The Silence of the Corrected

A Reckoning With Reality

The market is in freefall. Bill Ackman—billionaire hedge fund manager and prominent Trump supporter—is now warning of an “economic nuclear winter” from the very tariffs he previously dismissed critics for questioning. How quickly the tune changes when one's portfolio starts bleeding.

Two plus two equals four. There are twenty-four hours in a day. And those who confidently assured us that Trump would be a superior steward of the economy are now watching their predictions crumble in real time.

For months, friends and various interlocutors have offered that I am suffering from “Trump Derangement Syndrome” for suggesting that imposing massive tariffs on our trading partners might destabilize markets and harm the economy. I was told that concerns about erratic economic policy were merely partisan hysteria. That Trump's business acumen would usher in unprecedented prosperity. That his “tough negotiating tactics” would force other countries to bend to America's will without consequences.

Now, as the Dow plummets and economists across the political spectrum warn of inflation, supply chain disruptions, and retaliatory measures, the same voices that dismissed these concerns are either silent or frantically rewriting their positions.

The billionaire class that enthusiastically backed Trump—assuring us that his economic policies would lead to growth and stability—now faces a reckoning. Bill Ackman, who endorsed Trump after last year's assassination attempt and hoped his victory would lead to the “implosion” of the Democratic Party, suddenly discovers that maybe imposing 54% tariffs on China, 20% on the European Union, 46% on Vietnam, and 32% on Taiwan—with a 10% baseline on everything else—might have negative consequences after all.

“The President has an opportunity on Monday to call a time out,” Ackman now pleads, as if the economic catastrophe he helped enable was merely a tactical misstep rather than the predictable outcome of the very policies he championed. His post calls for a 90-day pause for negotiations, warning that businesses will “close their wallets” and damage to America's global reputation “will take years and potentially decades to rehabilitate.”

But where was this concern when others raised these exact warnings? Where was this economic expertise when it might have made a difference? It was subordinated to political allegiance, to tribal identity, to the intoxicating promise of power.

This pattern extends far beyond Ackman. Across Wall Street and corporate America, supposed economic experts abandoned economic expertise when it conflicted with political alignment. BlackRock executives, hedge fund managers, venture capitalists—all lined up to assure Americans that Trump's economic approach would succeed where traditional expertise predicted failure.

We were told to trust the businessman over the economists. To believe that the rules of international trade and market stability that have governed for generations could be upended without consequence. To accept that those raising concerns were simply partisan actors unable to appreciate the brilliance of disruption.

Now, as markets tumble and retirement accounts shrink, as business uncertainty grows and inflation looms, where is the accountability for those who used their economic credibility to sell economic fantasy? Where is the recognition that expertise abandoned in favor of tribal allegiance isn't expertise at all, but performance?

Republicans who remained silent during the campaign now acknowledge the devastating potential of trade wars. Republican officials who privately harbored concerns but publicly maintained support now whisper about mitigating the damage.

But the damage is already being done—not just to markets and the economy, but to the very concept of expertise itself. When those with the most knowledge and the largest platforms subordinate truth to political alignment, they don't just make a tactical error. They commit an epistemic crime.

They break the trust that allows expertise to function in a democracy. They teach citizens that knowledge is merely opinion, that facts are negotiable, that reality itself is less important than political victory. This isn't just economic malpractice; it's a profound attack on the shared reality that makes collective governance possible.

As essential as it is to understand the economic damage being inflicted, it's equally important to recognize who stands to gain from this chaos. Behind every market crash lies opportunity—for those positioned to profit from disaster. As your savings evaporate, certain portfolios swell. As your financial security trembles, fortunes are being made. This isn't conspiracy; it's financial engineering.

Consider the hedge funds and investment firms that strategically positioned themselves to profit from exactly this scenario. They didn't just predict this outcome—they helped engineer it through their political endorsements, their media appearances, their strategic deployment of capital. The same voices that assured you Trump's economic approach would bring prosperity quietly placed their bets on volatility and disruption.

Look at the cryptocurrency evangelists who spent years insisting that economic collapse would vindicate their alternative financial system. Their fortunes multiply as traditional markets collapse, as confidence in institutions falters, as fear drives people toward speculative assets. Their prophecies of financial apocalypse become self-fulfilling when their preferred candidates implement precisely the policies most likely to trigger crisis.

Examine the sovereign wealth funds of nations that have long sought to diminish American economic dominance. The collapse of the dollar's global position isn't collateral damage from misguided policy—it's the intended outcome for competitors who benefit from America's diminished economic standing. When American consumers pay more for goods, when American businesses lose access to markets, when American financial institutions lose global influence—other powers gain.

This moment of reckoning isn't about partisan victory or vindication. I take no pleasure in seeing economic pain inflicted on Americans, regardless of who they voted for or what policies they supported. This isn't about saying “I told you so” to those who dismissed concerns about tariffs.

It's about something more fundamental: the relationship between knowledge, truth, and power. It's about what happens when those with the greatest epistemic authority—those whose wealth and position grant them outsized influence over our collective understanding—abandon that authority in service of tribal alignment.

When Bill Ackman endorsed Trump, he wasn't just expressing a personal preference. He was leveraging his reputation as a successful investor—his presumed economic expertise—to validate a set of policies that most actual experts warned against. He was using the credibility earned in one domain to launder claims in another.

This pattern pervades our current discourse. Tech executives opine on monetary policy. Hedge fund managers pronounce on geopolitics. Venture capitalists dictate social policy. The thread connecting these interventions isn't expertise but power—the belief that success in accumulating capital translates to authority across all domains.

But markets are now delivering a stark reminder: reality exists independent of preference. Economic laws don't bend to political will. Trade wars still have casualties, regardless of who declares them. Tariffs are still taxes on consumers, no matter how they're branded. Supply chains still break when disrupted, regardless of the disruptor's confidence.

And now, the most telling response to this economic catastrophe has emerged: silence. I, for one, am amused that none of my friends who said I have “TDS” will respond to my texts anymore. I love how horrible they must all feel! I mean, of course, I'm rubbing it in their faces. Because they were idiots who played with fire. And now I have to live in their mess!

There's a particular kind of silence that emerges when confidence collides with consequence—when those who dismissed warnings as derangement suddenly find themselves unable to respond as those warnings materialize before their eyes.

The phone grows quiet. The group chats die. The text messages go unanswered. This isn't just ordinary avoidance—it's a special kind of epistemic retreat that occurs when maintaining one's position becomes too cognitively painful to bear, yet admitting error feels equally impossible.

We've all been wrong. Being wrong is an essential part of learning. What matters isn't the initial error but how we respond when reality contradicts our expectations. Do we adjust our understanding? Do we acknowledge the evidence? Do we grant legitimacy to those whose warnings we dismissed? Or do we simply go silent, withdrawing from the very conversations where we once pronounced with such certainty?

The most telling response to being wrong isn't doubling down or changing course—it's disappearing. It's the abrupt cessation of engagement from those who, just weeks ago, could not stop explaining why your concerns were irrational, why your warnings were excessive, why your analysis was clouded by bias. It's the sudden discovery that they're “taking a break from politics” precisely when their political predictions fail. Are you fucking kidding me!?

This retreat isn't just personal cowardice. It's epistemic corruption—a rejection of the basic responsibility to reconsider one's position when faced with contradictory evidence. It's an abandonment of the minimal commitment required for collective truth-seeking: the willingness to acknowledge when reality fails to conform to our expectations.

What makes this particularly galling is the asymmetry of engagement. When markets were stable, when inflation seemed distant, when economic danger remained theoretical—these same voices were relentless in their mockery of concern. “Trump Derangement Syndrome” wasn't just a dismissal of specific criticisms; it was a wholesale rejection of the very possibility that warnings about tariffs, trade wars, and economic volatility could be rational rather than pathological.

Now, as markets crash and uncertainty grows, as portfolios shrink and recession looms, those same voices that were so certain, so dismissive, so condescending have discovered the virtue of silence. They've developed a sudden interest in non-political topics. They've found reasons why this conversation, unlike the many before it, doesn't merit their engagement.

I'm left standing in the mess they helped create—we all are. The economic uncertainty, the market volatility, the rising prices, the disrupted supply chains—these aren't abstract concerns. They translate directly into reduced opportunity, diminished security, constrained futures. They affect retirement plans and college funds, mortgage payments and grocery bills. And they affect all of us, regardless of who we voted for or what policies we supported.

So yes, there's a certain dark amusement in watching those who confidently dismissed legitimate concerns now retreat from engagement. There's a grim satisfaction in noting the silence of those who once couldn't stop explaining why the experts were wrong, why the economists were partisan, why the warnings were excessive. But this isn't about partisan victory or personal vindication. It's about something more fundamental: the responsibility we have to each other in constructing shared understanding.

Democracy depends on more than voting. It depends on the shared commitment to adjust our views when reality intrudes, to acknowledge when our expectations are contradicted by evidence, to engage with those who disagree not just when we feel confident but especially when we face uncertainty. The retreat from this responsibility—the withdrawal from engagement precisely when engagement is most needed—represents not just personal failure but civic abdication.

The friends who no longer respond to texts aren't just avoiding personal embarrassment. They're abandoning the minimal commitment required for collective governance: the willingness to adjust understanding when facts change. They're prioritizing personal comfort over collective truth-seeking, ego protection over intellectual honesty.

The question isn't whether these business elites and armchair economists were wrong. The question is whether being catastrophically wrong will affect their credibility going forward. Will we continue treating wealth as a proxy for wisdom? Will those who confidently predicted economic benefits from policies now causing economic harm face any accountability for their failed forecasts?

Our epistemic crisis doesn't stem from the existence of disagreement—disagreement is essential to finding truth. It stems from the collapse of shared standards for evaluating disagreement. When being wrong carries no consequence, when failed predictions don't diminish authority, when expertise becomes indistinguishable from opinion—we lose the mechanisms that allow knowledge to advance.

Bill Ackman now warns of “economic nuclear winter” if Trump doesn't change course. But where was this concern when it might have mattered? Where was this understanding of basic economics when policy was being formulated? It was sacrificed on the altar of partisan alignment, subordinated to the intoxicating promise of political victory.

This pattern—where tribal loyalty trumps professional expertise, where political alignment outweighs factual accuracy—corrodes the very possibility of governance based on shared understanding. It transforms policy discourse from a search for what works into a battle over who wins. It replaces the question “Is this true?” with “Does this help my side?”

The business elites who assured us of Trump's economic genius weren't just wrong. They were wrong in a particular way that reveals something profound about our current moment. They weren't making good-faith errors based on incomplete information. They were subordinating known economic principles to desired political outcomes. They weren't mistaken; they were motivated.

And now, as markets crash and uncertainty grows, as portfolios shrink and recession looms, they seek not to acknowledge their fundamental error but to suggest tactical adjustments. Not to reconsider their analytical framework but to preserve their reputational capital. Not to admit they placed political allegiance above economic understanding but to reposition themselves as concerned observers of policies they championed.

This isn't just hypocrisy; it's epistemic fraud—the leveraging of presumed expertise to launder partisan preference, followed by strategic repositioning when reality intrudes. It's a performance of knowledge rather than its practice, a simulation of expertise rather than its substance.

Two plus two equals four. There are twenty-four hours in a day. And those who used their economic credibility to dismiss legitimate concerns about tariffs and trade wars should not be granted the same credibility when those concerns prove justified.

The center must be held—not because it is easy, but because it is ours to hold. And holding it requires not just asserting truth in the face of power, but demanding accountability from those whose claimed expertise enabled that power.

The market has rendered its verdict. Reality has spoken. The question now is whether our discourse will reflect it—or whether the silence of the corrected will be allowed to pass without consequence.

“The fundamental cause of trouble in the world today is that the stupid are cocksure while the intelligent are full of doubt.” — Bertrand Russell