There’s an old saying in politics: “If you want to go fast, go alone. If you want to go far, go together.” For decades, the West moved farther and faster than any other coalition in history—not because we were perfect, but because we recognized that our strength lay in our shared values, our collective resolve, and the unshakable belief that democracy, when paired with diplomacy, could bend the arc of history toward justice.

But in recent years, that momentum has stalled. And while history will debate many factors, one truth is clear: the era of “America First” did not just redefine U.S. foreign policy—it unraveled the very fabric of the Western alliance.

Let’s speak plainly. When we treat allies like adversaries, we lose more than leverage—we lose trust. When we mock multilateralism as weakness, we cede moral authority to those who see the world as a jungle, not a community. And when we abandon agreements like the Paris Climate Accord or the Iran nuclear deal—deals painstakingly negotiated to address existential threats—we don’t just walk away from pieces of paper. We walk away from our word.

Consider the North Atlantic Treaty Organization, a beacon of solidarity forged from the ashes of World War II. Yes, member states needed to invest more in defense. But when the leader of the free world labels NATO “obsolete” and dangles doubts about Article 5—the sacred promise that an attack on one is an attack on all—we don’t just undermine budgets. We undermine the idea that democracies stand together. Ask any European leader: Those words left scars.

Or look to trade.

Tariffs framed as “protecting jobs” too often became weapons wielded against allies. Farmers in Wisconsin and manufacturers in Ohio felt the sting of retaliation, while autocrats smirked at the spectacle of Western infighting. This wasn’t strength—it was self-sabotage, a reminder that economics, like security, is a team sport.

Then there’s the shadow cast over our values.

When we praise dictators while attacking judges, reporters, and peaceful protesters; when we turn away refugees fleeing violence; when we dismiss the importance of truth itself—we don’t just weaken our alliances. We weaken our identity. The West has never been perfect, but it has always stood for something: the radical notion that individuals matter, that laws matter, that right matters more than might. When we stop acting like that’s true, we stop being who we are.

Critics will say, “What’s the harm in shaking things up?” But here’s the harm: In a world that is about to rewrite global rules the West cannot afford to be divided. When we retreat into transactionalism, we leave a vacuum—and authoritarians rush in.

This isn’t about politics. It’s about arithmetic.

A united West is greater than the sum of its parts. A fractured West is less than the smallest of them.

So where do we go from here? Not backward. The answer isn’t nostalgia for a pre-Trump era that, for all its flaws, understood the power of solidarity. It’s forward—with renewed purpose. We must reinvest in alliances not as relics, but as living partnerships. We must reject the lie that leadership means going it alone. And we must once again embrace the audacious idea that our shared future is worth fighting for—not just with arms, but with empathy, with patience, and with the courage to listen.

The West was never a building or a treaty. It was a promise. And promises, once broken, take more than words to mend. They take action. They take humility. They take remembering that the light we carry—the light of democracy, of human dignity, of collective hope—burns brightest not when we shield it for ourselves, but when we hold it aloft for others.

That is the West we must rebuild.