The Weight of Gold: A Session with Dr. Rivera

The rain tapped against the windows like impatient fingers. Ten floors up, Seattle’s skyline vanished and reappeared behind shifting veils of mist. Donald Trump sat in the butter-soft leather chair, his body a study in contradictions—simultaneously inflated and deflated. His signature coiffed hair gleamed unnaturally gold against the muted office palette, carefully arranged to conceal the thinning patches. His face was a landscape of ruddy complexes—orange-tinged skin pulled tight over jowls that nonetheless sagged with the gravity of years. His eyes, small and sharp like pale blue tacks, darted around the room, taking inventory.

He wore a navy suit that strained slightly at the buttons, a red tie hanging longer than fashion dictated, and a peculiar air of both dominance and vulnerability that seemed to pulse around him like an aura. His large hands—not small, never small, he’d insist—rested on his knees, fingers spread wide as if to claim more territory.

Dr. Sophia Rivera sat opposite, her posture perfect, spine never touching the chair back. The silver streak in her precisely cut black bob caught the light when she tilted her head exactly fifteen degrees—a gesture of clinical curiosity. The thin scar bisecting her right eyebrow whitened slightly as she narrowed her gaze.

“You understand,” Trump said, his voice carrying the distinctive outer-borough cadence that millions now recognized, “this is completely confidential. Completely. I have very good lawyers, the best lawyers.”

Dr. Rivera touched the teardrop jade pendant at her throat briefly. “Everything in this room stays in this room, Mr. Trump. That’s how therapy works.”

“I don’t need therapy. I’m here for—what do you call it—a consultation. People say I should talk to someone. Smart people, very successful people.”

Dr. Rivera’s expression remained neutral. “Yet something brought you here today.”

Outside, a gull swept past the window, briefly visible before disappearing into the fog. Trump’s eyes followed it, then scanned the office—the Persian rug in rich, muted tones, the precise row of psychology texts on floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, the small collection of meaningful objects left by former patients. His gaze lingered on a single chess piece—a black knight—standing alone on a shelf.

“I’m under attack,” he said finally. “They’re all coming after me. The radical left, the deep state, the fake news. It’s a witch hunt, a total witch hunt. Nobody’s been treated worse, ever, in the history of this country.”

As he spoke, his hands moved in familiar patterns, punctuating words with sharp, chopping motions. Dr. Rivera noticed how his breath shortened with each perceived grievance, his chest expanding slightly beneath his suit jacket.

“That must feel overwhelming,” she said, her words carrying the barest trace of an accent, old blood Mexico buried beneath American soil.

“I don’t get overwhelmed. I’m very strong, very tough. The toughest, actually.” But something flickered across his face—like distant lightning behind clouds—gone before it fully registered.

Dr. Rivera’s inner voice was cataloging his presentation: Power posturing, external attribution patterns, binary thinking structures. She considered several value frameworks that might apply: Respect + Promotion Values + Power, perhaps, or possibly Loyalty + Existence Values + Power. She would need more information.

“Mr. Trump, do you ever find yourself feeling that your achievements are never quite enough? That no matter what you accomplish, there’s a hollow feeling afterward?”

His fingers tightened on his knees. Something vulnerable flashed in his eyes before the shutters came down.

“I’ve achieved more than anyone. More than Obama, more than Sleepy Joe. I built the greatest economy in history. You know what they say about me—I’m a very stable genius.” The phrase emerged with practiced ease, a verbal shield.

Dr. Rivera noticed how he shifted in the chair, leaning forward slightly as if to physically occupy more space in the room. A defense mechanism—expansion in response to perceived threat.

“May I ask about your father?” she said.

The question landed like a stone dropped in still water. Ripples of tension moved across Trump’s features. His jaw tightened, a muscle twitching beneath the orange-tinted skin.

“My father was a great man, a very successful man. Very tough, very strong. He taught me everything. The best lessons, really tremendous lessons about winning.”

Dr. Rivera nodded slightly. “And what happened when you didn’t win?”

Trump’s right hand curled into a loose fist. “I always win. Eventually. That’s what I do.”

“Always?”

A silence stretched between them. Outside, the rain intensified, streaking the windows. The soft click of the office heater provided punctuation to the moment.

“My father,” Trump began, then stopped. His voice, when he continued, had lost some of its bombast. “He didn’t accept… weakness. ‘Be a killer,’ he told me. That’s what it takes.”

Dr. Rivera watched as Trump’s gaze drifted toward the window, where Seattle had disappeared entirely behind the rain. In that unguarded moment, she saw something rarely visible to the public—a flicker of the child still living within the man, seeking an approval forever out of reach.

“Mr. Trump,” she said carefully, “would you say you’ve lived your life by a particular philosophy or motto?”

Dr. Rivera nodded, the scar above her eye crinkling slightly as she processed this. The statement was revealing—a window into his core belief system.

He turned back to her, the vulnerability vanishing behind familiar bluster. “Nobody can play the game of life better than me. Nobody. I’m the only one who can fix it. That’s what I always say, and it’s true.”

“I’d like to explore something with you,” she said, rising to retrieve a small object from her shelf. She returned with the black knight chess piece, rolling it between her fingers. “In chess, the knight moves differently from all other pieces—not in straight lines but in L-shapes. It can jump over obstacles. Would you say you see yourself that way? Moving differently from others, finding unconventional paths?”

“There was this moment,” he said, his voice unusually quiet, “during the first campaign. I was riding up the escalator at Trump Tower before the announcement. And for a second—just a second—I thought about turning around.”

Trump’s eyes fixed on the chess piece. Something shifted in his expression—a brief recognition, almost respect.

“I’ve always been different. I see things others don’t see. Opportunities. Angles. I make deals nobody else can make.”

“The knight is also limited,” Dr. Rivera continued. “It can never change its movement pattern. Do you ever feel… constrained by the expectations others have of you? By the persona you’ve created?”

His fingers drummed once on his knee. “People love my persona. They love it. The rallies, the crowds—you should see them. Massive crowds, just massive.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

The drumming stopped. Trump stared at her with sudden intensity, as if truly seeing her for the first time.

“You know, nobody talks to me like that. Nobody.”

“Like what?”

“Like… directly.” He seemed genuinely surprised.

Dr. Rivera placed the chess piece on the small table between them. “This is a space for directness, Mr. Trump. For exploring what exists beneath the familiar patterns.”

Trump’s gaze dropped to the knight, then back to her. Something unreadable passed across his face.

“What stopped you?”

His eyes met hers, and for the briefest moment, the performance dropped away. “I couldn’t.”

“Couldn’t?”

“People were watching.” Three simple words, laden with meaning.

Dr. Rivera’s fingers found her jade pendant again. In that moment, she understood something fundamental about the man before her—how a lifetime of performance had become inseparable from his sense of self, how the constant gaze of others had become both his sustenance and his prison.

The heater clicked again, sending warm air circulating through the office. Outside, a patch of blue appeared briefly in the gray sky before disappearing again.

“Mr. Trump, I’d like to ask you something that might seem unusual. If you could speak to the child version of yourself—the boy you once were—what would you tell him?”

Trump’s face went through a complex series of micro-expressions, too rapid to fully catalog. His breathing changed, becoming slightly shallower.

“I’d tell him…” he began, then stopped. His eyes, suddenly more vulnerable than she’d seen them, moved to the window. “I’d tell him it’s going to be a rough ride.”

The admission hung in the air between them.

Dr. Rivera leaned forward slightly. “What makes it rough?”

Trump’s focus returned to her, the vulnerability vanishing like mist under sudden sunlight. His posture stiffened, shoulders squaring.

“Nothing. Nothing makes it rough for me. I was just saying… for others. Others find it rough. I find it easy. Very easy.”

The defense mechanism was almost visible—a door slamming shut. Dr. Rivera recognized the pattern but didn’t press. Instead, she shifted approaches.

“In my work, I’ve found that people often operate from certain core emotional values. Some value power and achievement above all else. Others prioritize tradition and conformity. Still others seek stimulation and self-direction. I’m curious which resonates most with you.”

Trump’s eyebrows lifted slightly, interest piqued. “Power. Obviously power. But also loyalty. Loyalty is very important to me. The most important, maybe.”

Dr. Rivera nodded. “And how do you define loyalty?”

“Being on my side. Not turning against me.” His answer came quickly, reflexively.

“And have you found people to be generally loyal?”

Something dark flickered across his features. “No. They turn. When things get tough, they turn.”

“Everyone?”

He hesitated, genuinely considering. “My children. Some of them, anyway. Not everyone.”

Dr. Rivera made a small note in her leather-bound journal. Loyalty + Existence Values + Power—the Loyal Defender archetype. “I lead because I must protect; my strength exists to shield the vulnerable.” But perhaps with elements of Fairness + Promotion Values + Power—the Meritocratic Leader: “Influence should be earned through merit and used to promote fairness.”

“You mentioned your children,” she said. “How would you describe yourself as a father?”

Trump shifted in his seat, a momentary discomfort crossing his face. “I’m a good father. Very good. I provided everything—the best schools, the best opportunities. Everything.”

“And emotionally?”

His fingers spread wide on his knees again, claiming territory. “I’m not big on the emotional stuff. That wasn’t how I was raised. But they know… they know I’m their father.”

The hesitation was telling. Dr. Rivera sensed a complex knot of emotion there—pride, defensiveness, and perhaps something deeper. A recognition of limitation.

“Mr. Trump, if you don’t mind, I’d like to try something different.” She reached into a drawer and retrieved a small kaleidoscope, its brass casing catching the light. “Take a look through this, please.”

Trump took the object with an expression of bemused skepticism. “A toy? Really?”

“Humor me.”

With a small shrug, he lifted the kaleidoscope to his eye. For a moment, he was still, then he twisted the casing slightly.

“What do you see?” Dr. Rivera asked.

“Colors. Patterns. They keep changing.”

“That’s how I think about emotional experience,” she said. “We often try to reduce ourselves to single colors—I’m angry, I’m happy, I’m confident. But the reality is more like that kaleidoscope—complex patterns that shift and transform based on our perspective.”

Trump lowered the kaleidoscope, studying it with unexpected interest. “I’m not complicated. I’m very simple. What you see is what you get.”

“Is it?”

Their eyes met, and something unspoken passed between them—a challenge, a recognition.

“You know,” Trump said, setting the kaleidoscope down, “most people try to flatter me. They say what they think I want to hear. You don’t do that.”

“Would flattery help you?”

A small, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. “No.”

Dr. Rivera leaned forward slightly. “Mr. Trump, in our remaining time, I’d like to propose something. You’ve spent a lifetime being observed by others—analyzed, criticized, praised, vilified. What if we used this space differently? What if, just here, you could experiment with being the observer rather than the observed?”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning, what if you took a step back from Donald Trump—the persona, the brand, the public figure—and simply observed him as if he were someone else? What might you notice?”

Trump’s expression shifted through several emotions—skepticism, defensiveness, and then, surprisingly, interest.

“You mean like… watching myself from outside?”

“Exactly.”

He was quiet for a moment, considering. Then he leaned back slightly in the chair, his posture changing subtly.

“He’s… afraid,” Trump said finally, the words emerging as if from some long-sealed vault.

“Of what?”

His eyes fixed on a point somewhere beyond her shoulder. “Of being nothing. Of all the gold turning back to dust.”

The statement hung in the air, raw and unadorned, stripped of bombast. Dr. Rivera felt a shift in the room’s emotional current—a brief opening in the armor so carefully maintained.

Before she could respond, Trump’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He glanced at it, and his expression transformed instantly—the mask sliding back into place with practiced ease.

“I have to take this,” he said, standing abruptly. “Very important call, from some very important people. The most important.”

Dr. Rivera rose as well, recognizing the retreat. “Of course. We can continue next time.”

Trump paused at the door, hand on the knob. For a moment, he seemed poised to say something more, something unrehearsed. The fluorescent light from the hallway cast his shadow long across her office floor.

“You know,” he said, “they say I’m the best at everything. The absolute best.” The familiar phrase carried an unfamiliar note—almost a question.

“And what do you say, Mr. Trump?”

His eyes, suddenly weary behind the bluster, met hers. “I say… I’d better be.”

He closed the door behind him with surprising gentleness, leaving Dr. Rivera alone with the rain against the windows and the kaleidoscope on the table, its fractured patterns momentarily stilled.

She touched her jade pendant, feeling its cool weight against her skin, and thought about armor—how it both protects and imprisons, how the strongest fortresses can become the deepest traps. And she wondered what might happen if Donald Trump ever truly laid his down.