You Did It Joe

Joe Biden has been in public service so long that at this point, American history occasionally clears its throat and says, “Joe, you remember this part, right?” And he does. Not because he’s clinging to relevance, but because he was actually there—sometimes literally holding the pen, sometimes holding the grief, sometimes holding the country together with empathy and a slightly raspy whisper.

Let’s start with the obvious: Joe Biden did not wake up one morning at age 78 and decide to cosplay as a politician. This man was elected to the U.S. Senate in 1972, when gas was cheap, phones had cords, and “streaming” referred exclusively to water. He was 29 years old, which meant the Constitution technically allowed it but Congress side-eyed him like, “Is your mom coming to swear you in?”

And then tragedy hit immediately. Before he could even take his Senate seat, Biden lost his wife and daughter in a car accident. Two of his sons were critically injured. Most people would have walked away from public life forever. Biden didn’t. He took the train from Delaware to Washington every single day so he could tuck his boys into bed at night. This wasn’t branding. This was survival. The Amtrak conductor knew him by name. America didn’t know it yet, but empathy was being forged the hard way.

From there, Joe Biden did the unglamorous thing that doesn’t trend on social media: he worked. For 36 years in the Senate. Committee meetings. Foreign policy briefings. Judiciary hearings. Legislation that required reading, revising, negotiating, and—brace yourself—compromising. He chaired the Judiciary Committee, helped shape major violence-prevention laws, played a key role in foreign relations, and showed up for funerals, hearings, and midnight votes long after the cameras left.

Was he perfect? No. Was any senator navigating the political climate of the ’80s and ’90s perfect? Absolutely not. But Biden’s record shows evolution—something we say we want in leaders until they actually demonstrate it. He learned. He changed. He apologized. He grew. And somehow, in American politics, growth is treated like a character flaw instead of evidence of humanity.

Then came the Vice Presidency. Eight years as Barack Obama’s right-hand man, emotional support human, and resident explainer of Congress. Biden wasn’t the “cool” one. He was the “call you after midnight because something awful happened and you don’t want to be alone” one. He helped shepherd the Recovery Act after the 2008 financial crisis, worked on cancer research after losing his son Beau, and became the administration’s bridge to blue-collar voters who felt unseen.

And then—because life apparently decided Joe Biden hadn’t been tested enough—he ran for President after burying another child. At an age when most people are aggressively defending their right to never open another Excel spreadsheet again.

He didn’t run on vibes. He ran on stability. On restoring norms. On believing that government is supposed to function, not perform. On the radical idea that democracy requires maintenance. He inherited a pandemic, an economy in freefall, global instability, and a country that couldn’t even agree on basic facts. And instead of theatrics, he brought process. Instead of chaos, he brought competence. Instead of slogans, he brought… binders. Lots of binders.

Joe Biden is not flashy. He will never dunk on opponents with a viral one-liner. He sometimes loses a sentence mid-flight and just lands it wherever the runway happens to be. But he has spent over half a century doing the same thing: showing up, taking hits, absorbing grief, and continuing to believe that government can be a force for good if the people inside it actually care.

In a political culture obsessed with disruption, Joe Biden represents something deeply countercultural: endurance. The long game. The belief that public service is not about being adored, but about being accountable.

He is the living archive of American governance—flawed, resilient, stubbornly hopeful. A man who has outlasted trends, scandals, and several generations of pundits who confidently declared him “finished” every decade since the Carter administration.

And honestly? That kind of commitment deserves flowers. Or at least a standing ovation. Or maybe just a really good nap—finally not on Air Force One.

Because love him or critique him, Joe Biden didn’t just pass through history.

He clocked in.

Politics as Usual

Last year, I wrote to my senators, Ted Cruz and John Cornyn, because I was uneasy about the direction the Trump administration appeared to be taking with its Cabinet appointments. My concern wasn’t rooted in party affiliation or personal animus; it was about whether the people being placed in charge of critical federal agencies had the experience, judgment, and ethical grounding required for the roles they were assuming.

Senator Cornyn responded with a reminder of the Senate’s constitutional responsibility to advise and consent on nominees. That response was procedurally correct, but it didn’t fully address the substance of my concern: what happens after confirmation, when theory becomes practice and decisions begin affecting real lives, institutions, and national stability.

Now, months into these appointments, the consequences are no longer hypothetical.

In national security and defense, the importance of steady, credible leadership cannot be overstated. Pete Hegseth entered the role of Secretary of Defense with a strong media presence and some military experience, but without a background in senior strategic leadership. Since his confirmation, reports have pointed to friction between civilian leadership and career military professionals, along with confusion in communications with allies and service members. These aren’t abstract bureaucratic issues; they affect readiness, morale, and trust at a moment when global tensions demand clarity and coordination.

At the State Department, Marco Rubio brought a conventional political résumé and deep familiarity with foreign policy debates. However, his hardline approach toward adversaries like China and Iran has coincided with increased diplomatic strain. In an era where alliances are already fragile, an overly confrontational posture risks escalation when restraint and coalition-building are often more effective.

The Department of Homeland Security offers another example of how leadership decisions ripple outward. Under Kristi Noem, DHS has faced operational crises and sharp congressional backlash, particularly following enforcement actions that resulted in civilian deaths. At the same time, the removal of climate-related preparedness programs has raised concerns about disaster readiness. Homeland security works best when it is boring, competent, and trusted—not when it becomes a flashpoint for political conflict during emergencies.

The administration’s approach to government restructuring has also revealed tensions between private-sector logic and public responsibility. The creation of the Department of Government Efficiency under Elon Musk and Vivek Ramaswamy was pitched as a bold attempt to streamline bureaucracy. In practice, rapid reorganizations, mass firings, and the removal of public records have weakened institutional memory and raised questions about transparency and conflicts of interest. Innovation matters, but government is not a startup; it exists to provide continuity, fairness, and accountability.

Public health may be where the stakes are most immediate. At Health and Human Services, Robert F. Kennedy Jr. has overseen deep restructuring, including significant cuts to research funding and staffing at agencies like the NIH and CDC. Regardless of one’s views on regulation or federal scope, these institutions form the backbone of disease surveillance, vaccine development, and emergency response. Weakening them doesn’t just affect bureaucrats—it affects families, hospitals, and communities when the next outbreak or crisis emerges.

Veterans Affairs tells a similar story. Doug Collins’s proposal to reduce VA staffing by roughly 15 percent may be driven by cost concerns, but the practical effect is longer wait times and reduced access to care for veterans who already struggle to navigate the system. Fiscal responsibility is important, but it must be balanced against the government’s obligation to those who served.

Beyond these headline roles, the pattern repeats across the administration. Tulsi Gabbard’s service as Director of National Intelligence brings valuable military and foreign policy perspective, but limited operational intelligence experience has complicated coordination across the intelligence community. Dr. Mehmet Oz’s leadership at CMS has been marked by staffing cuts and policy shifts that have slowed access to healthcare services. Mike Huckabee’s appointment as ambassador to Israel highlights the risks of prioritizing ideological alignment over diplomatic training in sensitive regions. John Ratcliffe’s tenure at the CIA raises concerns about managing complex intelligence operations without deep operational background.

Environmental and economic oversight have also shifted. Under Lee Zeldin, environmental protections have been rolled back in ways that reduce accountability for pollution. At Commerce, Howard Lutnick’s focus on private financial interests has left trade policy uneven. Across agencies, figures like Stephen Miller and Kristi Noem have emphasized ideological alignment, often at the expense of operational expertise and humanitarian considerations.

Taken together, these choices suggest a governing philosophy that values loyalty, visibility, and disruption over experience, continuity, and institutional knowledge. That approach may appeal to voters frustrated with bureaucracy, but governing is not the same as campaigning. Institutions weakened in the name of efficiency or alignment are difficult to rebuild, and the costs are often borne by ordinary people rather than political leaders.

When I first contacted Senators Cruz and Cornyn, my argument was simple: ideology and loyalty cannot substitute for competence. Looking at the cumulative impact of these appointments—across national security, public health, veterans’ care, environmental protection, and public trust—it’s hard to argue that those concerns were misplaced.

The American people deserve leaders who are qualified, ethical, and capable of stewarding the institutions that protect us all. When those standards slip, the consequences don’t fall along party lines—they fall on the country as a whole.

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