It’s 10:49 p.m.
The all-American quilt—less Amish patchwork, more MyPillow—is turned down over sheets with a thread count so high they require a security clearance, and a mug of raw milk sweats on Karoline Leavitt’s nightstand. She is the youngest press secretary in American history; professionally unflappable, personally unpleasant and privately on a first-name basis with Ambien. Well, who isn’t these days? Her job never sleeps: one alarm is set for 1:00 a.m., another for 2:00, a third at 3:30. (More on them later.) But before then, the night’s end-game is “detox.”
Here’s how a woman whose day job is to wind up the press winds down:
9:17 p.m.
The Ivanka Trump-branded pajamas are on. The cross pendant has been left on the vanity table while Leavitt cleansed, toned and self-tanned—never going to look “ashen” in public again, thanks very much. It’s a quick and easy skincare routine for the most part; the only “morning shed” that’ll follow come tomorrow will be her principles, after all.
A three-wick pillar candle (notes of printer toner and fresh NDA) is lit. She warms the aforementioned raw milk, stirs in some raw honey and whispers the answers she didn’t give at the day’s press briefing to a Labubu named Deep Throat. It is a safe audience.
There’s a note on the kitchen counter for her husband: “N. Once Yellowstone is up for development, we want to be first in. Call about securing the parcel by the north entrance.”
9:40 p.m.
Leavitt tapes two tiny X’s on polished hardwood floors—podium marks, of course—then steps into them like a Black Swan ballerina taking her place at center stage. A ring light becomes a small moon casting a calming, luminous glow; in it, she practices the choreography: a half-smile, a chin-tilt, a side-step to dodge an imaginary follow-up.
There’s a 15-second clip of Jen Psaki on loop—calm, clipped, mortal. She steals the cadence: A graceful pivot to “we’ve been very clear…” a curtsy to “I won’t get ahead of the President…” and the coup de grâce—“I’ll refer you to the Department of…”—delivered as gently as a lullaby to her toddler.
10:05 p.m.
Time for a C-SPAN soak. The tub is steaming while a subcommittee debates dental reimbursements in the background; “the gentleman’s time has expired” becomes white noise. It’s not always Congress, some nights it’s re-runs of The Real Housewives of D.C. Everyone needs a backup plan.
11:12 p.m.
Leavitt settles into lotus position on the bed, palms up. On the inhale: “That is fake news.” On the exhale: “This is Biden’s fault.” She repeats until her breath settles. Three phones—labeled ‘Loomer,’ ‘Crisis’ and ‘Cankles’—lie in a neat row on chargers like patients on oxygen.
She places her hand on a binder stamped PROJECT 2025 and repeats the affirmation: “The Golden Age of America has begun,” until she drifts off. She doesn’t so much sleep as stand down, counting Texas districts to redraw the way other people count sheep.
Later that night. Alarm interludes:
1:00 a.m.—False alarm, literally.
2:00 a.m.—Backreading an ALL CAPS Truth Social rant about “CORRUPT JUDGES.” Par for the course, it can wait till the morning.
3:30 a.m. —Another Truth Social post to parse. Something about windmills—that too can wait. The Labubu stares, unblinking. Is she dreaming of Gavin Newsom? Who can say.
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