Existing in a world with nuclear weapons is somewhat like living in a house with a sleeping dragon. You spend most of your time—work, chores, little pleasures—but you can’t help but remember what’s hiding under the floorboards. The nuclear deterrence logic, which has informed world politics since the Cold War, isn’t merely some theoretical exercise among military strategists. It pervades the way we all think about the future, risk, and safety.

Fundamentally, at the heart of deterrence is an odd sort of relationship—one that doesn’t rely on goodwill or trust, but rather mutual fear of unprecedented devastation. Nuclear deterrence succeeds, according to analysts such as Jeffrey Lewis and Aaron Stein, because it’s frightening. It relies on the idea that people, especially leaders, are more motivated by the threat of unimaginable pain than by ideals like love or peace. That might sound harsh, but it’s the emotional truth we’ve all been living with for decades. Lewis and Stein explain it plainly: deterrence is meant to feel awful because fear—not hope—is what keeps people cautious.
This emotional toll shows up in moments of global crisis. All through the Russia-Ukraine conflict, there has been deep frustration felt in the U.S. and Europe. Why can’t the world’s most powerful military alliance simply end the bloodshed? But the truth is stark: direct intervention could unleash something much worse. President Biden put it bluntly—interfering could mean World War III. That’s not political melodrama; it’s a line drawn because they had to, supported by the knowledge that one misstep could cause havoc on a scale we can hardly imagine.
And yet, it’s precisely this fear that maintains the peace. The unnerving quality of it all isn’t a debacle—it’s proof the system is functioning. Deterrence relies on actual, ongoing uncertainty. If leaders ever lost faith that things might get away from them, deterrence would collapse. Picture yourself on a foggy incline, unaware where the edge is—you proceed cautiously, not because you wish to, but because you’re aware that the danger is real.
The conflict in Ukraine has put all of this into high relief. The U.S. and NATO have reinforced Ukraine substantially—but always in measured terms, always careful not to move too close to the nuclear red line. Russia, despite all the bluffing, has similarly held its hand back from striking directly at NATO. It’s like a game of poker with high stakes in which each side is bluffing sufficiently to remain at the table, but not sufficiently to light the match. Nobody knows where the edge is, and that’s part of what makes the game so lethal—and so good at what it does.
For most of us, this shadow looming over us is more of a dull gnaw than a searing terror. It’s always there, in the periphery, like a background hum you get used to ignoring. We fret about all sorts of things—work, our health, our relationships—but from time to time, the greater danger intrudes. A newsflash. A banner headline. A politician’s remark. And behold, we recall the dragon in the basement. And yet we manage to coexist. Humor is a great way to do it. So is grit. We schedule weddings, raise children, and take road trips. We don’t deny the threat—we simply refuse to let it dominate our thinking.
Lying with this type of uncertainty requires emotional fortitude. It requires us to be vigilant without being paralyzed, to know the dangers without being afraid. That’s not always simple. But ultimately, the terror balance isn’t about missiles or warheads—it’s about human beings. It’s about the strength to continue to live, to build, and to love in a world where danger is always at hand. And perhaps, and perhaps only, that’s what keeps the dragon sleeping.
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