Trump press secretaries only toe his line, and the new one is not any different. A series of lies from term 1 and 2

In the White House press briefing room, as tensions between Israel and Iran boiled over, current White House press secretary Karoline Leavitt stepped to the podium with her voice rising with rehearsed conviction. It was vintage Trumpian spin—and the latest chapter in an era where the White House press secretary have become more marionette than messenger.

The string of White House press secretaries in Donald Trump's first and second terms—Karoline Leavitt, Sean Spicer, Sarah Huckabee Sanders, Stephanie Grisham, and Kayleigh McEnany—seemed less like independent communicators and more like synchronised marionettes, dangling from the same orange-tinted strings.

In what should have been the most trusted voice between the presidency and the press, we instead saw a rotating cast of characters who were less about transparency and more about total fealty to one man’s narrative, no matter how bizarre or provably false. The role of the press secretary, traditionally one of poise, policy, and accountability, became under Trump a mouthpiece of performance—one that demanded absolute loyalty, shameless spin, and, above all, showmanship.

Body language that screams ‘submission’

Watch any footage—seriously, any—and you'll notice it: the stiff posture, the forced smiles, the furrowed brows, the clenched fists at the podium. Each secretary embodied their own physical version of damage control.

Sean Spicer burst into the job like a man late to a meeting he didn’t understand. His now-iconic lie—“This was the largest audience to ever witness an inauguration—period”—was delivered with the sweaty anxiety of someone trying to bluff through a lie detector test on live TV. His voice cracked, his eyes darted, and his knuckles whitened on the podium like he was holding onto credibility by a thread.

Sarah Huckabee Sanders adopted a stoic wall-of-steel approach. Her eyes narrowed, her arms folded—a classic self-protective gesture—as she fielded questions with a half-smile and an expression that said: “I could not care less.” It wasn't confidence. It was deflection masked as deadpan.

Kayleigh McEnany turned the job into a Harvard-polished performance. Her plastic smiles and over-rehearsed hand gestures gave off the polished sheen of a game show host crossed with a Sunday School teacher. Yet beneath the surface was relentless aggression, particularly in her habit of ending briefings mid-question with, “And with that, I’ll leave it there”—like a magician vanishing in a puff of evasion.

Stephanie Grisham skipped the performance entirely. She held no press briefings during her entire tenure. That’s not a metaphor. She simply didn’t show up. She once justified it by saying: “I felt like the media was not good to us, so why give them a platform?”

Which is like a firefighter refusing to fight fire because it’s “too hot.”

And then there’s Karoline Leavitt, the newest inheritor of the Trumpian throne. She channels her boss’s sneer with youthful gusto, waving off journalistic scrutiny with the arrogance of a Twitter troll at a campaign rally. Her body language—tight, fidgety hands and a forward-thrust jaw—exudes aggression over poise, confrontation over clarity.

Language that mirrors a master’s voice

From day One, their linguistic loyalty was unmistakable. These weren’t spokespeople—they were translators of Trump. The vocabulary was predictable: “Fake news.” “Radical left.” “Witch hunt.” “Tremendous success.” Spicer lied loud. Sanders lied stone-faced. McEnany lied with legalese. Grisham lied by vanishing. Leavitt lies with snark and sarcasm.

They weren't delivering facts; they were delivering feelings—Trump’s feelings. Journalists asking factual questions were treated as antagonists, not interlocutors. There was no longer an effort to explain the administration’s decisions; only to defend them, blindly and aggressively.

Each press secretary channelled Trump’s grievances like tuning forks vibrating in MAGA frequency. Policy became secondary to personality, and press briefings transformed into ideological theatre—complete with props, binders, and moral grandstanding.

A cult of personality on display

More than anything, the Trump-era press secretaries were/are emblematic of a government that prized loyalty over truth. These individuals didn’t speak for the presidency. They spoke for Trump—the man, not the office he holds.

Rather than serving as intermediaries between the public and the president, they became palace guards, protecting their king from uncomfortable facts. They weren’t trying to sell you on policy—they were trying to convince you that your eyes were lying. Their function wasn’t communication. It was containment.

They were expected not just to control the narrative, but to mirror the mood. Angry Trump? Angry press secretary. Vindicated Trump? Triumphant press secretary. Cornered Trump? Defensive, sneering, combative press secretary. And through it all, they contorted themselves—physically and rhetorically—into whatever shape was needed to shield the man behind the curtain.

The legacy: A podium of puppets

What remains is a blueprint for what not to do. This isn’t just about individual failures. It’s about the institutional rot that occurs when the role of press secretary is weaponised as a propaganda tool. When truth becomes optional and performance becomes policy, the public suffers.

From Spicer’s flop-sweat lies to Leavitt’s gleeful contempt, each of these figures proved that under Trump, the White House podium wasn’t a symbol of government transparency. It was a stage for submission, a megaphone for madness, and a place where truth went to die—draped in flags, buzzwords, and bad faith.

And with that… we’ll leave it there.

Disclaimer: The views of the writer do not represent the views of WION or ZMCL. Nor does WION or ZMCL endorse the views of the writer.