Why Only Psychoanalysis Can Save Our Politics

Because of social media’s ubiquity, we now see widespread political engagement but little debate over what it truly takes to be “political,” which may help explain the global rise of populism. These qualifications are not black and white, but a matter of degree. I would argue that the extent to which we engage in politics should match our capacity to psychoanalyze ourselves. Here is why.

Why does etiquette dating back to the 18th century or beyond advise against discussing politics and religion in social settings, such as bars and dinner parties? It is because these topics can quickly devolve into fights. In other words, we have learned to repress political thoughts in polite company, which reveals that the political and the psychoanalytic are intertwined at a fundamental level. We instinctively avoid such discussions because they can threaten our sense of self—our ego.

We all expend tremendous energy maintaining mental images of ourselves that are acceptable to us. Certain ideas, if they probe deeply enough, can undermine this self-image, like shifting one of the lower cards in a house of cards. Psychotherapy, in contrast to psychoanalysis, is designed to strengthen or stabilize this house of cards rather than reconfigure its foundation.

Shifting some of the topmost cards is not difficult if you are confident enough in yourself. Conversations about a film, for example, might shift a few upper cards, which can even be enjoyable—like riding a rollercoaster or watching a horror movie. However, when you debate politics, a disagreement can threaten the cards at the bottom. In response, you naturally feel compelled to protect the entire structure of your self-image. If your goal is simply to defend it, how productive can a political debate be? If your opponent introduces an idea that forces you to question core assumptions, you must be free and willing to reconsider those lower cards. Otherwise, the debate cannot move forward.

Everyone wants to believe they are capable of this kind of introspection. Yet the problem with social media is that it allows us to simulate such openness without risking anything. You can share your most honest thoughts with thousands of followers, but if no one significantly disagrees with you—because you have already unfollowed or blocked them, or because anonymity eliminates real-life consequences—your belief that you are genuinely open-minded remains untested. This simulation of risk fuels much of today’s politics.

We try to dismantle our opponents’ houses of cards without jeopardizing our own. If there is so little at stake, how realistic can our political opinions be? It is no wonder that opposing views appear delusional when we never allow ourselves to be similarly challenged.

Within our political bubbles, sharing opinions and sentiments operates more like psychotherapy: it reinforces our house of cards. Debating with someone who truly disagrees, on the other hand, can destabilize our house of cards, akin to psychoanalysis.

The aim of psychoanalysis is not to destroy the ego but to reconfigure it. Because our ego is inherently fragile, we suffer from various neuroses. Yet we cannot function socially without some form of ego, which means neuroses are unavoidable. The question is which kinds of suffering or symptoms are tolerable. Psychotherapy tends to manage symptoms, whereas psychoanalysis can rework the foundation of the house of cards. The latter is understandably frightening—what if the structure collapses altogether? Hence, psychotherapy remains more practical and popular.

I am not saying everyone should be psychoanalytic. I am saying that if you want to be political, you have a moral obligation to be psychoanalytic. It is unfair to risk destabilizing someone else’s ego while refusing to expose your own to the same risk. If you are unwilling to let your sense of self be challenged, you are free to abstain from politics. But engaging in politics without accepting this risk leads to delusional positions that further social instability.

When you share political memes or join large protests with like-minded people, you reinforce a collective fantasy in which your own ego is never seriously threatened. You would do more good by debating someone face to face—someone who truly disagrees. Changing one person’s house of cards, whether it’s yours or theirs, is more meaningful than fueling a fantasy that cements everyone’s biases and angers the opposition.

When I suggest a psychoanalytic approach, some accuse me of making ad hominem attacks—criticizing a person’s character instead of their argument. However, if someone’s deeper motivations are misguided, arguing the merits of their position may be pointless. Consider someone who hates his father but cannot confront him, so he displaces that anger onto certain political figures who remind him of his father. He believes he is politically motivated by a desire to improve society, when in fact he seeks relief from his unresolved paternal conflict. If those political problems were truly resolved, he would lose his outlet for anger. Thus, he has a vested interest in not solving them.

In practice, such individuals rarely engage in genuine debate, as they instinctively know it is too risky: the conversation might threaten the lower cards in their house. If their real motivation is personal relief, not social change, they gain little by engaging anyone who could destabilize their self-image.

This also explains why we see so much self-righteousness combined with demands for “safe spaces.” We want the freedom to criticize others without feeling vulnerable. We want to vent without being challenged. Because many people use political engagement as a way to alleviate personal suffering rather than to solve genuine societal problems, the challenge is not welcomed.

Regardless of the root cause—hatred of parents or some other displaced feelings—our political landscape is filled with people whose motivations are not what they claim. Their engagement fans the chaos. To restore genuine political debate, we need psychoanalytic thinking. Without it, we get battles of clashing fantasies that lead nowhere. Since neither side wants real solutions, conflict continues for conflict’s sake.

When you do engage such pseudo-political people, you often notice they lack interest in learning how things actually work (e.g., studying laws or analyzing data). If their real aim is to vent their neuroses, studying or seeking pragmatic solutions becomes irrelevant. If you offer a legal explanation that should dispel their fears, they get agitated, not reassured. A practical solution is taken as a threat to their outlet for anger. They will criticize you, claiming you are “emotionally blind,” because you are denying them their chance to vent.

“Reality does not care about your feelings” is a familiar claim. While the laws of physics may not care about our feelings, our social reality does. We cannot simply wish away our feelings or logic them out of existence. Feelings matter because they exist, and they are not always rational.

That said, while our social reality often must consider feelings, political decisions—like scientific processes—cannot always prioritize them if we hope to make collective progress. This is a core political reality: a society ultimately must make decisions that often clash with personal feelings. Still, there is a place for feelings. When a dinner party’s goal is to have a pleasant evening, we prioritize harmony over logic. But in politics, we need to accept that our views might hurt someone’s feelings and, likewise, theirs may hurt ours. Feeling hurt does not automatically mean your opponent is at fault. It could be that you have held onto a faulty assumption your entire life. If you cannot accept the possibility of being hurt, you might be better off not engaging in politics at all. It is unfair to expect others to accept your opinions unconditionally while refusing to grant the same to them.

Lastly, many people believe psychoanalysis should be left only to licensed professionals, but even professionals disagree on what qualifies someone to practice it. Some doubt that reading books or formal training can truly certify a psychoanalyst. Who, then, decides these standards?

For me, these questions miss the point. One can think psychoanalytically without being formally trained, just as one can think mathematically without a degree. Many criticize psychoanalytic thinking because they fear it. Yet our current political climate increasingly requires this depth of self-reflection. Without it, we are stuck in a vicious cycle of endless conflict, where no one wants solutions. I believe only psychoanalytic thinking can break that cycle.