I was in the room when it happened—when President Trump told the generals he wanted to use Chicago as a “military proving ground.” The air went still. I watched seasoned officers exchange glances, unsure whether to take notes or walk out. He rambled about dangerous cities, war simulations, and staircases. I’ve seen him animated before, but this was different—slower, erratic, almost surreal. Illinois Governor Pritzker called it “inane,” live on NBC, demanding the 25th Amendment be invoked. I felt the weight of history pressing down. Was this the moment America would confront its leader’s unraveling?
I left the Pentagon that day shaken. The president’s words weren’t just provocative—they were incoherent. He spoke of battleships needing gold trim, of wars he’d “solved,” and of generals needing “real combat zones.” I’ve briefed presidents before. This wasn’t a briefing. It was a monologue from a man adrift. Madeleine Dean’s CNN interview echoed my thoughts: “He’s unwell,” she said. I couldn’t disagree.
Later that evening, I watched the news unfold like a slow-motion car crash. NBC interrupted programming with a breaking alert: “It’s over for US president?” The anchor’s voice trembled. Pritzker’s call for Trump’s removal wasn’t just political—it felt like a national emergency. I sat in silence, wondering if the cabinet would act.
The shutdown had already begun. Trump claimed it would “save billions” and “clear out dead wood.” But behind closed doors, chaos reigned. Federal agencies scrambled. The Office of Management and Budget was flooded with calls. I saw staffers crying, unsure if they’d be paid. Trump’s Truth Social post read like a battle cry, not a budget strategy.
Thursday morning, I joined a classified call with Russell Vought, Trump’s budget director. He spoke of cutting “Democrat Agencies,” targeting infrastructure in blue states. I asked about national parks, healthcare, NASA. He shrugged. “We’re prioritizing loyalty,” he said. I felt sick.
Outside, protestors gathered. Tourists in D.C. held signs: “Find common ground.” But inside the White House, ground was vanishing. Trump’s inner circle was shrinking. Even loyalists whispered about invoking the 25th. I overheard one aide say, “He’s not the same man.” I agreed.
That night, I walked past the Lincoln Memorial. I thought about leadership, legacy, and the fragility of power. Trump’s presidency had always been turbulent, but this felt different—like the final act of a Shakespearean tragedy. The question wasn’t whether he’d fall. It was how hard, and who’d catch the pieces.
I’m not a partisan. I’ve served under Democrats and Republicans. But today, I saw a president unravel in real time. And as the nation watches, I wonder: will we act, or will history mark this as the moment we looked away?
