Why we follow myths when institutions feel hollow.
In the early days of the Trump administration, a peculiar social media presence emerged; several social media accounts claiming to represent “rogue” factions within various federal agencies began appearing, wrapped in anonymity and defiance.
Among the first and most widely celebrated was the Alt National Park Service. Anonymous, iconoclastic, and allegedly run by rogue National Park employees, the account exploded in popularity after the official NPS was temporarily barred from sharing climate data. To many, it felt like a minor rebellion from within the federal government. But to others, it became something more; a sort of symbol of integrity under siege, of resistance wrapped in civil disobedience. However, appearances are not always what they may seem to be.
The Alt National Park Service was never verified as being run by real park employees. In fact, there’s little credible evidence to suggest it was. As someone who studies governance, I personally have very little reason to believe in the authenticity of these accounts. The official National Park Service disavowed AltNPS early on. Numerous Alt accounts sprang up rapidly across agencies with similar aesthetics and tone, often reusing graphics or slogans that were shared between them all. Their posts were sometimes riddled with inconsistencies, unverifiable claims, and even hints of performative branding (e.g. merchandise shops opened within weeks).
The AltNPS account has continued to amass millions of followers, often positioning itself as the conscience of the federal government. It framed itself as a rebellious insider, one that is equal parts whistleblower and folk hero. From a distance, it can seem noble.
However, despite its branding and language, there has never been any verified link between the Alt National Park Service and the agency it claims to represent. While the official National Park Service has never issued a direct, detailed rebuttal beyond distancing itself from the account, and while no individuals have come forward to verify authorship from inside the agency, speculation and assumption have filled the void. As of 2025, no investigative reporting or federal confirmation has substantiated any organizational affiliation with NPS.
But for those of us who study digital disinformation, the inconsistencies and weaknesses that can be spotted in their information raises flags.
I have noticed a consistent lack of substance in the so-called “leaks” these accounts promote. Often, they amount to amplified speculation rather than revelation. Many of the supposed “leaks” from the account have simply rehashed information already circulating in media or activist communities. The most recent spate of posts during the Trump administration’s second term —including claims that Elon Musk’s team had seized control of the Office of Personnel Management (OPM), USAID, and other agencies — echoed existing rumors that had already been reported in mainstream coverage from a multitude of media sources, especially AP, USA Today, and The Washington Post.
There is very rarely anything genuinely novel — nothing that could not have been gleaned by reading from reporters on Twitter, watching mainstream media, or monitoring government websites.
As USA Today recently reported, there remains no verifiable link between the Alt National Park Service and any actual National Park Service employees, or other civil service members; however, they claim a coalition size in the hundreds of thousands. Despite the lack of factual attribution, the account continues to gain traction by leaning heavily on aesthetics and nostalgia for moral authority.
The polished tone, branding consistency, and timing of posts suggest professional coordination. Some posts contain high-quality infographics, timed commentary aligned with mainstream media stories, and hashtags designed to amplify reach; I see these as being hallmarks of media insiders or political communications professionals rather than whistleblowers; I do believe it is plausible that there is a possibility of information being passed along from civil servants to whomever manages these accounts, but this is not an organized “resistance,” and the further I dive into this, I feel that my sentiments are confirmed, that the AltNPS narrative arc increasingly mirrors influencer media cycles more than genuine internal activism.
Their commentary often follows or echoes existing coverage, whereby they position the account as moral reinforcement rather than as a source. I would argue to say that this is not subversion, but rather, it is the curation of a narrative that is being wrapped in the tone of rebellion.
Moreover, a February 2025 Substack post by Kristen Kroll seemed to defend the credibility of AltNPS by referencing a string of recent posts as proof of insider knowledge. However, many of these “insights” were largely reiterations of already public information; these were rumors, policy changes, and environmental directives that had been circulating in mainstream media, social media, activist spaces, or government bulletins for weeks, even months at the time of posting. Nothing in the piece demonstrated that AltNPS was breaking news or leaking internal strategy; it was affirming narratives that were already widely speculated, if not already confirmed. The Washington Post, ProPublica, and a variety of watchdog Twitter accounts had covered many of these claims prior to AltNPS posting about them. Her defense is not rooted in evidence of exclusivity or verification, but in the performative symbolism the account provides.
This reveals something rather worrying about how we interpret media authority: credibility has become aesthetic. And for many, the symbolism — the defiant tone, the invocation of a bureaucratic moral compass — is enough. The absence of verifiable sourcing, the redundancy of the information, and the performative tone do not undermine AltNPS’s authority in the eyes of its followers. If anything, they strengthen it.
Because for many, these inconsistencies do not matter. What matters is that someone — even a symbolic someone — is still resisting.
So what is AltNPS now? And what do its followers believe it to be?
AltNPS is no longer just a curiosity of the first Trump era; it has become a digital mythos that serves as an avatar of liberal resistance. And it has evolved.
In Trump’s second term, AltNPS’s tone has shifted from cautious whistleblowing to direct political attacks. Its posts have gone from veiled warnings and climate statistics to overt condemnation of federal officials and conspiratorial allegations of shadow governance. One notable thread claimed that Elon Musk’s team had infiltrated and taken over USAID, alleging classified breaches, firings, and unconstitutional restructuring. The problem? These posts lacked attribution, lacked evidence — and yet they were taken as gospel.
This is where the comparison to QAnon becomes uncomfortably apt.
But to truly understand the power of these movements — QAnon and its emotional mirror, AltNPS — we need to reckon with who they attract and why.
A 2020 article by cognitive neuroscientist Dr. Bobby Azarian in Psychology Today explores this directly: QAnon, he argues, feeds a variety of unmet psychological needs — from the desire for certainty to the longing for purpose and belonging.
QAnon is more than a conspiracy theory; it is a community, a social identity, and a spiritual belief system rolled into one. Many followers are emotionally vulnerable; in one way or another, they are disoriented by chaos, economic precarity, or distrust in institutions. QAnon offers them not just answers, but meaning. It turns confusion into clarity. Loneliness into camaraderie. It imbues the ordinary with mythic purpose, transforming passive frustration into heroic resistance.
QAnon and AltNPS are opposites politically, but structurally and psychologically they share common DNA. QAnon followers interpreted cryptic “Q drops” as evidence of a coming reckoning. They believed insiders in the government were quietly fighting evil from within. In much the same way, AltNPS followers believe anonymous insiders are posting truth-to-power from deep within compromised institutions.
AltNPS appeals to those who feel alienated from public institutions, overwhelmed by systemic failure, or demoralized by government opacity. It offers reassurance that all is not lost — that somewhere inside the machine, moral actors remain. And just like QAnon, it leverages the myth of secret knowledge and hidden heroes.
Both movements rely on a myth of moral insiders; shadow patriots or park rangers, working in secret. Both frame their existence as necessary in a post-truth world. Both interpret vagueness as legitimacy. And both elevate storytelling over legitimate sourcing.
In AltNPS’s case, the belief in its legitimacy is emotionally useful, not factually grounded. It fills a vacuum left by eroded institutional trust. When traditional journalism feels slow or compromised, and when civic institutions feel complicit or weak, people turn to avatars of resistance. And in 2025, that avatar is a sassy Twitter account with a pine tree icon.
This is narrative coping, weaponized through design. When trust in systems collapses, people look for new ones — not always factual, but emotionally resonant. These movements aren’t just responding to disinformation. They are creating a worldview that satisfies the emotional architecture of belief itself.
Just as QAnon “helped” some conservatives feel like justice was inevitable for the wicked, AltNPS helps some liberals feel like someone is still in control, still fighting. It becomes less about the integrity federal entities, and more about a longing for moral bureaucracy; they long for a government that is principled, honest, and defiant.
And that vulnerability is being exploited. The longer followers engage with accounts like Q or AltNPS, the more emotionally invested they become — not in the truth, but in the feeling of certainty. To question the source becomes a threat to self-identity. The ambiguity of these movements isn’t a bug — it is inherently the feature that keeps people engaged, decoding, waiting for the next drop, reinforcing their own significance in a world that seems to ignore them.
The QAnon conspiracy theory is appealing because it creates a sense of certainty in a world that seems random and dangerous; it provides its followers with a sense of control and agency.
AltNPS, too, offers a sense of emotional control — a way to feel like someone is still fighting, still protecting truth, even if no one can quite say who they are or how they know what they know.
This also explains why it does not matter that AltNPS’s posts are unverified. It doesn’t even matter that their predictions are often unfalsifiable, circular or publicly available knowledge. What matters is that they feel true. These are statements that are vague enough to feel urgent, yet immune to being disproven. Many of the claims follow a familiar formula: “Expect mass firings at DOI this week,” or “Internal memos suggest climate science is being erased from the record.”
These are plausible, even emotionally believable in the current political climate, but they are never attached to documents, dates, or names. And occasionally, when nothing materializes, there is always a built-in justification — the firings were “scrubbed,” the memos were “delayed,” the information was “buried.”
This rhetorical slipperiness mirrors the logic of conspiracy communities, where the inability to verify a claim becomes proof of its sensitivity or truth. Ambiguity of the story becomes a feature, not a flaw.
And that’s the danger: the more a narrative cannot be verified, the more invulnerable it becomes to accountability. It cannot be questioned because to question it is to appear naive, complicit, or insufficiently “aware.” Because of this, AltNPS thrives in the absence of falsifiability.
This is precisely where media literacy comes into play. In an era of information overload, emotionally resonant content often wins out over factual integrity. And when we prioritize what feels good over what is verified, we risk losing our grip on truth altogether. The problem isn’t just that accounts like AltNPS post unverifiable content. The problem lies in the fact that followers — and even journalists — stop asking for verification at all.
We are not media literate if we confuse catharsis for credibility. We are not politically aware if we follow symbols more than we do sources.
Because whether it’s QAnon or “BlueQ,” the myth eventually overtakes the message. What begins as a response to disinformation or institutional collapse becomes its own closed feedback loop. Followers stop interrogating claims and start waiting for drops. They internalize the idea that institutions are broken — and that only unofficial channels can be trusted.
In both cases, truth becomes a performance. And the audience, desperate for reassurance, applauds the loudest voices regardless of their source.
What we’re left with is not public accountability or civic awareness. What we have in our hands instead, is an aesthetic of resistance, a curated simulation; one that is tailored to our anxieties, shaped by our ideologies, and filtered through platforms that reward drama over depth. The kind that trades in urgency, performance, and manufactured insiders; an ideology that speaks the language of resistance without ever requiring the discipline of accountability.
This is not a call to reject emotion in politics — far from it. But emotion cannot be a substitute for discernment. And symbols, no matter how righteous they seem, are no substitute for trust earned through transparency.
We simply cannot restore trust in institutions by worshipping shadows of them.
What is needed now is not more digital heroes, but a public willing to sit with discomfort, a public that can weigh competing truths, and a public that is willing to seek clarity over comfort.
If we want accountability, we must practice it ourselves, by asking hard questions even of those who seem to speak on our behalf. That is the beginning of literacy. That is the first step toward a more honest civic culture, one grounded not in symbolic performance, but in informed skepticism and democratic rigor.
That is what we need; not symbols, but substance. Not avatars of rebellion, but practices of reflection. Not louder voices, but a quieter willingness to think critically — even, and especially, when the story being told aligns with what we already want to believe.
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