I'm willing to sacrifice a little. That's been totally lost.
In the farming towns of northeast Colorado, where gas prices have doubled since Trump took office, a quiet but deliberate act of political faith is unfolding. Rural voters — feeling the strain in their grocery budgets and fuel tanks — are choosing to frame economic hardship not as betrayal, but as sacrifice in service of a larger cause: preventing a nuclear Iran. Their loyalty is not born of ignorance but of a hierarchy of fears, one in which existential security outweighs immediate financial relief. It is an old human story, the willingness to endure present pain for a future one believes in.
- Gas prices have doubled to $4.34 a gallon in rural Colorado, forcing families to choose between filling their tanks and filling their refrigerators.
- Nationally, nearly 80% of Americans blame Trump for the fuel surge, and his economic approval has collapsed to 30% — a stunning fall for a president who once owned the economy as his signature issue.
- Yet along Highway 52, voters in Morgan and Weld counties are not wavering — they are reframing the pain as patriotic sacrifice, invoking the shared hardship of World War II rationing.
- Even voters who don't fit the rural Republican mold — a young gay Christian woman, a lifelong independent — are holding firm, citing fear of a nuclear Iran and distrust of Democratic alternatives as anchors of their loyalty.
- Trump's rural base appears to be running not on economic satisfaction but on something harder to erode: a sense of cultural and existential solidarity that inflation alone may not break.
Amy Van Duyn watches the gas price sign from behind the counter at a liquor store in Wiggins, Colorado. It reads $4.34 a gallon — about double what it was when Trump took office. Her coworker has started doing the math at the grocery store differently, watching her paycheck disappear into the fuel tank. Both women remain committed Trump supporters in a county that backed him by nearly fifty points.
Nationally, the picture is starker. Fuel prices have climbed past $4.50 a gallon, driven by the escalating confrontation with Iran. A Reuters poll found nearly eight in ten Americans blame the president, and his economic approval has fallen to 30%. When asked whether the financial strain might push him toward a deal with Tehran, Trump was direct: preventing Iran from obtaining nuclear weapons is the only thing that matters.
But along the two-lane roads of northeast Colorado, lined with grain elevators and oil pumpjacks, a different logic holds. In conversations across Morgan and Weld counties — which haven't voted Democratic in a presidential election since 1964 — voters described a willingness to absorb the pain. Jim Miller, a retired commodities broker, invoked World War II rationing and spoke of sacrifice as a lost American virtue. Mike Urbanowicz, a grain trader whose cooperative moves 150 truckloads daily, acknowledged Trump had been naive about solving the problem quickly but said the Democratic alternative was worse.
The loyalty extends beyond the traditional rural Republican base. Lexys Siebrands, twenty-two, is a gay woman who once identified as a Democrat before switching parties around 2022. She accepts the Iran conflict as something that was going to happen regardless of who was in the White House. Her mother hates the gas prices but fears a nuclear Iran more. Asked if anything could shake her faith in Trump's handling of the situation, she said simply: no.
What these conversations reveal is not blind allegiance but a deliberate hierarchy of fears — one in which existential security concerns outrank economic relief. These voters feel the pain. They acknowledge it openly. But they have built a narrative in which the sacrifice is necessary, even honorable. Whether that bond can survive sustained hardship remains uncertain, but for now, in the farming towns of Colorado, it holds.
Amy Van Duyn stands behind the counter at Stubs liquor store in Wiggins, Colorado, watching the gas price sign through the window. It reads $4.34 a gallon—roughly double what people in this farming town were paying when Trump took office last year. She used to fill her tank for thirty-six dollars. Now that same amount gets her halfway there. Her coworker Tonyah Bruyette has started doing the math differently when she shops for groceries, watching her paycheck evaporate into the fuel tank instead of feeding her family. Both women remain steadfast Trump supporters in a county that backed him by nearly fifty points in 2024.
The numbers tell a different story nationally. Fuel prices have climbed past four dollars and fifty cents across the country, driven by the escalating confrontation with Iran. A Reuters poll found that nearly eight in ten Americans blame the president for the surge. His approval rating on economic matters has collapsed to thirty percent—a striking reversal for someone who once claimed stewardship of the economy as his strongest suit. When asked this week whether the financial strain on ordinary Americans might push him toward a deal with Tehran, Trump was blunt: he doesn't think about Americans' financial situation. The only thing that matters is preventing Iran from obtaining nuclear weapons.
But along Highway 52 in northeast Colorado, a two-lane road lined with grain elevators and oil pumpjacks, a different calculus prevails. In two dozen conversations across Morgan and Weld counties—places that haven't voted Democratic in a presidential election since 1964—Trump voters articulated a willingness to absorb the pain. Some framed it as patriotic sacrifice. Jim Miller, a sixty-five-year-old retired commodities broker who describes himself as half-hippie and half-cowboy, invoked the rationing and shared hardship of World War II. "I'm willing to sacrifice a little," he said. "That's been totally lost in this country, people's willingness to sacrifice." Others simply saw no alternative. Mike Urbanowicz, a sixty-six-year-old trader whose farming cooperative moves one hundred fifty truckloads of grain daily, acknowledged that Trump was naive about solving the problem quickly. He expected prices to stay elevated through fall. But when asked to choose, he picked Trump over Democrats, whom he viewed as moving toward what he called full-blown socialism. "I voted for Trump because the alternative is so bad," he said.
The loyalty runs deep even among voters who don't fit the traditional rural Republican mold. Lexys Siebrands, twenty-two, is a gay woman who recently embraced Christianity and once identified as Democratic. She switched to Republican around 2022, citing what she saw as liberal hypocrisy on identity politics. She voted for Trump and accepts the Iran conflict as inevitable—something that was going to happen regardless of who occupied the White House. Her mother, Jyl, grew up independent but gravitated toward Republicans. She hates the gas prices but fears a nuclear-armed Iran more. When asked if anything might shake her faith in Trump's handling of the situation, she answered simply: "No. I'm all on board."
What emerges from these conversations is not blind allegiance but a deliberate calculation—a choice to prioritize what these voters see as existential security concerns over immediate economic relief. They acknowledge the pain. They feel it in their wallets and at the grocery store. But they have constructed a narrative in which the sacrifice is necessary, even noble. Trump's political strength in these communities appears to rest not on economic performance but on something more durable: a sense that he is fighting for them, that he hears them, that he represents their interests against forces they distrust far more than they distrust inflation. Whether that bond can survive sustained economic hardship remains an open question, but for now, in the farming towns of Colorado, it holds.
Citas Notables
I used to fill my tank for $36. Now $36 gets me half a tank.— Amy Van Duyn, liquor store clerk in Wiggins, Colorado
I'm willing to sacrifice a little. That's been totally lost in this country, people's willingness to sacrifice.— Jim Miller, retired commodities broker
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
Why do you think these voters are willing to accept something that directly hurts their families—less food on the table, harder choices at the pump?
Because they've decided the alternative is worse. It's not that they don't feel the pain. They do. But they've constructed a frame where the pain serves a purpose larger than themselves.
But Trump himself said he doesn't think about Americans' financial situation. Doesn't that sting?
You'd think it would. And maybe it does, privately. But they interpret it differently—as him being focused, unflinching, willing to make hard calls. They see it as strength, not indifference.
These are people who've voted Democratic before, or who call themselves independents. What made them switch?
Distrust. They look at the Democratic Party and see things they fear more than high gas prices—socialism, what they see as identity politics run amok, a loss of something they value. Trump becomes the lesser evil.
Is this sustainable? Can loyalty survive if prices stay high through 2026?
That's the real question. Right now, they're holding because they believe Trump has a plan, or because they believe the sacrifice is temporary and necessary. But there's a limit to how long people can absorb that kind of financial pressure.
What would it take to break that bond?
Probably not words. Trump could say almost anything and they'd reinterpret it. It would take sustained, visible economic deterioration—and the sense that he's not fighting for them anymore, that he's moved on.