Election seasons feel like high school crushes on steroids. Crowds chant names like they're summoning a messiah. Songs sung. Tears stream. Memes flood timelines declaring one candidate the savior of civilization and the other the villain who kicks puppies. Your favorite politician drops a relatable video, maybe petting a dog or sharing a folksy story about their grandma, and suddenly it feels personal. They're not just a candidate. They're your friend.
Politicians Are Not Heroes: Stop Building Pedestals and Start Thinking Clearly
Politicians actively cultivate these toxic parasocial relationships. They want to seem like the approachable buddy who's got your back. And when someone criticizes "your friend," the instinct kicks in: defensiveness, anger, even treating the critique like a personal attack. Because in that moment, attacking the politician feels like attacking an extension of yourself.
This isn't new, and it's not harmless. Idolizing political figures has a long, ugly history of breeding personality cults, shutting down critical thinking, and excusing behavior you'd never tolerate from anyone else. Supporters start ignoring flaws, defending the indefensible, and outsourcing their own judgment.
Some people never had a hero growing up, and that's not a tragedy. It's a superpower. Think about the people wired this way. They don't put anyone on a pedestal — not celebrities, not leaders, not legends. They're not cynical or broken. They just see the full picture: every human is flawed, inconsistent, and imperfect. While the crowd cheers the highlight reel, these folks notice the rough drafts, the contradictions, the moments when the mask slips. They understand that greatness exists, but worshiping it distorts everything.
Here's what happens in their minds. Without idols to chase, they develop radical self-reliance early. They stop waiting for permission or a blueprint from on high. They test every value themselves instead of borrowing someone else's. It takes longer, feels lonelier at times, but the result is authentic. Research on locus of control backs this up: people who don't outsource their identity to heroes tend to believe their lives are shaped by their own choices, not by luck or some savior figure. They take responsibility for wins and losses. When a role model inevitably disappoints, they don't feel betrayed — they expected humanity, not perfection.
Contrast that with the idolizers. Admiration and idolization look similar on the surface, but they're night and day. Admiration says, "If they achieved that, maybe I can too." Idolization whispers, "I could never be like them, so I'll just follow." One creates possibility and distance; the other creates followers and excuses. Politicians thrive on the latter. They act differently once fame hits, treating old friends like background characters, demanding deference, floating above the rules they impose on everyone else.
There's a dark side too. Not idolizing anyone can become a defense mechanism: a way to avoid disappointment by never getting close enough to be let down. It risks emotional isolation. On the flip side, heavy idolization often masks avoidance, you're hiding behind someone else's image instead of building your own. The healthiest spot sits in the messy middle: respect skill, honor real achievement, learn what resonates… but never lose yourself or stop holding people accountable.
Apply this to politics and the absurdity sharpens. We treat elected officials like rock stars or saints. They promise to fix complex systems with slogans and vibes, while we cheer as if one person in a suit can magically untangle bureaucracy, debt, regulations, and human nature. Then, when reality hits — scandals, broken promises, the same old gridlock — we don't shrug and say "they're human." We double down, tribalize harder, or switch to a new hero who swears this time will be different.
Why? Because uncertainty sucks. In a chaotic world of algorithms, inflation, and endless outrage, believing one figure can save us feels comforting. It absolves us of doing the harder work ourselves. But it also erodes self-reliance. We stop asking tough questions at town halls. We treat policy debates like sports rivalries. Criticism of "our side" becomes betrayal. And slowly, accountability dies.
Imagine flipping the script. What if we refused the pedestal entirely? Town halls become less about selfies and more about receipts: "How exactly does this bill work? Where's the cost-benefit analysis?" Campaign events feel like performance reviews, not concerts. When a politician says something dumb or self-serving, we call it out without needing to burn the whole party down. Scandals don't get memory-holed based on team colors. We admire competence where it exists, without turning the competent into infallible gods.
The people who never idolized anyone already live this way. They walk alongside others as equals, taking what resonates and leaving the rest. They don't need a hero to believe in because they've realized no one's coming to save them. The only person you truly need to trust is the one in the mirror—flawed, but capable of figuring it out step by step.
Politicians aren't heroes. They're highly compensated employees we hire to handle specific jobs: keep basic services running, protect rights, avoid bankrupting the future. They deserve scrutiny, not worship. When they act superior or cultivate cultish loyalty, that's a red flag—not a feature.
The next time you feel that defensive surge because someone criticized "your" politician, pause. Ask: Am I defending a friend, or defending an illusion? Is this inspiration, or avoidance? Are we building self-reliant citizens, or loyal fans?
The republic doesn't need more idols. It needs clearer eyes, sharper questions, and people willing to walk their own path without waiting for permission from the stage. Drop the pedestals. Keep the admiration where it's earned. And remember: every "hero" is just a person who kept showing up... until they didn't. The real power has always belonged to those who never needed one in the first place.
