By: Sam Massey
There are few examples that better illustrate the decline of Congress as a functional governing institution than Eleanor Holmes Norton.
Norton has served as the District of Columbia’s non-voting congressional delegate since 1991. Spending more than three decades in the role, she was often polarizing, widely known, frequently defended, and just as frequently dismissed. For much of her tenure, she was respected within Democratic circles and consistently won reelection by overwhelming margins, remaining personally popular among many DC voters despite the structural limits of her office.
Over the past several years, however, that legacy has been eclipsed by a very visible cognitive decline. That decline reached a breaking point last year when reporting revealed that Norton had been scammed out of roughly $4,400 by HVAC fraudsters. A police report from the incident described Norton, then 88, as showing early signs of dementia and noted that she had a caretaker with power of attorney. While the dollar amount was modest, the implications were not.
Only about a week ago, Norton was quietly removed from the ballot through a termination filing with the Federal Election Commission. Initial reporting suggested she was unaware the filing had occurred. She later confirmed her retirement earlier this week.
This episode echoes a broader and increasingly familiar pattern in Congress. Dianne Feinstein, once a towering figure in California politics, faced repeated calls to step aside as her own cognitive and physical decline became impossible to ignore. Those calls were largely dismissed, not because voters demanded continuity, but because party leadership refused to confront the consequences of succession. Though Feinstein was ultimately pressured not to run again in 2024, she died in office in September 2023 at the age of 90.
To be clear, this is not a partisan problem. While Nancy Pelosi, Steny Hoyer, and Mitch McConnell are finally exiting Congress this cycle, the bench behind them tells a familiar story. Jim Clyburn, who turns 86 later this year, has announced yet another run for reelection. A former member of House leadership who stepped down at a moment when many were calling for generational turnover cannot seem to fathom giving up his congressional seat. In a quote to the Wall Street Journal in May of last year, he said, “Nancy left her seat. Steny left his seat. I left my seat. What the hell am I supposed to do now? What do you want, me to give up my life?”
Or consider Virginia Foxx, an 82 year old representative from North Carolina, who declared in her reelection announcement, “I don’t know about you, but I am definitely not tired of winning.” That post has 44 likes on Twitter. Known in political circles for being small, fiery, and perpetually combative, she is already endorsed by Donald Trump and is more than likely to win her seat again this year.
So the question is not whether older politicians can serve. We know they can, at least in a technical sense. The question is why our political system seems structurally incapable of encouraging them to step aside, even when their continued presence prevents meaningful institutional renewal.
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Many people argue that politics has become increasingly like reality television, with modern outreach driven by influencer culture and vertical content. What we are seeing here is not simply aging politicians clinging to relevance or chasing attention. It is something more fundamental. Continued officeholding grants access to power as personal property, an entitlement that is perceived to have been earned. Party leaders benefit from predictable incumbents. Donors benefit from established relationships. Institutions benefit from stability, but only insofar as that stability preserves the status quo. That stability comes at the cost of effectiveness, legitimacy, and public trust.
This is one reason so many voters are increasingly frustrated with the Democratic Party in particular, though the issue is clearly bipartisan. Power in Washington is reinforced by access to money and influence. It allows lawmakers to attend conferences where every executive wants a private conversation, not because of ideas, but because they need a bill passed, buried, amended, or quietly kept off the floor. It allows members to receive massive checks from pharmaceutical companies, defense contractors, gun manufacturers, and lobbying firms. It allows certain senators to enjoy institutional protection so strong that they can avoid public town halls for decades without consequence.
The result is a Congress that struggles to reflect the country it governs, both demographically and generationally. Younger lawmakers are told to wait their turn or accused of being naive about how the world works. To break through in American politics, one must be detached enough to reassure capital while remaining just likable enough to avoid backlash. Voters are offered experience instead of energy. And when decline becomes impossible to ignore, the system responds not with transparency, but with quiet paperwork and reluctant retirements.
This problem extends beyond Congress. Federal judges and Supreme Court justices are structurally incentivized to remain in power until death. Even the presidency has not been immune. Joe Biden did not step aside because of sustained public pressure or voter sentiment, but only after intervention from major donors, allied organizations, and fellow Democratic officials.
Subsequent reporting on his physical and mental condition during his presidency, coupled with his current battle with prostate cancer that would have occurred during a hypothetical second term, underscores how detached elite decision making has become from public accountability.
If American democracy feels stagnant, this is part of the reason. When public office becomes a lifetime appointment in practice, it stops being a public service and starts looking like a title. That should worry anyone who still believes Congress exists to build a better future, rather than to house the past.
This article was written by Sam Massey.