Mirror Images: How Donald Trump and Meghan Markle Are Exactly the Same

By Tracilyn George

At first glance, Donald Trump and Meghan Markle seem worlds apart - different backgrounds, politics, and personalities. But look closer, and you'll find a striking reflection: two masters of media manipulation, personal branding, and public spectacle. In Mirror Images, dive into the fascinating parallels between

• Language: English
• Publisher: Clydesdale Books
• Release date: May 21, 2025
• ISBN: 9781779487490

Book preview

Mirror Images

How Donald Trump and Meghan Markle Are Exactly the Same

By Tracilyn George

©2025 Tracilyn George

DISCLAIMER

This book is an opinion piece and reflects the author’s personal perspectives and interpretations. It is intended for informational and entertainment purposes only. The views expressed here do not represent verified facts or endorsements, and readers are encouraged to conduct their own research and form their own conclusions.

CHAPTER 1: THE CULT OF ME

Donald Trump wakes up and thinks about Donald Trump. Meghan Markle wakes up and thinks about Meghan Markle. This isn’t speculation—it’s observable behavior. Everything revolves around them. Every sentence is a chance to center themselves. Every story, tragedy, or global event is an opportunity to remind the world of their own supposed importance. They live in a bubble where only their image matters.

Trump once held up a Bible for a photo op in front of a church he’d never attended, using religion as a backdrop for a branding moment. Meghan once compared her royal wedding to the struggles of oppressed women around the world, as if being a duchess in couture was akin to civil rights. These aren’t isolated incidents—they’re patterns.

Neither of them can tolerate sharing the spotlight. Trump disowned his own vice president and mocked his loyal followers if they wavered in praise. Meghan pushed out her own family, then Harry’s, then staff, then royal aides, and finally the monarchy itself. She framed it all as survival. Trump called it winning.

They demand constant affirmation. They need to be seen as right. They weaponize personal victimhood to mask manipulation. If they’re criticized, it’s fake news or racism. If they’re praised, it’s long overdue recognition. They are the sun in their own solar system. Everyone else must orbit.

Their strategy is simple: hijack public discourse by inserting themselves into it. When George Floyd was murdered, Trump saw protests as threats to his control and posed with militarized force. Meghan saw the global reckoning on race and gave a virtual speech to a group of students in LA—framing her experience as somehow central to the story. Each successfully hijacked generations of struggle and sacrifice, repackaging it as fuel for their own personal brand.

They speak in emotional absolutes—Trump in hyperbole, Meghan in hashtags. The greatest, the worst, unbelievable, tremendous failure—Trump’s lexicon is an endless loop of self-congratulatory adjectives and doom-laden accusations. Meghan prefers therapeutic buzzwords: healing, empowerment, narrative, authenticity. Both are speaking the language of their base: one crass and defiant, the other polished and performative.

It’s not that either of them lacks intelligence. They possess a razor-sharp awareness of public mood—just not empathy. There’s a cunning in how they mold stories, how they pivot and repurpose truths. When Trump was impeached, it became a witch hunt. When Meghan was fact-checked, it became an attack on women of color. Critique becomes cruelty. Consequences become oppression.

To both, loyalty is transactional. Trump discards allies the moment they contradict him, no matter how loyal they’ve been. Meghan rebrands relationships as toxic if they no longer serve the narrative. There’s a visible trail of discarded associates behind them—some silenced, some broken, many bewildered. They demand your loyalty and your silence. Criticism is betrayal. Independence is disrespect.

They are paradoxes wrapped in entitlement. Trump, a billionaire born into wealth, claims to be the voice of the working man. Meghan, a duchess married into one of the most privileged families in the world, paints herself as an outsider for whom the palace gates were always metaphorically closed. They’ve repackaged privilege into pain—pain they monetize.

Trump sells his suffering in merch drops and rallies. Meghan sells hers in streaming deals, documentaries, and podcast episodes about how hard it is to be her. Each appearance is a controlled exercise in self-mythology. The hair, the lighting, the script—it’s all curated. Trump has gold chairs and MAGA hats. Meghan has candles, orchids, and the soft power aesthetic of a woman who has read The Artist’s Way and believes she is becoming one.

They cannot stand not being the center of the story. Trump famously walked in front of the Queen during a royal visit—a symbolic breach of etiquette that told you exactly how he sees the world. Meghan, in contrast, entered the royal family and almost immediately began reshaping the narrative around herself: from newcomer to victim to revolutionary. Neither could simply be a part of something larger. They must be the thing.

And when things fall apart—as they inevitably do—it’s never their fault. The system is broken. The people were disloyal. The media lied. The institution failed. Everyone else is to blame. Trump left office not with grace but with lawsuits and delusions of grandeur. Meghan left the Firm not with quiet dignity but with a Netflix deal, a book, and an Oprah interview that scorched earth.

Both understand that victimhood sells. In the age of digital performance, the most successful narratives are those in which you are the wronged party, no matter how high your platform. It’s not enough to be rich or famous; you must also be oppressed. Trump is perpetually under siege by the deep state, the fake news, and globalists. Meghan is besieged by tabloids, trolls, and the monarchy’s supposed bigotry. The message is always the same: look what they’ve done to me.

But reality is, they are not oppressed—they are addicted to attention. The applause is their oxygen. The algorithm is their god. And the moment it stops favoring them, they manufacture a new scandal, a new enemy, a new story arc in which they are once again the embattled hero.

Trump goes to court and fundraises off indictments. Meghan files trademarks and pivots to wellness. Both monetize their chaos. The line between grievance and grift blurs until it’s indistinguishable. They’re not telling the truth. They’re selling it.

There’s a cruelty to how they see others: as props. Trump turned his own children into political mannequins. Meghan transformed her marriage into a brand, her children into symbols of liberation and lineage. Their spouses are sidekicks. Their critics are obstacles. Their fans are cultists, and their staff? Expendable.

They never apologize, only clarify. Never retreat, only reassess. The language of humility is beneath them. To apologize would imply imperfection. To acknowledge wrong would be to disrupt the carefully constructed illusion. So instead, they double down. They play the hits.

Trump re-uses his slogans like a rock star clinging to a fading anthem. Meghan recycles words like kindness and compassion until they lose all meaning, drowned in overuse and contradiction. The brands may differ—MAGA vs. Montecito—but the playbook is the same.

When the cameras are on, they dazzle. Trump barks and blusters. Meghan glows and sighs. Both use media not just as a tool, but as a mirror. They want to see the reflection of adoration. They need it to function.

Yet behind the scenes, reports paint a different picture: of chaos, of tantrums, of isolation. Staffers who burn out. Friends who ghost. Legal teams on constant retainer. PR consultants on speed dial. Because for all their charisma, they cannot maintain real relationships. Everything is transactional. Loyalty is rented.

Their digital presence is cult-like. Trump rallies feel like tent revivals. Meghan’s fan base polices Twitter like it’s sacred ground. Any criticism is heresy. They do not have supporters; they have zealots. People who will attack, dox, cancel anyone who dares to question the holy narrative. This isn’t politics or celebrity anymore—it’s messianic.

What makes them dangerous isn’t just the narcissism. It’s their ability to bend reality. To them, facts are optional. Truth is malleable. History is a draft waiting for their edits. Trump says the election was stolen. Meghan says her wedding was a global act of resistance. Both statements collapse under scrutiny, but scrutiny doesn’t matter when your audience is emotionally invested.

They’ve built empires not on truth, but on belief.

In another era, they’d have been cult leaders. Today, they are content creators with messianic tendencies. Their tools are different—social media, streaming deals, echo chambers—but their methods are timeless: Rewrite the story. Cast yourself as the hero. Destroy the doubters. Profit.

There’s a reason their names trend constantly. They have hacked modern fame. Trump understands outrage better than policy. Meghan understands narrative better than legacy. They don’t seek power to govern or serve; they seek power to validate the self.

Their lives are reality shows without credits. Endless episodes. Always in production. Always another dramatic arc around the corner.

And perhaps the saddest irony is this: they claim to fight for the little guy, the voiceless, the overlooked. But in truth, they stand on the stage alone, spotlights burning, gazing into the mirror of mass attention. Their causes are costumes. Their struggles are scripts.

Donald Trump wakes up and thinks about Donald Trump. Meghan Markle wakes up and thinks about Meghan Markle. After all, who else could be worth the spotlight?

CHAPTER 2: VICTIMS OF THEIR OWN BIOGRAPHIES

They’ve both mastered the art of emotional blackmail at a global scale.

Trump co-opted entire political parties by threatening loyalty tests. Either you swore fealty, or you were labeled a traitor. It didn’t matter if you’d supported every policy, fundraised tirelessly, or praised him like a deity—if you hesitated for even a second in defending his latest tweet or courtroom outburst, you were out. Gone. History. A loser.

Meghan operates similarly, but with a vocabulary of healing and self-care. She wraps her ultimatums in silk scarves of wellness jargon. Boundaries. Toxicity. Energy vampires. To disagree with her is to be accused of harm. If you don’t echo her narrative, you’re part of the abuse. She doesn’t need loyalty; she demands emotional allegiance. Question her choices, and you are unsafe. Dismissive. Problematic. Possibly colonialist.

What unites them is this: they transform every space into a spotlight, casting everyone around them as either devoted admirers or threats to their script. There is no middle ground. You’re with them, or against them. Applause from the balcony earns praise; dissent from the shadows marks you as ignorant. Of your cruelty. Of your jealousy. They never consider that disagreement could come from reason. Or fatigue.

They exhaust people.

Trump bulldozes. He talks over everyone, yells superlatives into microphones, and throws tantrums when the applause isn’t loud enough. Meghan attempts to drown out criticism through a carefully orchestrated display of polished aesthetics. She’ll sit on an Eames chair, barefoot and distressed-denimed, holding a ceramic mug of something earthy while lamenting how cruel the tabloids are. Meanwhile, she’s on the cover of Vanity Fair. Or The Cut. Or Time’s Most Influential list—for talking about how hard it is to be seen.

They thrive on contradiction. Trump can’t remember which lies he told, so he repeats all of them. Meghan insists she wanted privacy while launching a podcast, docuseries, lifestyle brand, memoir, and cartoon. They’re walking paradoxes, and their followers treat the inconsistencies not as red flags but as signs of brilliance. He’s playing 5D chess, they whisper. She’s reclaiming her narrative, they swoon.

What they’re actually doing is rewriting reality in real-time.

If Meghan once said she was married three days before the royal wedding, well, that’s not a lie—it’s her truth. If Trump said windmills cause cancer, you’re wrong for questioning it—it’s what a lot of people are saying. They’ve hijacked language itself, where facts are merely hostile opinions and objective truth is an attack.

And when cornered, they don’t retreat—they double down.

Trump will call a war hero a loser, then attack the press for quoting him. Meghan will cut off