In normal times, markets lean on two anchors: steady data and clear central-bank guidance. In 2024–2025, both feel loose. Measures of U.S. policy uncertainty have hit multi-decade highs, and investors are reacting less to trends than to each new twist in the story.

What looked like a near-certain December rate cut suddenly became “less clear-cut and less certain” after Fed officials publicly split; the October 2025 meeting produced rare dissents in both directions, and Chair Powell cautioned that another cut was “not a foregone conclusion.” The policy path has been a moving target, and markets are trading on that uncertainty rather than clarity.

This Diwali season, I’ve found myself in India, surrounded by the warmth of tradition on the one hand, and a quiet undercurrent of frustration on the other. Gold, long woven into the fabric of celebration here, is suddenly the subject of side-eyes and recalculations at the various malls. Coins, bangles, and necklaces used to arrive without question. Now, they come with hesitation and a not so quiet glance at the market.

After all, at present, the price of gold, in inflation-adjusted terms, is not just high. It is downright abnormal.

Let me be clear: I believe in the promise of AI. As a power user, I rely on multiple foundation models daily to streamline my work and solve problems faster than ever. The productivity is real, the tools are evolving quickly, and the cost per use keeps dropping. Naturally, I want to invest in the future I’m already living. And like many of my colleagues, I’ve tilted my portfolio to give a little extra love to AI-heavy tech stocks. But here’s the thing… I’m also an economist. Which means I’ve seen this movie before. And I know how it ends.

Earlier this year, John, a seasoned professional with a major firm, decided it was time for a leap. The stock market had been climbing steadily, financial headlines were full of optimism, and investor sentiment seemed to signal a revitalized economy. And John was getting increasingly tired of feeling left out. So, convinced that growth had returned, he left his stable job to join a consumer–facing start‑up.

Six weeks later, John was unemployed.

Earlier this year, my wife and I made what should’ve been a simple request: a short-term lease extension while we explored buying a home. We loved our apartment. Paid rent on time. We weren’t just tenants; we were good ones. Reliable, respectful, well-liked by the front office.

So when we asked about continuing our lease month to month, or even for just a few extra months, we expected at least a conversation.

Late last year, I paid off a student loan—not with lottery winnings or a flashy promotion, just consistent payments over time. A quiet milestone, sure, but one that felt like an upward step toward financial freedom. Then, two days later, I got the alert: my credit score had plummeted. Dozens of points gone overnight. The reason? I had closed out a loan. No missed payments. No defaults. Just a responsible, completed obligation. And somehow, I was penalized for it.