Young Voters' Trump Enthusiasm Cools as Cost of Living Bites

Home to the state capital Columbia and the University of South Carolina, the county skews younger than the rest of the state by population. That demographic tilt has made it a rare Democratic outpost in reliably Republican territory.

The county's character—defined by college students and urban professionals—positioned it as a crucial test of how young voters who backed Trump are now reassessing their choice.

Josh Dawsey, chief political correspondent for The Wall Street Journal, spent the past decade investigating Washington's most powerful politicians. But for this project, he returned to the University of South Carolina, the place where his career as a journalist began. The assignment: to understand how young voters who backed Trump are now feeling about his administration and whether their support will hold into the 2026 midterms.

Yet recent polling reveals growing disapproval of his performance among 18-to-29-year-olds. Favorability for both parties among young people remains low across the board.

Generation Z students express deep cynicism about the political process itself. One student summed up the sentiment bluntly: "We see politicians coming in with these promises and yet I'm not seeing any products being delivered." That gap between rhetoric and results has become the defining friction point between young voters and both parties.

The University of South Carolina Dawsey knew as a student has undergone a dramatic transformation. Premium luxury tailgating areas, fashioned from railroad cars and priced at $250,000 or more, dot the campus. The influx of out-of-state students is substantially larger than when Dawsey attended. One of his college acquaintances reflected on the shift: "It's a lot different I think from when we were in college because you have so many more out-of-state people coming in."

Whether out-of-state residents stay in the state after graduation remains uncertain, but the potential consequences are significant. South Carolina has been reliably Republican for as long as Dawsey and his college peers have been alive.

If these newcomers put down roots, the state's political complexion could change. Census Bureau data shows that over 60 percent of bachelor degree holders stay in South Carolina a year after graduation—suggesting that even part of this influx could alter the electoral map.

During his second term, Trump has waged high-profile campaigns against universities, particularly Ivy League schools. The administration withheld billions in federal grants, restricted foreign student visas, and sought to end diversity programs.

The University of South Carolina lost millions in federal grants as a result, though it avoided the worst of the headlines that struck other institutions. That financial strain is reshaping how universities compete for students and fund programs.

Dawsey was editor-in-chief of The Daily Gamecock, the student newspaper at USC. He spent 30 or 40 hours a week at the newspaper office—more time there than in any classroom. "I spent more time here than I did in any classroom in South Carolina," he recalled. "I probably spent 30 or 40 hours a week in here, if not more."

Politics felt less polarizing 15 years ago. When Senator John McCain visited campus in 2008, the atmosphere was one of civic curiosity. Trump coverage on campus today carries a different tenor entirely—one of deep division rather than interest in ideas.

One student reported a marked shift in the campus political mood: "There was definitely more [enthusiasm for Trump] when I first got here. Less so in the last year or two." That cooling varies by location on campus, but the overall trajectory is clear—the initial mobilization has lost momentum.

College students worry less about whether jobs exist and more about whether jobs pay enough to afford housing. One student framed the concern sharply: "I'm not as concerned about the job market as much as things like housing costs and the ability of the job market to supply jobs that can pay for housing costs."

That distinction matters. The crisis is not unemployment but underemployment—jobs that don't cover basic living expenses. It is a structural pinch that campaign promises about "more jobs" fail to address.

The economic anxiety Dawsey encountered in South Carolina is not parochial. A recent Harvard youth poll found that nearly half of young respondents say rising prices and inflation are an urgent crisis. The economy is central to young voters nationally, not merely a regional concern.

One pro-Trump student acknowledged Trump's polarizing persona while offering credit for party cohesion: "I think that Trump has a remarkable ability to kind of, you know, pull everyone together in some ways. Like I said, he is a larger than life figure, and so especially in 2016, you just see people being like, oh, like getting behind him in some ways and kind of pulling together kind of a disparate party." The effect was particularly visible in 2016, when fractious Republican factions united behind him. That consolidating power, the student argued, made him effective as a mobilizer—even if that same outsized personality also generates resistance.

In a moment that reflected the polarization visible on campus, the student raised concerns about whether the Republican candidate met the standard for the office, noting that in a past election cycle, "we had a lot of great Republican candidates."

Cost of living is a top concern, but young voters say the real poison in politics is the language politicians use. One frustrated voter laid out the contrast: "I think it goes to rhetoric. I know a lot of people my age and some very close friends who are disillusioned with the state of politics because of not only things like cost of living, but also the rhetoric that politicians espouse these days. Instead of it being like, 'Okay, how can we reach across the aisle and how can we push a bipartisan bill?' It's all of the people on the other side are evil and they all are socialists or they are all fascists or something like that. And that rhetoric only contributes to a divide."

The speaker cites friends and peers left disillusioned not by disagreement over taxes or regulation but by the dehumanizing language deployed on both sides. The yearning for collaborative governance—reaching across the aisle, passing bipartisan bills—reveals what young voters crave: a politics of problem-solving rather than tribal warfare.

When Dawsey and his team spoke to young voters on campus, the conversation kept returning to doubled gas prices. Governor Henry McMaster, confronted with these concerns, reframed the question entirely. "One thing I think is making our lives better is we're not suffering from incoming missiles from Iran right now," he said. "And we know for a fact that they are a danger to us. They have stated so over and over. They've written it, they've spoken it. I think that the country's so prosperous. We've been so safe. Everything has gone so well over the years to get us to where we are, that people assume it's like this everywhere and it always will be and changes like giving more money away to people."

McMaster's framing—that prosperity and security should inoculate voters against concern about gas prices, and that inflation anxiety reflects entitlement rather than hardship—sits in direct tension with how students experience their economic reality. He acknowledged gas prices are real concerns but deflected focus to foreign threats, suggesting the Trump administration will bring down prices if it succeeds in its international objectives.

Dawsey pressed the governor on the disconnect. "But the sort of inflation in it, the gas is $4–5 $6 a gallon in some places. Those seem like real concerns to people though, right?" The governor conceded these are indeed real concerns and expressed hope they will decline.

The exchange captured the central political problem: young voters cite specific, measurable harms—gas at $4–6 per gallon—while senior figures respond with geopolitical abstraction. Voters want to know how their immediate economic lives will improve; governors offer promises of long-term security.

Governor McMaster described his supporters with unmistakable fervor: "People are delirious to see him. They literally love him and they say so." Yet beneath that affection, some enthusiasm is fading.

Young voters are struggling with higher living costs and growing tired of international conflicts. These anxieties are reshaping how students plan their own futures—whether to stay in state or leave, whether to take on debt, how to think about careers that might not pay enough for a middle-class life.

The question—phrased as this election cycle's litmus test—is whether either party can prove it has a concrete plan to win back this generation. Young voters backed Trump in 2024 partly because he was the change agent, the outsider making bold claims. A year into his second term, they are asking for evidence that the promises translate into policy. Empty pledges no longer mobilize; only detailed plans showing a path to lower living costs and more secure futures will do.