Why Debating Republicans (Almost) Never Works—And What to Do Instead
The real reason GOP voters seem impervious to facts and reason.
If you’ve ever tried to persuade a Trump supporter and come away feeling frustrated, exhausted, or like you were talking to a wall—you’re not alone.
One reader described his experience this way: “I used to love debating smart conservatives in law school. We didn’t always agree, but the conversations were thought-provoking. These days, they just feel pointless.”
When he moved from California to Oklahoma, he was stunned by how his political discussions changed. One person he met asked why California had made it legal to give people AIDS. When he calmly corrected the misinformation, he expected curiosity—or at least a pause. Instead, the man replied, “That’s just your opinion.”
No matter how respectfully he tried to engage—whether with facts, evidence, or legal reasoning—he found himself thwarted. One conservative friend told him flatly, “Nobody can ever know anything for sure,” rejecting the very idea of expertise.
Eventually, the lawyer stopped trying. “I’d rather talk to people who haven’t made up their minds than waste energy debating MAGA conservatives,” he said.
His story is one I hear often, especially from people trained in argumentation. And it raises an important question:
What if the reason we can’t get through to Trump supporters isn’t that they’re irrational, but that we’re using the wrong method of persuasion?
We assume that debating with facts and reason changes minds. But when it comes to politics, they usually don’t. Because persuasion is less about the quality of your argument, than whether the other person trusts you enough to listen.
Why Debate Works Inside a Courtroom, But Usually Fails Outside It
Most people approach political discussions the way a lawyer goes to trial: gather evidence, present your argument, and rebut the opposition.
That approach makes sense in courtrooms where the people hearing your case don’t have strong prior opinions. But it doesn’t work when you’re trying to persuade your peers.
Judges and juries are chosen for their impartiality. They’re expected to weigh arguments fairly and base their decisions on facts and reason. The courtroom is designed to reward logic and suppress bias.
But outside the courtroom, those conditions don’t apply. When politics comes up in everyday discourse, we’re not talking with neutral arbitrators. We’re talking with people who already have strong preexisting beliefs.
Trying to convince someone they’re wrong under those circumstances isn’t like persuading a jury or judge. It’s more akin to a prosecutor trying to convince a defendant that they’re guilty. It’s almost impossible.
That’s why political debates so often fail to persuade. It’s not because people are irrational, but because we’re using the wrong tools. We’re relying on courtroom tactics in a context that calls for connection, not confrontation.
The Elephant and the Rider
If debate doesn’t persuade people with prior opinions, what does?
Psychologists have found there are two main pathways to persuasion:
One is rational—based on logic and evidence.
The other is emotional—based on intuition, identity, and trust.
Most of us were trained to use the rational path when trying to persuade someone. But in practice, it’s the emotional one that’s most common and powerful. To explain why, psychologist Jonathan Haidt offers a powerful metaphor: the mind is like a rider on an elephant.
The rider represents our analytical self—the part that reasons and weighs evidence. The elephant is everything else: our emotions, instincts, habits, and social attachments. We like to think the rider is in control. But more often, the rider is just along for the ride—justifying whatever direction the elephant already wants to go.
That’s not a flaw in human psychology. It’s a feature.
Most of our beliefs form early, through our families, communities, and culture—long before we’re capable of analyzing them. By the time we’re old enough to reason, our elephants have already developed deep convictions about who to trust, what’s right, and how the world works. The rider’s job isn’t to seek truth—it’s to defend the elephant’s path.
This is why political discussions so often go in circles. Even when two people appear to be having a rational debate, their elephants have already chosen opposing directions. The result isn’t persuasion—it’s polarization.
Of course, there are moments when the rider can steer—when the elephant feels safe, curious, or uncertain. But when it feels attacked, the rider stops listening and starts defending. That’s why persuasion doesn’t start with the rider. It starts with the elephant.
What Blocks the Elephant from Changing Direction?
Elephants can change direction. But change only happens when the elephant approves. And in political conversations, that’s rarely the case.
When someone’s identity, autonomy, or social belonging feels under threat, the elephant doesn’t consider taking a different path. It defends itself and its herd while the rider offers clever rationalizations.
These psychological defenses aren’t signs of irrationality. They’re protective instincts. Here are four of the most common:
1. Reactance
When people feel controlled or coerced, they instinctively push back—not because your argument is wrong, but because their autonomy feels under threat. Reactance doesn’t weigh evidence. It rebels.
2. Ego Defenses
Admitting we were wrong or misled can feel like a threat to our self-worth. To avoid shame, the elephant leans on denial, projection, or rationalization. It would rather charge ahead than stop to face a painful truth.
3. Group and Identity Defenses
Many of our beliefs aren’t just opinions—we inherit them from people we love and communities we belong to. Challenging those beliefs can feel like betraying our tribe. The elephant resists—not out of certainty, but out of loyalty.
4. Cognitive Defenses
Thinking is hard. To conserve energy, the elephant favors familiar ideas and avoids contradictions. Confirmation bias reinforces what it already believes and helps it feel safe. And the smarter the rider, the better they are at rationalizing their prior views.
These defenses explain why even brilliant people can cling to falsehoods: not because they’re unintelligent, but because their elephants are scared—and their riders are busy defending the path they’re already on.
Neuroscience backs this up. Imaging studies by Drew Westen and Jonas Kaplan show that when people confront information or arguments contrary to their political beliefs, their brains light up in emotional and defensive regions—not the ones used for reason
In short: when the elephant feels safe, the rider can explore. But when it feels threatened, the rider becomes a lawyer—not a scientist.
The Fast Path to Persuasion
Once we understand that beliefs are primarily emotional and social, the speed at which they can sometimes shift makes more sense too. When the elephant feels safe and gets a signal from someone it trusts, change can happen quickly, without the need to analyze facts or reason.
Consider Republicans under Donald Trump. When he praised Vladimir Putin, GOP attitudes toward Russia softened almost overnight. When he applauded Kim Jong-un, long-held conservative hostility toward North Korea gave way to admiration. When he embraced tariffs, the party of free trade embraced protectionism. Even the FBI—long revered by conservatives—became suspect after it investigated Trump.
These reversals didn’t come from new evidence or reasoned debate. They came from one powerful source: a trusted leader giving the herd permission to shift. The elephant moved. The rider caught up and explained the new path after the fact.
That’s how powerful emotional trust and group identity are. When they align, belief change isn’t just possible—it’s effortless.
And just to be clear—this isn’t a Republican thing. It’s a human thing.
Yale law professor Dan Kahan’s research shows that both liberals and conservatives are prone to this type of partisan influence. Not only did he find that people literally do worse at math when the right answer contradicts their political beliefs, but participants rated identical welfare proposals differently depending on whether they were labeled “Democratic” or “Republican.”
In other words, most political persuasion has nothing to do with facts and reason at all.
Why Debate Used to Work Better
If it feels like facts and reason used to be more effective than they are now, you’re not imagining it. In many contexts, they did work better.
But not because people were more rational. It’s because trust was more common.
For much of the 20th century, Americans shared more common ground—public schools, civic rituals, national tragedies, even evening news. There were still deep divisions, but people often operated from a shared set of facts and assumptions. They trusted that their opponents were arguing in good faith. They believed government was looking out for them. They respected expertise, even when they disagreed with it.
That trust created the conditions where reason could flourish.
But over the past few decades, social identities have sorted and political identities have hardened. Democrats and Republicans now live in different places, watch different news, achieve different levels of education, work different jobs, and often speak different moral languages.
Politics has become, in the words of political scientist Liliana Mason, a mega-identity—one that fuses race, culture, religion, and geography. And once that happened, people didn’t just disagree with each other. They began to see each other as threats.
Trust eroded. And without trust, reason faltered.
Today, people rarely evaluate arguments. They evaluate who’s making them. And if that person is from the “other side,” the elephant bolts before the rider even gets a chance to hear what was said.
So it’s not that reason stopped working. It’s that the conditions that made reason possible—emotional trust, shared identity, mutual respect—have broken down.
Talk to the Elephant First
If the elephant doesn’t trust you, the rider can’t hear you.
That’s the heart of why facts and logic so often fail—not because Republicans are irrational, but because the emotional part of their brain isn’t ready to receive them. When people feel threatened—socially, emotionally, or ideologically—they don’t open up. They shut down. Their rider stops listening and starts justifying.
But when the elephant trusts you, the rider can do real thinking.
This doesn’t mean people never listen to pure reason. They do, especially when the elephant doesn’t have a strong prior opinion on the subject. In those moments, the rider is free to weigh new ideas without being overridden by fear, shame, or group loyalty.
But those moments are rare.
The rest of the time—when the person does have a strong prior opinion—we have to earn the elephant’s trust before making our case. That’s why persuasion isn’t about having the strongest arguments. It’s about creating the emotional conditions for someone to even consider them.
How to Build Trust: The Smart Politics Trust Pyramid
If you want to persuade someone, you have to earn their trust. And trust isn’t a single thing—it’s something you build, step by step.
At Smart Politics, we use a framework called the Trust Pyramid to guide that process. It’s a five-level structure, each layer designed to lower defenses and create the conditions for honest conversation.
To build trust, you start at the bottom—and only move up when the foundation is solid.
1. Comfort
Make the other person feel emotionally safe. Let them know you’re not there to criticize, correct, or convert them. You’re just curious about how they see the world and you won’t think less of them as a person if they say something you disagree with.
2. Connection
Build rapport and mutual respect. Share a laugh. Talk about something you have in common. Acknowledge your own discomfort with political conversations. Vulnerability opens the door to closeness.
3. Comprehension
Ask real questions. Listen to understand, not to refute. Reflect back what you hear in your own words—without judgment. Help them feel seen.
4. Compassion
Let them know you care. You’re not just there to win an argument—you care about their story, their feelings, their values. Show concern for their suffering and the suffering of the people they love.
5. Credibility
To the extent possible, show them that you are a sane, fair, relatively unbiased, and knowledgeable person. Admit when you are wrong and change your mind when warranted.
When you build the Trust Pyramid over the course of a conversation, people feel safe, seen, and supported, and their elephant becomes increasingly content spending time with you. And when the elephant is happy, the rider is free to think.
But here’s the catch: trust is fragile. Even once it’s earned, it can be lost in a moment—through judgment, condescension, or control. If the elephant spooks, the conversation shuts down.
That’s why real persuasion isn’t a performance. It’s a relationship. And relationships take patience, care, and practice.
What Talking with the Elephant Looks Like in Practice
Let’s say your brother says, “Trump was right to pardon the January 6 protesters. They were heroes.”
Your first impulse might be to debate—cite the timeline, list the convictions, present the facts. But to engage his elephant, not just his rider, you take a different approach.
You say, “Thanks for raising this. I know it’s a hard topic to talk about. You and I may have very different ideas about what happened that day, but no matter what, my feelings about you as a person aren’t going to change.”
That’s comfort. You’ve made it emotionally safe to continue.
Then you add, “Honestly, I haven’t always handled our political conversations well and I feel bad about it. I’m trying to do better now. Would you be open to talking about it a little?”
That’s connection. A little vulnerability can go a long way.
You ask, “What makes you see them as heroes?” You listen. You follow up. Then you say, “So, if I understand right, you see them as patriots—people who believed they were protecting the country, not trying to cause harm?”
That’s comprehension. You’re showing that you care enough to understand his perspective.
After he agrees with your reflection, you say, “I can see why you’d feel that way. If I believed the election was stolen, I’d be angry too. It must be frustrating to feel like so many people dismiss your concerns.”
That’s compassion. You’re validating his experience while showing concern for his wellbeing.
Then, if the moment feels right, you might offer: “You know, one thing that’s struck me is how different the day looks depending on which videos you’ve seen. It’s made me more careful about drawing conclusions too quickly. There’s a lot of manipulation out there—from all sides—and I think people like us need to stay sharp.”
That’s credibility. You’re showing you’ve thought about this issue, become informed, and tried not to rush to judgment on one side or another.
This won’t change his mind. But it will change something just as important: how he feels about talking with you. You’ve shown him he can disagree with you and still feel respected. And that makes him more likely to stay in the conversation next time.
That’s how persuasion begins—not with an argument, but with a relationship that can hold a hard conversation—perhaps even one that involves facts and reason.
How Opinion Change Really Happens
When someone changes their mind, it often seems sudden. One day they’re firm in their beliefs, and the next, they’re rethinking everything.
But that’s rarely how it actually happens.
Most belief change is quiet and slow. It happens in small moments of doubt, tension, or contradiction. At the time, these doubts may not seem important. But they accumulate.
Each time someone hears a new perspective that doesn’t immediately trigger their defenses, it leaves a mark. If the elephant feels safe, the rider might pause long enough to consider it. But if the elephant is scared, ashamed, or trying to protect its group, that thought doesn’t even make it in.
When the elephant is calm, though, the idea gets placed—metaphorically—on a shelf in the mind. Not adopted, not rejected. Just set aside for later.
Over time, that shelf fills up. A little inconsistency here. A moment of empathy there. A nagging question that won’t quite go away.
And then one day, the shelf breaks.
Suddenly, all the doubts spill out into consciousness. And what seemed like a sudden change is actually the result of many earlier moments when the elephant didn’t feel the need to defend itself, and the rider had room to think.
Even the person who changes their mind may not remember those earlier moments. They may credit the last conversation as the turning point. But it only mattered because of everything that came before.
That’s why how we talk to people matters—even when it doesn’t seem to make a difference. You never know which moment might land on the shelf or break it.
Conversation Works, Debate Doesn’t
Like the lawyer who commented on my article, I was trained to argue. As a debater and a scientist, I believed that if I could just lay out the facts clearly and logically enough, people would see the light.
And sometimes that works—in courtrooms, classrooms, and scientific communities where reason is expected and rewarded. But if you’re talking to someone whose political beliefs are firmly established, debate doesn’t transform. It solidifies.
Debate makes people feel judged. It frames the exchange as a contest—with a winner and a loser. That alone is enough to activate someone’s defenses. Their elephant takes over, and the rider starts building a case—not for what’s actually true, but for what feels right.
That’s why conversation—not debate—is the foundation of real change.
Conversation creates space for reflection. Instead of saying, “You’re wrong,” it asks, “What does this mean to you?” It’s grounded in curiosity, not control.
And when people feel safe—when their elephant doesn’t feel pressured or shamed—their rider gets a chance to think.
That’s when doubts can start accumulating. That’s when new ideas get placed gently on the shelf, waiting for their moment. That’s when change becomes possible.
You won’t see it happen all at once. But if you’ve earned someone’s trust, you’ve already done the hardest part.
This article is part of The Smart Politics Way, a progressive newsletter about defending democracy through persuasive engagement. Dr. Karin Tamerius is a political psychiatrist and the founder of Smart Politics.
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