Not a Fan, Not a Follower—Just Curious

What Donald Trump Can Teach Us About Performance, Ego, and the People We Represent

This isn’t about politics.

I’m not interested in debating policy or pledging allegiance to a party.

What I am interested in is something I see over and over in my own life—and in others, whether they recognize it or not.

It’s the way certain people run on a performance-based processor.

It’s not driven by peace.

Not even by money, necessarily.

It’s driven by output. By representation. By proof.

I’ve been there.

The year I made nearly $400,000 in real estate, I was in it heavy.

I wasn’t just helping people buy houses—I was representing them.

They were my clients. My Ward.

Their success was my honor. Their protection was personal.

And when you’re wired like that—you don’t coast.

You carry.

Not because someone asked you to.

But because you don’t know how to do it any other way.

That’s the lens I view Donald Trump through.

Not through cable news, headlines, or hot takes.

But through the lens of someone who recognizes the driving system behind the personality.

He’s not operating from emotional integration.

He’s operating from legacy-based performance.

That kind of performance isn’t about applause.

It’s about proving something.

And not just to others.

To himself.

“I will show you what I can do.

I will take you further than anyone else could.

And I will leave a mark so deep you can’t pretend I wasn’t here.”

It’s not humble.

But it’s not hollow either.

This is where people get confused.

They say he’s arrogant. A narcissist. A megalomaniac.

And sure—there’s ego. There’s always ego in power.

But I think what they’re really reacting to…

is the fact that his ego isn’t hiding.

It’s visible. Operative. Active.

And that makes people uncomfortable—

because it mirrors something inside them that they’ve never dared look at.

When someone walks into a room with unfiltered ego,

most people’s systems go into revolt.

Because most of us spend our lives performing humility.

Masking our hunger.

Hiding how badly we want to win.

When Trump speaks, he doesn’t play that game.

He doesn’t soften his ambition.

He doesn’t massage the message.

And whether you love him or loathe him,

the reaction he causes has almost nothing to do with the words on the page—

and everything to do with what he awakens in the collective nervous system.

What fascinates me isn’t him.

It’s what we project onto him.

What we call “evil” might just be undigested ego at full volume.

What we call “dangerous” might be our fear of unchecked ambition.

And what we call “dishonorable” might actually be… honor. In a different language.

Because here’s what I’ve noticed:

When someone feels responsible for others—

like really responsible—

they carry it.

Hard.

And when you carry people, they’re no longer just clients.

They’re no longer just voters or followers or buyers.

They become representations of your own character.

“You’re under my name.

You’re my charge.

I protect you not because it’s expected…

but because it proves who I am.”

That’s not fake morality.

It’s not always noble.

But it’s real.

I believe that’s what drives Trump.

And others like him.

And to be honest? I relate to it.

Not because I align with his style.

Not because I agree with all his choices.

But because I understand the processor he’s running.

He doesn’t need you to like him.

He needs you to feel what he built.

He sees the people who follow him not as accessories…

but as evidence.

Proof.

Legacy.

That might terrify some.

But for those of us who’ve lived that processor—

we know:

It’s not performance for show.

It’s performance as proof of life.

The Mirror Moment

I see this same processor in my own life—not just in business or creativity, but in parenthood.

There’s something that flips inside me when my kids need something.

It’s not logic. It’s not convenience.

It’s activation.

Suddenly, I am the bridge.

The negotiator. The shield. The translator.

Whatever it takes—I become the thing that gets them what they need.

Whether it’s finding them a friend, shielding them from a threat, or just showing them how to move through the world—

it’s not about control.

It’s about representation.

And the thing that breaks my heart?

Most people don’t even think about it like that.

We’re so busy worrying about other people’s opinions, social etiquette, or self-preservation…

that we don’t even see ourselves as the representatives of our own children.

We forget that we are the bridge to the life they’re learning to build.

We forget that someone—us—is supposed to advocate for their safety, their dignity, their power, their identity, with the same unapologetic intensity that someone like Trump defends anything under his name.

And when we see someone actually doing that—with full volume, without explanation—we flinch.

Because it reminds us of where we’ve gone quiet.

The Extension: What If You’re the Ward?

And if you don’t have kids? If you’re not running a team or carrying someone else’s name?

You’re still not off the hook.

Because the first person you’re meant to represent is yourself.

But we’ve forgotten how to do that.

We’ve handed that role over to institutions—and called it normal.

We let the medical system decide what our bodies need without question.

We let the educational system tell our kids who they are.

We let the financial system—banks, lenders, government—define what freedom looks like for us.

And in the process, we’ve forgotten how to advocate for our own well-being, dignity, and sovereignty.

We’ve outsourced our instincts.

We’ve silenced our questions.

We’ve traded discernment for compliance—and called it being “good citizens.”

So when someone steps in with fire and force,

not to play nice with these institutions—but to interrupt them,

we don’t know how to metabolize it.

We flinch. We criticize. We judge.

Not because we’re sure they’re wrong—

but because we’ve gone so long without defending ourselves, we don’t recognize what defense even looks like anymore.

We’ve misnamed intensity as delusion.

We’ve framed self-trust as arrogance.

We’ve called ego “too much,”

because we’ve forgotten what it’s like to have enough.

So maybe Trump’s processor isn’t so foreign.

Maybe it’s a version of something most of us have—but haven’t fully owned.

The drive to protect.

The compulsion to prove.

The call to carry someone else’s name, story, or safety—like it’s our own.

And maybe his version is louder than we can tolerate.

But maybe ours has gone too quiet.

Not everyone needs to be a high-stakes performer.

But everyone has the opportunity to represent something.

To stand in the gap.

To be the bridge.

And the real tragedy?

Isn’t that Trump takes that role seriously—

It’s that most of us don’t.

- Cassie