Plutocracy, Revolution, or Renewal?

American democracy stands at a crossroads. The warning signs flashing across our headlines — and our lives — have become impossible to ignore. A billionaire president upends global order, alienating traditional allies while openly admiring strongmen and autocrats, all the while undermining trust in our elections and institutions as he brazenly suggests a third term less than 100 days into his second. Meanwhile, a mercurial tech billionaire leverages his social media empire to play political kingmaker, spreading conspiracy theories while casually dismantling federal governance as an unelected steward of public efficiency. At the same time as billionaires play West Wing, inequality has reached staggering heights: the three richest Americans now possess more wealth than the bottom half of the nation combined. In countless ways, the current system feels rigged, strained, or simply broken — and Americans, understandably anxious and angry, are left to ask: Where do we possibly go from here?

We face a high-stakes choice about the future of our republic. Broadly, it seems there are three paths before us:

1. Keep drifting as we are — accept a status quo of entrenched power, big-money influence, widening inequality, and performative politics pandering to while simultaneously ignoring the people, hiding behind the noisy distraction of left vs. right while really insulating a system of up vs. down, top vs. bottom, haves vs. have-nots.

2. Tear it all down — give in to populist fury on the far right or left, shatter the institutions we have (perhaps even through violence or authoritarian strongmen), and fantasize about building something entirely new from the ashes.

3. Reimagine within the lines — undertake deep reforms to renew our democratic system from within its framework: clearing out corruption and bureaucratic sludge, leveraging technology to empower citizens, and making our institutions accessible and accountable so that the people can genuinely steer the nation once again.

Each path has its emotional appeal and each carries very real risks and consequences for the long term. I aim to explore all three in turn — and, spoiler — argue strongly for the hard but hopeful third path of reform and renewal. America doesn’t need a brand-new system or a strongman savior; it needs to fix and lubricate the democratic machine it already has. The Constitution and our institutions, though sound in principle, have grown clogged with dysfunction — bureaucracy, corruption, inaccessibility, outdated mechanics. By cleaning out this “sludge” and updating how citizens can participate, we can revitalize the promise of government by We the People.

I don’t write this because it’s my job or my brand. I write this because I care. Deeply. About humanity. About fairness. About the future my future kids will grow up in. I believe that everyone deserves a real voice in shaping their lives, not just the rich, the loud, or the well-connected. I believe we’ve let power pool in too few hands for too long, and it’s suffocating us — not just economically or politically, but spiritually. I believe we are meant to live with dignity, to participate, to matter. And I refuse to accept that this is just the way things are. I’ve seen too much good — too much decency and grit and care in ordinary people — to give in to cynicism. That’s not realism. That’s a retreat. And I won’t retreat. Not now. Not when what we build next could finally — truly — belong to all of us.

Path 1: Business as Usual — Plutocracy and Stagnation

The first path is the easiest in the short term: do nothing fundamentally different. Stay the course. Maintain the status quo. It’s the path of least resistance — and that’s precisely its allure and its danger. In this scenario, we basically continue with politics as we know it today. That means living with a system where money and entrenched interests quietly dominate, inequality keeps deepening, and our governing institutions become increasingly performative and dysfunctional.

Emotionally, the status quo offers a kind of comfort. For those in power (and those benefiting from the current order), it’s obviously the preferred route — why rock the boat when you’re comfortably on top? Even for many everyday Americans, sticking with the familiar system can feel safer than the unknown. Change is hard, and revolutionary change is scary. There’s also a genuine patriotic attachment to American institutions: the Constitution, Congress, the Presidency. Many people understandably want to believe the system is fine, or can muddle through as is. The status quo comes wrapped in reassuring rhetoric — we are the world’s oldest democracy, the greatest nation, “the American way” will prevail. It whispers that our problems aren’t that bad, that a few tweaks or a new election will set things right again.

But under that complacent veneer, what does business as usual really entail? It means a democracy increasingly in name only — what some have bluntly called a plutocracy or oligarchy. In practice, political power tilts heavily toward wealthy elites and well-organized interest groups, while average citizens’ voices are drowned out. A Princeton study of 1,779 policy decisions in recent decades found that economic elites and business interest groups have “substantial independent impacts” on U.S. government policy, while average citizens “have little or no independent influence.”​

In plain terms, when the preferences of the rich conflict with those of the majority, the rich nearly always get their way. As the study’s authors noted, this suggests that America has effectively become an oligarchy, not a democracy​. The government, statistically speaking, doesn’t really care what most of the 90% of Americans without great wealth think or want​.

We can see this plutocratic status quo in our everyday political life. It’s in the fact that astronomical sums of money fuel our campaigns and lobbying: the 2020 election cost an estimated $14.4 billion — more than double the 2016 cycle, shattering all records​. Who writes those checks? Not working families struggling with rent, but billionaires and special interests expecting returns on their investment. It’s in policies that somehow always find a way to favor corporate and wealthy interests — tax cuts, subsidies, regulatory loopholes — even when those policies are unpopular with the public. It’s in the revolving door that spins lawmakers and staff into high-paying lobbying jobs, ensuring that D.C.’s culture remains aligned with the wealthy.

Put another way: This isn’t a government of the people — it’s a country club where the rich pay the cover, write the house rules, and let the rest of us vote on the playlist. Campaigns are IPOs, policy is a dividend, and if you’re not a donor, you’re the product. The wealthiest Americans aren’t just buying influence — they’ve franchised the entire system. And like any good investment, it pays: tax breaks for jets, loopholes big enough to drive a yacht through, and a revolving door that turns public service into pre-retirement for lobbyists. The result? A nation where, again, three men own more than 165 million people combined, and the market of ideas has been replaced with a bidding war.

What about the democratic process in this status quo scenario? Here, too, cynicism abounds. Voter turnout in many elections is dismal (except when fear or anger spikes interest). Many eligible citizens don’t vote at all, feeling it’s pointless. Those who do vote often face gerrymandered districts engineered to dilute real competition, or they confront voting hurdles (ever waited hours in line at a polling place, or struggled through confusing mail ballot rules?). Thanks to partisan polarization and flawed rules, our Congress often fails to govern in any meaningful sense — major problems go unaddressed while parties stage symbolic votes and shout past each other on cable news. “Performative governance” is how one disgusted Congressman described it, saying working in today’s Congress feels like “the world’s worst reality TV show,” overflowing with people more interested in social media fame than lawmaking​. In other words, much of our politics has devolved into theater — lots of shouting, fundraising, and Twitter posturing, but little problem-solving that improves actual citizens’ lives.

The status quo path would mean continuing this downward slide. What are the risks if we do? Perhaps the biggest risk is decay — a slow crumbling of democratic norms and public faith. When ordinary people conclude (rightly) that the system is rigged or unresponsive, they lose trust in democracy itself. Right now, only around 20% of Americans say they trust the federal government to do the right thing “most of the time” — a stunning collapse from the nearly 80% who trusted government in the 1960s. That distrust, if nothing changes, will likely deepen. We could see ever-lower civic engagement, except in the form of angry backlashes and protests. Corruption could become more blatant as accountability wanes — imagine open graft and nepotism becoming just how business is done, with little more than shrugs from the public. Inequality could reach even more obscene levels, effectively stratifying society into a new aristocracy and an underclass with little hope of mobility. Historically, such extreme inequality and lack of representation are powder kegs. They either lead to explosion (revolution), or to a gradual slide into authoritarianism as people give up on the democratic experiment.

Indeed, it’s not hard to envision a status quo future where U.S. democracy becomes “democracy” in name only — a facade for continued elite rule. Perhaps elections still happen, but they’re mostly expensive rituals that ratify the will of donors and insiders. Political contests become bitter culture-war spectacles (to distract the masses), while the real decisions (like who gets tax breaks, who gets bailed out in a crisis, whether Big Tech can gobble up competitors, etc.) are made in backrooms by power brokers. In this future, the Constitution remains unchanged on paper, but in practice its vision of representative government is hollow. We’d have something like a permanent plutocracy, with just enough democratic gloss to prevent outright revolt.

Some might find this outcome acceptable — even preferable — if it avoids chaos. Stability, even unjust stability, can feel safer than uncertainty. But let’s be clear: a society that consigns most of its people to voicelessness and economic precarity is not truly stable. It’s living on borrowed time. The American experiment was premised on a radical idea of political equality and responsive government. If we abandon that, even passively through inaction, we’re courting a legitimacy crisis. How long will people consent to be governed by a system that pointedly ignores them? Already, signs of strain are showing: surveys find that one in five U.S. adults believe Americans may have to resort to VIOLENCE to get the country back on track​… That is a terrifying indicator of how faith in peaceful, constitutional change is eroding. If we persist with business as usual — if nothing fundamentally changes — those pressures will only mount. Eventually, something will crack. Which leads us to the second path.

Path 2: “Tear It All Down” — The Seductive Chaos of Populist Revolution

The second path is the polar opposite of the status quo: it says burn the whole thing down. If the system seems hopelessly broken or corrupt, some Americans conclude that our existing institutions aren’t worth saving. This mentality can take far-right or far-left forms (and sometimes strange hybrids of both), but they share a disdain for incremental fixes and a readiness to upend democratic norms. In essence, this path calls for revolution — whether through populist strongman leadership, mass uprising, or other means outside the constitutional order. Its rallying cry is that nothing short of a total reset can rescue America. Drain the swamp. Eat the rich. Smash the system. Hang the traitors. Start from scratch. These are the kinds of sentiments that echo in this space.

It’s important to understand the emotional appeal of the “tear it all down” impulse. It is fueled by anger, despair, and often a sense of survival. Imagine you’re someone who has watched factories shutter in your town, or a young person crippled by debt and convinced the American dream is a sham. Or consider those steeped in ideological fervor — whether a right-wing believer that shadowy elites have stolen “our country,” or a left-wing believer that capitalism is irredeemable and oppressors must be overthrown. For people who feel truly shut out and lied to, the allure of blowing up the system can be powerful. It promises catharsis — finally doing something drastic to punish the corrupt, the elite, and end the misery. It also carries a kind of romantic appeal: the revolutionary heroism of defying a tyrannical order. Both far-right and far-left movements in America tap into this deep well of resentment and yearning for sweeping change.

In recent years, we’ve seen frightening glimmers of this path. The most obvious was the January 6, 2021 attack on the U.S. Capitol — an eruption of right-wing populist rage that sought to overturn a democratic election by force. That riot was fueled by the “Big Lie” — the false belief spread by Donald Trump and allies that the 2020 election was stolen. But deeper than that, it reflected an authoritarian populist streak: a willingness among some of Trump’s followers to forsake democratic procedures in order to keep their champion in power.

This is not a trivial fringe, a sizable minority — tens of millions of Americans — entertain the idea of violent revolt. Among Republicans, the number is even higher — about one in three say such violence might be necessary​. These are Americans who explicitly doubt that the existing democratic process can fix what’s wrong, and are ready to take extra-legal action. On the left, talk of violence is less overt, but one can find an undercurrent of revolutionary thinking: for example, those who argue that racial and economic justice can only be achieved by dismantling “systems of oppression” root and branch, by defunding or abolishing institutions, etc. The far left and far right share a surprising trait: a profound disillusionment with liberal democracy as we know it, and a flirting with more radical, even authoritarian alternatives (albeit in very different flavors).

What would “tearing it all down” actually look like in America? There are a few scenarios:

• Authoritarian Populism: A strongman leader rises to power on a wave of popular discontent — possibly through an election, and then promptly begins to dismantle the remaining checks and balances from within. This leader (e.g., an even more unrestrained second Trump term or a charismatic demagogue of the left) claims a mandate to “revolutionize” the system. They purge career officials, attack the independent judiciary, muzzle and undermine the press, ultimately ruling by fear and decree. In short, America could undergo the kind of democratic collapse that countries like Hungary, Nicaragua, Turkey, or Venezuela have experienced — democracy dying not with one dramatic coup, but bit by bit as a populist government refashions the state into a personal tool. Many institutions (courts, Congress, state governments) might technically still exist, but they’d be intimidated or co-opted to rubber-stamp the Leader’s will. The public, exhausted by chaos or excited by the Leader’s promises, goes along — until it’s too late. This path leads to the “efficient” tyranny of one faction or man, the very antithesis of what America’s founders intended.

• Widespread Civil Unrest or Collapse: Alternatively, the “burn it down” could be more literal — mass protests, uprisings, even civil war-like strife. Imagine more election disputes spiraling into street clashes, militias forming, states defying federal authority openly. If enough Americans lose faith in constitutional processes, we could see a fracture where violence becomes commonplace. In the worst case, the Union itself could crack — states or regions attempting secession or refusing to recognize the federal government. It sounds far-fetched, but we did experience a Civil War once when democratic compromise utterly failed. No nation is immune to history. In this scenario, the end result could be the breakup of the United States, or the imposition of martial law and dictatorship to “restore order.” Either way, democracy would be a casualty.

• Total Reset Fantasies: On a perhaps less bloody note, there are some who dream of a peaceful reboot — say, convening a new Constitutional Convention to rewrite our governing charter from scratch, or having “the people” spontaneously organize a new system via the internet, blockchain, or community assemblies. These ideas are less about violence and more about a utopian refounding. But they are no less fraught. A new Constitutional Convention, for instance, could easily be hijacked by powerful interests or devolve into chaos given our polarized climate — opening a Pandora’s box that might leave us worse off. As for leaderless revolutions or techno-utopias (imagine some movement to use blockchain to replace Congress, or other Silicon Valley-esque disruption of governance), they thus far remain pipe dreams without clear implementation paths. The impulse, however, is real: a belief that we should wipe the slate clean.

The populist-revolutionary path carries immense risks. Historically, revolutions often devour their children. The French Revolution famously began with cries of liberty and equality and led to the Terror — mass executions followed by Napoleon’s dictatorship. More recently, the Arab Spring revolutions brought hope but in many cases ended with either renewed tyranny or state collapse and civil war. Tearing down a system is much easier than building a stable new one. Extreme movements that seize power usually become the very thing they hated — corrupt, oppressive, unaccountable — just with a different ideology. A far-right coup in America would almost certainly trample the rights of minorities and dissenters, possibly establishing a nationalist, exclusionary regime. A far-left revolution would almost certainly implode our economy and likely provoke violent backlash from the right, leading to endless strife or tyranny. In either case, the American ideals of liberty and justice for all would be torched in the flames of zealotry.

There’s also the human cost. A breakdown of order — whether via violent revolution or autocratic crackdown — would shatter lives. Political violence isn’t an abstraction: it means people bleeding and dying, neighbors turning on each other, the trauma of repression. Those flirting with this path sometimes underestimate the horror it entails. And unlike some countries that have gone through upheaval, the United States has a massive arsenal of weapons among its populace — any internal conflict here could be nightmarishly destructive.

Given these risks, why do so many seem drawn to this option? Simply put, desperation. If you are convinced that “normal” politics will never address your grievances — that the deck is permanently stacked — then the extreme starts to feel like the only rational choice. It’s the same psychology that can drive people to embrace conspiracy theories; it gives a sense of purpose and clarity (we just have to defeat the evil cabal!). There’s also a seductive simplicity to the revolutionary mindset: all problems are blamed on a corrupt elite or system, so all solutions boil down to “remove them.” It’s emotionally satisfying to have a clear enemy and a promise (however illusory) that everything will be better after the purge.

In the U.S. today, both left-wing and right-wing populist narratives feed this mindset. On the right, figures like Trump and some media influencers stoke the belief that traditional American institutions (courts, FBI, universities, elections, mainstream media) are irredeemably biased or controlled by a “deep state.” They paint themselves as the voice of “real Americans” against a corrupt establishment, sometimes even hinting at violence or extrajudicial action. For example, Trump has referred to opponents in nearly apocalyptic terms and even mused about “Second Amendment people” taking matters into their own hands in the past. His rhetoric, as one legal scholar noted, convinces people “the country is going downhill, that things are awful and only he can fix them”​– a classic authoritarian populist trope. On the left, while mainstream Democratic leaders do not call for violence, there is a vocal fringe that urges radical disruption — calls to dismantle capitalism wholesale, to abolish institutions deemed systemically racist, etc. Social media can amplify these extremes, creating echo chambers where burning it all down sounds not only reasonable but necessary.

We should also mention the role of influential elites who encourage anti-system sentiment when it suits them. It’s ironic, but some billionaires and media moguls have cloaked themselves in populist garb. Elon Musk, for instance, one of the richest men on Earth, often presents himself as a tribune of the people fighting “woke” elites and legacy media. After buying Twitter (now X), Musk used the platform to spread anti-establishment memes and conspiracies — on the very day of a major election, he was amplifying anti-immigrant conspiracies and accusing Democrats of fraud from his perch at the top of X​. It’s “on-brand for the billionaire, who has become…a one-man misinformation machine,” pushing distrust and anger​. He has even told his massive online following, “You are the media now,” encouraging people to ignore traditional democratic institutions and expertise​. In effect, figures like Musk tap into populist anger (often crypto-populism or anti-government sentiment) not to actually overthrow the elite class — after all, he is elite — but to redirect public ire toward rival power centers (like government regulators, or established news outlets) that inconvenience them. This is a dangerous game: it further erodes shared truth and trust. When tech barons and demagogic politicians alike encourage people to believe everything is corrupt, the logical conclusion for many will be: sweep it all away.

So where does the “tear it down” path lead us long-term? Likely to a darker and poorer place. An authoritarian takeover — whether draped in a flag or in revolutionary slogans — would mean the end of the American experiment of self-government. We would wake up in a country ruled by fear and force, not law and debate. Or, if chaos reigns, we’d see decades of instability, maybe fracturing into regional regimes or constant insurgency. To those flirting with this route, I would say: be very careful what you wish for. The intoxicating promise of purity through destruction almost never delivers the society you want. More often, it ushers in suffering and more oppression. In truth, burning it all down is the easy answer that is disastrously wrong — it is lighting yourself on fire to protest the cold.

But if the status quo is unacceptable and outright revolution is too perilous, what’s left? That brings us to the third path — less immediately gratifying perhaps, but ultimately the only one that can fulfill the promise of America without destroying it.

Path 3: Reimagining Within the Lines — A Democratic Renewal

The third path is about hopeful, determined reform. It rejects both complacency and nihilism. Instead of simply living with a corrupt system or obliterating it, this approach insists we can reimagine and repair American democracy from within its existing framework. We don’t need a new Constitution or a dictator or a revolution in the streets. The bones of our system are strong — the ideas of liberty, equality, checks and balances, the rule of law, the tools of representation. What we need is to renovate this house of democracy: update its outdated features, reinforce its foundations where they’ve cracked, and yes, clear out the muck and sludge that have accumulated in its pipes over the decades.

Let’s talk about that word “sludge.” By sludge, I mean all the unnecessary frictions, bureaucratic red tape, and insider barriers that make interacting with our government a pain (or make it impossible for regular people to be heard). The concept comes from behavioral economics: when something is made harder than it needs to be, that’s “sludge”. As economist Richard Thaler quipped, “Nudge makes things easy, it’s the WD-40 of life. Sludge is the opposite… literally gunk.”​

Right now, our democracy is gunked up with countless examples of sludge. Think of the convoluted processes to register to vote or to actually vote in some states, the maze of forms to engage with any public agency, the opaque rules that keep citizens out of legislative decision-making, the campaign finance regulations that are so weak you practically need a lawyer and a super PAC to have influence. All of it adds up to ordinary people feeling shut out and frustrated.

The good news is sludge can be cleaned. Rules can be simplified. Processes can be modernized. And when you reduce those barriers, participation and trust do increase. We’ve already seen glimpses of that: for instance, when many states expanded mail-in voting and early voting in 2020 (out of pandemic necessity), citizens responded enthusiastically — two-thirds of eligible Americans voted in 2020, the highest turnout in over a century​. That’s a sign that when we make democratic participation more convenient and accessible, the people want to take part. Similarly, social scientists have found that even small tweaks — like automatic voter registration (registering eligible citizens by default when they interact with the DMV, unless they opt out) — can add millions of new voters to the rolls and diversify the electorate. In states that have implemented things like automatic registration or same-day registration, turnout and representation have improved modestly, because fewer people fall through the cracks due to paperwork or deadlines. These are the kinds of fixes within the system that can make a real difference. They don’t grab headlines like a riot or a revolution, but they quietly strengthen democracy.

Reimagining democracy “within the lines” means pursuing institutional reforms across the board: electoral reforms, legislative reforms, and bureaucratic reforms that collectively renew our republic. Here are a few pillars of what this path involves, and how they answer the challenges we outlined earlier:

• Make political power truly accountable to the people again (anti-plutocracy reforms). This includes revisiting our campaign finance laws to curb the dominance of big money — for example, overturning or neutralizing the effects of Citizens United (the Supreme Court decision that opened the floodgates for unlimited independent spending) and instituting public financing or matching funds that empower small donors. It means stronger ethics rules to break the link between lobbyist money and legislative outcomes, and perhaps even term limits or other measures to prevent the entrenchment of career politicians who lose touch with constituents. It also means tackling gerrymandering by establishing independent redistricting commissions, so that politicians no longer choose their voters by drawing crazy district lines. These steps would help ensure that elected officials actually fear losing power if they don’t respond to voters — not just if they displease donors. When representatives have to answer to all their constituents, not a safe partisan base or a handful of financiers, democracy becomes more responsive by design.

• Streamline governance and cut the sludge. This is about making government more user-friendly for citizens. We should treat excessive bureaucracy as a public enemy. Why shouldn’t registering a business, or applying for government benefits, or giving feedback on a proposed law be as simple as doing an online bank transaction? The private sector (think Amazon or Apple) has spent decades refining user experience to eliminate friction; our public sector should do the same for civic experience. The Biden administration, to its credit, launched initiatives to improve the “customer experience” of government, but we need to go further and adopt a mindset of continuous sludge audits​. Legal scholar Cass Sunstein has advocated for each agency to systematically measure how much time and effort it costs citizens to comply with its requirements — and then to slash those costs​. If an application form can be shortened from 10 pages to 2 without loss of information, do it. If wait times at the DMV average 4 hours, invest in systems to cut that to 30 minutes. Every hour and ounce of frustration saved is a restoration of faith. It signals that the government sees people’s time and dignity as valuable. Reducing sludge isn’t just technocratic tinkering; it is deeply democratic. It treats citizens like valued participants, not annoying inconveniences to a bureaucracy. And it lowers the hurdles that often keep the disadvantaged from accessing their rights (for instance, making voting or applying for aid easier particularly helps those who have inflexible jobs, disabilities, or less education — leveling the playing field).

• Embrace civic technology and real-time engagement. We live in the 21st century; our democracy should not operate like it’s still in 1787 (or even 1987). We have amazing tools — the internet, smartphones, data analytics — that could radically open up the channels between people and power. It’s time to use them for civic good. This could mean platforms that allow citizens to vote on local budget priorities, or to deliberate in online town halls that actually inform their representatives’ decisions. It could mean apps that send you notifications about what your city council or Congressperson is doing this week, and let you instantly register your opinion. Imagine if interacting with government was as intuitive as using social media — but for constructive dialogue, not trolling. There are already promising experiments: some cities have used participatory budgeting apps to let residents directly decide how to spend part of the budget. Nonprofits and startups have built tools to help people contact their lawmakers with a click, or to crowdsource ideas for legislation. The philosophy behind initiatives like my own company, Voter, a civic tech platform, is exactly this: to empower people to meaningfully interact with political power in real time, not just on Election Day. If we scale up these efforts, we can shorten the feedback loop of democracy from years to days or even minutes. Lawmakers should regularly consult citizen input gathered through such platforms — it’s like having a perpetual town hall that anyone can join from their phone. Of course, we have to guard against bots and extreme voices dominating (identity verification and moderation are key). But the potential to reconnect representatives and the represented, using modern tech, is extraordinary.

• Renew civic education and civic culture. Laws and tech alone aren’t enough; we need to rekindle a culture of civic responsibility and knowledge. For decades, civics has been neglected in education. Many Americans don’t understand how their government is supposed to work, or how to influence it (beyond voting in presidential elections). Reimagining democracy means investing in teaching people how to be effective citizens — how to organize, how to argue civilly, how to discern facts from propaganda, how to hold officials accountable. It means elevating civic participation as a core value — celebrating the people who engage in their communities, making public meetings more welcoming, lowering the temperature of partisan rhetoric so neighbors can talk to each other again. This is admittedly a slow, societal change, not something one policy can decree. But it’s crucial. We need to rebuild trust and empathy among citizens. While Voter aims to do its own part in this regard — acting as the Khan Academy or Duolingo, of civic engagement — programs like deliberative forums, national service, or even just more transparent local governance can help people feel again that democracy is a collective endeavor, not a spectator sport or a cage match. When citizens feel agency — that their voice and actions matter — the extremist appeal of “burn it down” fades. People fight for systems they’re invested in. So a renewed civic spirit is both an outcome and a catalyst of institutional reform.

• Address social and economic justice within democratic means. A revitalized democracy must also deliver results. If it remains grossly unjust in outcomes, people will still turn away. So we have to pair process reforms with a commitment to equity and anti-corruption in substance. That means policies that reduce inequality (like fairer taxation, quality education and healthcare for all, workers having a say in the economy) — achieved through debate and legislation, not decree. It means ensuring equal protection under the law is real (police reform, criminal justice reform), again through normal democratic channels. The idea is to prove that our existing system can respond to the cries for justice that fuel revolutionary fervor. The civil rights movement is a shining example: activists demanded America live up to its ideals — and through nonviolent protest and democratic pressure, they won landmark laws like the Civil Rights Act and Voting Rights Act. We have to continue that work. By making our union more perfect (inclusively prosperous and fair), we undercut the grievance that “the system only works for the rich or the privileged.” People will believe in democracy if democracy visibly believes in them.

None of this path is easy. In fact, it may in many ways be more painstaking than the other two. It requires patience, persistence, and a willingness to accept incremental progress. It demands we engage in the unglamorous labor of attending meetings, drafting policies, building coalitions — rather than storming barricades or simply clicking “Like” on a meme. It asks us to resist both cynicism and nihilism, those twin poisons of political life. But this path of reform is the only one that preserves the soul of our nation. It’s the path where we earn our democracy, day by day, rather than abandoning it or betraying it.

Crucially, it is a path already traveled at times in our history — which should give us hope. America has faced dysfunction and injustice before, and we have managed to reform ourselves within the system. The Progressive Era (roughly 1890s–1920s) is one example: confronted with the excesses of the Gilded Age — rampant corporate power, corruption, gross inequality — reformers didn’t throw out the Constitution. Instead, they amended it and passed laws to curb abuses. The 17th Amendment introduced direct election of Senators (ending the “millionaires’ club” of legislatures appointing cronies to the Senate)​. The Sherman Antitrust Act and other laws reined in monopolies. Campaign finance laws were first introduced. Labor rights were strengthened. These changes were hard-won, often taking years, but they worked within the framework and made the system more democratic. Likewise, the New Deal of the 1930s responded to the Great Depression not by scrapping the American government, but by innovating within it — creating Social Security, financial regulations, and public works that saved capitalism from its own failures and restored public confidence. And of course the civil rights movement of the 1950s–60s — it wasn’t a second civil war; it was a principled campaign that used protest, persuasion, and the courts to compel the political system to act. The result was America’s democracy becoming far more inclusive (extending voting rights, ending legal segregation) without a revolution or dictatorship. We can do big things through the system when there is public will. Our institutions can adapt — they have before.

Today, we need a new burst of such institutional creativity. Some ideas may sound radical but are achievable if momentum builds: for instance, expanding the Supreme Court or instituting term limits for justices to depoliticize the judiciary; or introducing ranked-choice voting and multi-member districts for Congress to break the two-party doom loop and give voters more choices. These are systemic changes one could enact via legislation or constitutional amendment, perfectly within the rules, yet transformative in effect. They’re the kind of bold-but-orderly reforms that could channel populist energy into constructive outcomes. Imagine a Congress where a third or fourth party could gain seats — you’d suddenly force more consensus-building and reduce extremism. Or imagine election seasons that aren’t drowned in billionaire-funded attack ads, because we passed robust campaign finance reform — citizens might actually get to weigh issues on the merits. None of these fixes are a panacea, but together, they could renew American democracy’s ability to solve problems and reflect the people’s will.

At the heart of this third path is a simple conviction: we do not need to destroy democracy in order to fix it. In fact, destroying it guarantees you can’t fix it. Instead, we need to use democracy to fix democracy — a quintessentially American approach, trusting in our ability to learn, argue, and course-correct through reason and persuasion. It is the philosophy of a mechanic tuning up a beautiful old engine, rather than that of an arsonist burning down the garage. It appeals to our reason and our faith at once: reason, in that it realistically appraises what is broken and methodically works to repair it; faith, in that it believes in the capacity of our fellow citizens and our inherited institutions to rise to the occasion when given the chance.

Is it emotionally satisfying? Perhaps not in the short term. It lacks the fiery drama of revolt or the smug ease of doing nothing. It requires something kind of radical in today’s climate: optimism and effort. But I would argue it’s ultimately far more fulfilling. There is deep, sincere satisfaction in seeing a community transformed because neighbors engaged and reformed a policy. There is pride in taking part, even a small part, in pushing an imperfect system to become a little more just. It’s the satisfaction of ownership — knowing this is our republic and we each have a hand in keeping it.

I think of the late Congressman and civil rights hero John Lewis, who literally shed blood on the Edmund Pettus Bridge in 1965 so that our democracy could include Black Americans who had been excluded. Until his last days, John Lewis preached the gospel of constructive engagement. “Democracy is not a state. It is an act,” he reminded us. “Each generation must do its part to help build what we called the Beloved Community.”​ In other words, democracy isn’t something that just is — it’s something we do. It’s a continuous act of creation, of tending the garden, of making “good trouble, necessary trouble” to push America closer to its ideals. Lewis and so many others like him didn’t give up on America, nor did they seek to destroy it. They loved America enough to fight for it the right way — through courage, sacrifice, and persuasion. They expanded our democracy within the lines, proving that change is possible without insurrection or tyranny.

That is our charge again today.

A Republic Reborn: Choosing the Hard Path of Renewal

So here we stand, faced with a choice that will define America’s future. Do we acquiesce to a comfortable decline into oligarchy — letting our democracy be stolen in slow motion by the powerful and the apathetic? Do we light the fuse on an explosion that could consume the very freedoms we cherish — gambling that from the wreckage a better system would somehow emerge? Or do we roll up our sleeves and get to work fixing what we have — risking disappointment, yes, but holding on to our fundamental values and the rule of law?

For me, the choice is clear. I choose reform. I choose renewal. I choose to fight for our democracy, not against it or apart from it. This path is not easy or guaranteed — we will surely suffer setbacks and frustrations. There will be days when cynicism whispers that it’s futile, that the entrenched interests are too deep or the public too divided. But we must remember that the American story is full of chapters where cynics were proven wrong by determined citizens. To quote the famed anthropologist, Margaret Mead, “Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world; indeed, it’s the only thing that ever has.” From the abolitionists to the suffragettes, from those who trust-busted the monopolies to those who landed humans on the Moon, we have again and again done the “impossible” through collective effort within our democratic system. Why should our generation be any different? We are no less capable of greatness.

Choosing the path of hopeful reform means believing in the promise of America — the promise that all are created equal and have a right to a voice in their governance. It means believing that our Constitution, while old, is not obsolete — it is a living document designed to be amended and interpreted in light of new realities. It means believing in each other — that our fellow Americans, however misled or apathetic some might seem now, can be partners in renewal if given inspiration and opportunity. This is a profoundly patriotic stance, in the truest sense. Patriotism isn’t flag-waving or chanting slogans; it’s a commitment to the welfare of the nation and its ideals. And right now, the welfare of the nation demands that we save our democracy from decay and despair.

I won’t sugarcoat it: the next decade or two will likely be a turbulent time. Forces of reaction and revolution will not disappear overnight. In fact, as we begin to implement reforms, some entrenched interests will fight back viciously. There will be court battles, contentious elections, maybe more scandals as we shine lights in dark corners. The public square might feel even noisier for a while as the long-neglected voices start speaking up. But that is the sound of progress — a democracy stirring from slumber. We must not mistake the turbulence of reform for failure. On the contrary, it will mean we are finally taking action.

To those who still doubt that our current system can change enough, I say: let’s try. Before you burn it down or walk away, give democratic renewal a genuine shot. Throw yourself into local civic work, support reformist candidates, join efforts to open up our institutions. You might be surprised how much can be done. Every time a state ends gerrymandering, or a city implements participatory budgeting, or a new voter is registered, that is democracy’s muscle being strengthened. Each small victory makes the next one more possible. Momentum can build, just as disillusionment can.

To those in power who secretly prefer the status quo: know that it cannot hold. A house divided against itself cannot stand, and a house built on injustice cannot endure. It is in your interest, too, to embrace reform — to yield some power now in order to save the whole system later. History is littered with elites who thought they could forever stifle change; in the end, change came for them catastrophically. Far better to be architects of renewal than obstacles to it.

In closing, I return to the wisdom of our founders and guardians. Benjamin Franklin, upon leaving the Constitutional Convention in 1787, was asked what kind of government the new United States would have. “A republic,” he replied, “if you can keep it.”​

That “if” has always been the catch. Each generation must keep the republic — must hold it together, tend to it, improve it, or else watch it slip away. We have kept it, sometimes barely, for over two centuries through civil war and depressions and great upheavals. Now it is our turn to face a great test.

I believe we can keep it — and not only keep it, but renew it for a new age. The path of reform is how we do so. By choosing this path, we reject the despair that says our best days are behind us. We reject the fear that would have us wreck our own foundations. Instead, we affirm that this grand experiment in democracy is worth fighting for — that it belongs to us, and that we intend to make it work for all of us.

America doesn’t need a savior from on high or a do-over in the dust. It needs us, we the people, in all our communities and diversity, to take ownership and fix what must be fixed. It needs a million small acts of citizenship and some bold structural changes — not one or the other, but both. It needs the lubricant of modern innovation and the cleansing light of transparency to flush out the muck. It needs the courage to evolve and the wisdom to retain what is good. It needs, above all, our faith that self-government is possible and righteous, so that we never surrender to those who declare it dead.

In the end, the future of American democracy is a choice. It is our choice. The crossroads is here. Down one road is a slow rot; down another, a blazing fire. But the third road, the one less traveled by in cynical times, is renewal. I invite you to walk that road with me — to push, to build, to heal. It will make all the difference.

Together, let’s keep our republic, and make it shine once again. Our democracy, reimagined and unclogged, can yet be a thing of living beauty — a government truly of the people, by the people, for the people, with doors open wide to the future. That is the American dream worth fighting for, and it’s still within our reach.

Let’s get to work.

Appendix: A Tool for the Third Path — Why We Built Voter

If democracy is the machine we’ve inherited, then the path of Renewal isn’t about scrapping it — it’s about tuning it, modernizing it, making it work again for the people it was meant to serve. That’s where Voter comes in. Not as a silver bullet, but as a practical tool in the kit. A wrench, not a revolution.

I started Voter because I was tired of watching good people tune out of a system that was never really designed to be easy, transparent, or user-friendly in the first place. People want to care — they just need a way in. Voter is that way in. It strips away the sludge: the friction, the confusion, the bureaucracy that makes civic participation feel inaccessible or irrelevant. We make it intuitive to know who represents you, what they’re doing, when your next election is, and how you can weigh in. No jargon, no maze of links. Just clarity, context, and a path to action.

But this isn’t just about convenience. It’s about power. When people have tools that make participation real-time — and make power more accountable — then the old games start to crack. Gerrymandering, apathy-by-design, information voids, performative politics… they lose their grip when people show up informed, confident, and connected. That’s the long game: not just bumping turnout, but rewiring our civic muscle memory.

Voter exists because we believe the promise of democracy isn’t dead — it’s just clogged. And we can fix that. Our platform is an operating system for the third path forward: a functioning, responsive democratic infrastructure for the 21st century. Something that meets people where they are, and helps them bring their full selves to the table — not every four years, but every day.

This isn’t a partisan project. It’s a democratic one. And like democracy itself, Voter will only work if people use it, shape it, and make it theirs.

We didn’t build this for headlines or hockey-stick growth. We built it as civic infrastructure — because democracy needs infrastructure. Not more content. Not more outrage. Tools. Interfaces. Systems that connect people to power in ways that actually work.

And at a basic level, we’ve done it. Voter is already live in Boston. It works. The interface is clean. The data is real. The bones are strong. What we need now isn’t a miracle. It’s support.

Because the truth is: scaling civic infrastructure costs money. If we want Voter to reach new cities, stay up to date, and add the features this moment demands, we need a foundation to stand on. We’ve bootstrapped our way to a functioning product — farther than most ever get without outside capital. But we can’t bootstrap our way to nationwide, let alone global, impact. If democracy is going to survive this century, tools like Voter can’t remain passion projects. They need to be treated like public utilities — because that’s what they are.

So if anything in this piece resonated — if you believe that the third path is not only possible but essential — then I’m asking you to help us build it.

That might mean investing. It might mean sharing this with someone in your orbit. It might mean connecting us to a partner, a funder, a city, or a cause. However you can show up, it matters.

You can reach us directly via our website’s contact or investor interest form — or just reach out to me personally. We’re open. We’re building. We’re ready.

We’re not trying to be a unicorn. We’re trying to be a utility. Something steady. Something public. Something built to last — like clean water, working power, or a functioning vote.

If you believe in the promise of democracy, then I hope you’ll believe in what Voter can become. And I hope you’ll join us.

Sincerely,

Alex Graybar

Founder & CEO | Voter, P.B.C.