White House INHABIT

My Oval Office Introduction

The White House is smaller than you’d think. Less a global power center, more like an old house repurposed for national business—humble upon first impression. Dining rooms double as conference spaces. Stark overhead lighting feels clinical, almost disrespectful, given the weight of history embedded in the walls. Antique furniture huddles beneath oil portraits of the Founding Fathers. The faint scent of bureaucracy hangs in the air, barely masked by a mediocre coffee machine sputtering in the corner.

Because I’m easily distracted by such things, I spent the first half hour studying the decor, mentally redecorating. I’d add dimmers, for one. It’s the People’s House—shouldn’t we have a say in how it’s lit? If it were up to me, I’d host world leaders by candlelight. Contentious negotiations seem better suited to a slow-burning wick. I kept picturing Diane Keaton stepping in, staging a bipartisan renovation intervention: practical and handsomely patriotic pieces, rich leathers, and softer glow to ease internal and international tensions.

There was no time to prepare a proper White House wardrobe. As usual, I waited too long, so my options dwindled. The oversized gingham suit—French-made, definitely a choice—arrived too late to be tailored. But it is what it is.

Regardless, I was pleased to find certain clichés intact. A young female staffer passed me at the entrance, carting two Diet Coke cases upstairs to the boss. Candy jars lined some of the desks. Trump calls these vices “poison,” but gives into them when mid day cravings hit. I pressed myself against the wall on a narrow staircase to let two suited men pass. Around every corner, I half-expected another signature reveal; a silver tray of Big Macs, maybe, gliding toward the Oval.

But I wasn’t there for a hospitality review. I was there because independent media helped put Trump back in office—and, thanks mainly to Baron’s influence, he knows it. After years of being scorched by legacy outlets—those who peddled Russia-gate buried laptops and smeared half the country with liberally coined insults—he built his own pipeline. By 2024, the game had changed. Voters weren’t tracking candidates on cable news. They were on Substack and Spotify, watching podcasts and streaming live conversations from their cars in grocery store parking lots.

This is the new golden era of politics. In my case, it’s powered by feminine perspective, snark-tinged, emotionally wired, and trusted by middle-class women (moderates even), many of whom only recently started tuning in because it’s delivered to them like the plot of a national soap opera.

Which is how I found myself at the White House on a cold Monday in February: one of fifteen independent creators invited to discuss the administration’s new media strategy, led by Karoline Leavitt and Vice President JD Vance. We weren’t just guests—we were evidence of the new guard: disrupters vs. the establishment.

After the AP refused to rename the Gulf of Mexico the “Gulf of America,” the Trump team retaliated by seizing control of the press pool—a long-overdue correction, they argued. Intimate access to the office is a privilege, and the media monopoly has rewarded predictable anti-Trump organizations for too long while blacklisting independent voices who might offer a fresher, fairer lens.

Without hired PR, I stood armed and vicious in defense of myself for months when media wars ramped up. The attacks came in waves last year. Nearly all the media hits followed the same playbook: demeaning, sexist, off-base, laughably lazy. A Mother Jones piece by the hapless Anna Merlan painted me as a political stalker with fleeting clout—a mommy blogger, lost in the collapse of her “photogenic life” post-COVID, clawing her way back into relevance through sheer nerve.

The anonymous source—likely tied to a popular British tabloid with an Israeli accent—called me names and dismissed me as a temporary force: “She clearly has ambitions to extend her brand, recently placing an enormous billboard promoting her site on Los Angeles’ Sunset Boulevard. In the event of a second Trump White House, you could see her taking up a perch at Mar-a-Lago. But even if he wins, she could end up on the margins, chasing celebrity gossip and Satanic shadows.”

“She thinks it’ll go on and on and on,” the detractor said, familiar with Trump’s world. “No. After the election, it’s over. Bloggers like her are invited nowhere.”

Wrong, dear.

After a few friends left a private Mar-a-Lago meeting last spring, they called to say that someone brought up my IG handle when a new Trump portrait was revealed. “You mean Jessica?” Trump asked. “The one who writes the nice stories about me?”

Credit went to Margo Martin, whom they assumed was keeping him in the loop on social media personalities in his favor. Say what you want, but this is a man who tracks praise in media—even in breadcrumbs.

“It’s essential to our team that we share President Trump’s message everywhere,” Karoline Leavitt told the cameras, “and adapt this White House to the new media landscape in 2025.” Over 10,000 people applied for a seat in that first week alone. There’s no telling how high the number climbed after.

Now, before we go further—can we take a moment to acknowledge how surreal the trajectory here is?

Eight years ago, I stood on a freezing D.C. street corner with a million angry women, protesting Trump with hand-painted signs. Now, not even a decade later, exiled by those same women, politically unboxed and betrayed by the party I once defended, I sat at a table in the White House sipping coffee from a branded presidential paper cup—unaware that the man I once marched against was about to walk in with sweeping compliments for us all.

The day before my visit, that god-awful AI Gaza video dropped—a Trumpified fever dream centered on war-torn landscapes reimagined as theme parks. Elon Musk, stylized like a digital deity; bearded men belly dancing in Disneyland rubble.

Arlo, my 19-year-old, called immediately. “Mom, this is bad. What is Trump thinking?”

In the video, a family emerges from Gaza’s rubble into a beachfront lined with gold skyscrapers. Trump, shirtless, sips cocktails beside a topless Netanyahu. Musk snacks in the background. I criticized it in my stories. Arlo agreed—he was especially annoyed by the airbrushed AI Musk looking like a Tech Ken doll. The video was supposedly satire. Trump reposted it like fan art. Tasteless either way.

Mike warned me not to post these criticisms. He worried it might hurt optics before the trip. He also urged me not to mock Elon’s unfortunate haircut. “He might see it. He’s sensitive.”

“Are you serious?” I asked.

As Mike saw it, Gaza was prime real estate. And Trump is an innovative developer at heart. “What’s wrong with dreaming big?” he asked.

I rolled my eyes. He sounded like a Nike ad.

We argued on and off until Mike admitted he hadn’t even watched the whole thing. He texted later that afternoon, confessing: “It was bad. Trump should delete it.”

Arlo called as I headed to the airport to let me know that I “won.”

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The meeting was held in the Roosevelt Room—long mahogany table, fifteen chairs, coffee and Diet Coke waiting on the counter. Karoline Leavitt opened. At just 27, she has an intuitive grasp on virality—knowing exactly when to push and when to pivot. She’s reshaping the role entirely to meet how people consume politics now.

JD Vance sat beside me—blue eyes, dark lashes, tailored pants hanging on surprisingly thin legs. Within two weeks, his face would be meme-ified in every variation imaginable, to the point of cyber exhaustion. In person, he’s more magnetic than expected. Candid, too. He shared a couple stories that gave the room sentimental context. Eight years earlier, he’d sat there, invited by Obama, after Hillbilly Elegy took off. It was the same place he learned his wife was pregnant. He smiled at the memory and laughed recalling another incident—Usha, recently seated next to a boorish tech bro who wouldn’t stop droning on about some aspect of the cyber-revolution, excused herself. She texted him from the bathroom: We need to get the fuck out of here.

Between the shuffle of hosts, someone posed a question about tech’s sudden embrace of Trump. Some in the room believed the radicalization of Zuckerberg was real and genuine. One attributed his embrace of MAGA to martial arts training giving him a more masculine worldview.

Less faith was placed in CNN darling Kaitlan Collins. Her name came up randomly. The collective disapproval spun into a 15 minute roast about her and her reporting.

Pam Bondi followed Vance, clad in a Kelly green cardigan, looking younger than her age should allow. Her skincare routine is a pressing priority for my following. She passed out the white binders stamped with The Epstein Files title—a move that would effectively (and accidentally) derail the original purpose of our visit. Kash Patel nodded along as she spoke. Marco Rubio came next, lamenting how his glossy high-production videos were flopping while raw basement tee-shirt clips performed better. The takeaway: People want what’s real—or at least what feels real.

Then, without warning, the president entered. Mid-greeting, mid-rant—something about NATO, foreign aid, how America bankrolls everything, followed by something about “the China virus,” which his team desperately wants him to stop saying. But he won’t. Because he likes the way it sounds. Gemini resolve; it’s hard to hate on.

He stood just four feet in front of us. Smiling, slightly squinting, and visibly pleased by our arrival, he was a rogue Republican Santa in a navy suit and plum tie, gold aura aglow, with Kansas football star Harrison Butker beside him. He told us he wanted to show us the Oval when we wrapped. He wanted us to see what he’d done with the place, like any man with real estate in his blood would. He needed us to note the improvements made under reclamation of the space.

Each member of his team that sat down with us applauded the speed of his execution. They call it “Trump Time”—a realm where everything moves faster. The border crisis, corrected in three weeks; billions uncovered in government spending, with Elon’s help.

After our speakers were done, we were ushered through an adjoining door. The new media instinctively lined up near his desk. He chatted with us for a good 30 minutes, complimenting our views in comparing us to “fake news,” which he said was dead and dying. He also promised to fix any issues we had with lingering censorship. He pointed to us, insistent that he would personally intervene to dissolve any lingering restrictions. I was tempted to show him the status of my Instagram account, hanging by a thread. Dan Scavino smiled from the couch. Pam stood near Kash. Margo Martin, in black stilettos, snapped photos. The official photographer, Daniel Torok, hovered behind the president.

Then, as one man shifted in line, Bobby Kennedy came into view—standing near a flag looking slightly bewildered by the sudden inflation of a camera-ready crew.

Trump turned to us. “Look! We’ve got the whole CIA and the FBI in here,” he joked, nodding to Tom Homan, Kash, and the rest gathered in his gallery. Then, he shifted focus to decor. Biden had had only one portrait hanging and “no one even knew who it was,” he said. So he sent his team down into the vault to retrieve the old portraits which hang now, floor to ceiling, with various eras of presidential flair. His mugshot hangs in the hallway and two golden angels sit now on both sides of him. A custom addition he placed there recently—divine protection he sees as needed. Sixty days in, he’s revamped the White House to his liking.

He asked which portrait we preferred—Reagan by his desk or Washington across the room. Everyone picked Washington.

“They always choose George,” he smirked.

He prefers Reagan.

Scanning the room again, he spotted Alina Habba lounging on the couch. “Who’s doing better?” he asked. “Her or Margo?” Both women laughed it off. The comparison didn’t work. “We’re doing different things,” Alina answered.

Before we left, he pulled a box of thick gold coins with his seal and oversized sharpies bearing his name—presidential souvenirs handpicked by him. On our way out, new hats with new slogans were handed to us.

When it was my turn for a photo, Bobby stepped into frame beside me, flanked by Vance, Trump, and a poster of the “Gulf of America.”

“Is it okay if my friend crashes the photo?” I asked.

Trump looked up at Bobby, then back at me. “He’s great, isn’t he? I think he’s just the best.”

On cue, everyone smiled.

When I questioned if one take was sufficient, the president pointed to the photographer and insisted on two more.

As we exited, we found ourselves at the entrance, face to face with a sea of media awaiting the Prime Minister’s arrival. Cameras snapped us clutching binders. Some were caught smiling. I was caught wearing a “Trump Did Nothing Wrong” hat because I couldn’t fit everything I was handed into my purse. The binder, under a four hour embargo, placed us in the crosshairs of a brutal news cycle that had already chosen its angle: clueless influencers handed sensitive information as a scene to mock. Proof that a clown show had come to replace legacy press.

It was the first of many slanderous hits we could expect from old media. Good thing we’re already used to a fight.