When Elizabeth May takes the podium, she speaks with the fluid, impassioned cadence of a lifelong advocate. When Donald Trump commands the camera, he performs with the confrontational bravado of a reality show host-turned-demagogue. At first glance, the two share little in common. But a deeper psychoanalytic reading of their public personas reveals striking similarities — not in ideology, but in how they stage themselves in the political arena.
Both May and Trump use communication not merely to convey ideas, but to construct identities — to craft selves that become inseparable from the message. In Trump’s case, his rhetoric often circles back to personal grievance, dominance, and betrayal. He projects himself as the singular savior of a nation “ripped off” by weak predecessors and foreign enemies. His press events are thick with repetition, exaggeration, and theatrical gestures — tactics that anchor his identity as a mythic strongman. He performs certainty, even when contradicting himself.
Elizabeth May’s communications, though substantively different, also centre the self. Her language, especially in campaign settings, leans on personal credibility and narrative — invoking decades of environmental activism and moral authority. When asked tough questions, she often pivots back to her own record. Like Trump, she claims authenticity — not by proving facts, but by staging herself as the trustworthy vessel of truth. The self, rather than the platform, becomes the filter for belief. In this election, May’s signs read “Canada needs Elizabeth May”.
This mode of political selfhood can be understood through the psychoanalytic concept of the “ego ideal” — the internalized image of what one must be to gain love, approval, or moral worth. Trump projects an ego ideal of invincibility: the dealmaker, the winner, the alpha male. May’s ego ideal is the wise elder and guardian of the truth — the rational moral voice above the political fray. Both create a closed feedback loop: attacks are repelled not with accountability, but by doubling down on the sanctity of the self.
Even their relationships to adversaries reveal a shared structure. Trump demonizes — enemies are “crazy,” “corrupt,” or “stupid.” May pathologizes — critics are “misguided,” “divisive,” or “outside the party’s values.” In both cases, conflict becomes a test of loyalty to the identity they’ve constructed. You’re either with them — or you’re against the version of themselves they insist is essential to the national good.
This personalization of politics reveals a paradox. Leaders like Trump and May reject the conventional trappings of technocratic politics, yet in doing so, make themselves more central than any policy. The self is not just the messenger; it is the message. The hl is to get the population to trust the individual rather than the policy; a strategy which leaves room for leaders to compremise or change policy while playing on trust.
For Green voters who want bold policy ideas — like a wealth tax, demilitarization, or robust climate action — the party’s over reliance on May’s moral persona may be a double-edged sword. As Jonathan Pedneault struggles to distinguish his own political identity, May’s presence overshadows even co-leadership — revealing just how much the Green brand is tied to her self-narrative.
At a time of ecological crisis, economic anxiety, and geopolitical upheaval, perhaps what’s needed is not more personality, but a return to policy based campaigns. Yet in the performance-driven terrain of modern politics, where larger than life reality TV hosts and comedians hold office and negotiate war peace and out collective future; personality based politics can yield results.
