — admit: The crisis isn’t just about Trump. It’s also about the system that produced him — a system they still serve.”
What The Bulwark offers is “crisis management designed to help the same people in charge,” Quartz told me, rather than a vision. A real path forward, she said, would be dismantling the institutions that have concentrated wealth, shielded elites and eroded public trust. “I’m not talking about abandoning democracy — I’m talking about refusing to preserve systems that protect the powerful while failing everyone else,” Quartz said.
But Longwell rejects the idea that The Bulwark doesn’t interrogate the system that gave rise to Trump — across platforms, she says, the conversations have consistently grappled with the economic and cultural forces that preceded him, like inequality, protectionism and exhaustion with the status quo. Her ongoing weekly focus groups explore why people voted for Trump. “If you engage with The Bulwark, nobody has done more wrestling with conditions that gave rise to Trump and rethinking their priors,” she said in response to Quartz’s critique. Longwell acknowledges that the early pro-democracy efforts risked being seen as defending the status quo, a kind of resistance that wasn’t ultimately sustainable. Neither was the “Never Trump” label, once central to the outlet’s identity. “The term was useful when Trump was still an aberration — a shock to the system,” says Longwell. “It is no longer useful when Trump is the party, and the whole party is trying to be like him.”
Although preserving “bedrock principles” is driven by a conservative instinct, The Bulwark’s vision, she insists, is not trapped in nostalgia. Instead, Longwell, who no longer identifies as a Republican and says she isn’t “tribally attached,” wants The Bulwark to be a place that moves beyond partisan reflexes to something more constructive and future-focused. “ Lots of people voted for Donald Trump because they think he transcends politics,” she told me. “I want to transcend politics. I want to transcend the quaint, older versions of right or left. And I want us to get to a place where we’re thinking — if Trump’s going to tear it all down, what are we going to build next?”
Reading the polls
By the end of April, a hundred days into Trump’s second presidency, Trump’s approval rating had sunk to 42 percent, with disapproval rating hitting 54 percent, according to The New York Times-Sienna poll. It marked the lowest approval for any president at this point in a term in more than 80 years. His economic approval rating was especially weak at 42 percent, driven by voter concerns over high prices and his aggressive use of tariffs. Immigration, though still a divisive issue, showed somewhat stronger approval.
“A little bit (of) cold comfort for many of you and I know for us here,” Miller announced on the podcast. And while the polls fluctuate, the “historically ugly across the board” numbers might affect how Republicans think and act toward Trump. “The question is, how ugly does it need to get before you see a change in behavior?”
Miller and Kristol dove into the poll on the weekly Monday podcast they co-host. In addition to driving down Trump’s approval ratings, Kristol said, it’s about recruiting local candidates who would be a better match for the broader political makeup of the state or district, as opposed to defaulting to the usual candidates like a local party insider who may win the nomination but lose in the general election. He summed it up this way: “Recruiting good candidates and driving Trump’s numbers down are very — I don’t know if they’re achievable goals, but they’re very … concrete goals.”
Miller couldn’t resist offering advice for candidates running in red states: pick a cultural issue of disagreement with the Democratic Party and “talk about it a lot.” Highlighting that difference, he says, gives voters a local figure to connect with — rather than associating them with national Democrats — and can open the door to electoral success.
I asked Kristol if he still considers himself a conservative today. “I do in some senses of that word,” he said. He was never 100 percent conservative, anyway, he said, and most people tend to combine some measure of conservatism and liberalism. He’s still attached to the philosophical notion of conservatism, rooted in skepticism of rapid change, respect for tradition and wariness of left-wing utopianism. However, in practical politics, most of what is called conservatism today has been overtaken by Trump. “If 90 percent of the elected officials who say they’re conservative are de facto Trumpist, it becomes a little academic … to insist on the distinction.”
Kristol, who voted for Kamala Harris in 2024, said he feels comfortable in much of the Democratic Party today, at least where he lives in Virginia. In the 2025 gubernatorial race, Kristol is supporting Democratic candidate Abigail Spanberger, a former congresswoman and CIA officer. “I think the idea that if you’re a conservative, you just pull the Republican lever automatically, I think that’s now a mistake,” Kristol said. Longtime conservatives should “at least consider” voting for Democrats, he advises, at least some of the time.
He envisions a post-MAGA Republican Party led by figures like Liz Cheney, Mitt Romney and Adam Kinzinger, focused on strong foreign policy and a commitment to America’s role as a global democratic leader. Economically, it would champion free markets and entrepreneurship while embracing pragmatic regulation, shifting the conversation away from extremes toward sensible debates on taxes, governance and growth.
The familiar identities and labels hold a powerful pull, so I wanted to know what it would take for Miller to feel at home in the Democratic Party. He immediately directed me to the photo on Instagram of him with his daughter beaming after voting for Harris — the “easiest vote” he’s ever cast. “I don’t know.” He pauses. “My experience is just different than other peoples’. I voted for people I disagreed with my whole life.” He was never a strict ideologue, identifying more with the “small-c” conservatism of thinkers like Michael Oakeshott, a British philosopher who championed measured, incremental progress rather than sweeping radical change. “That’s where I’m at,” he says. As for whether he’d formally switch parties, he’s more circumspect: In politics, “we’re trying to do the best we can with the choices we have and make sensible decisions,” he said. “Currently, my focus is on the acute threat of Trump and doing everything I can to sound the alarm.”
This story appears in the October 2025 issue of Deseret Magazine. Learn more about how to subscribe.