I was created for peace. Real, torturous peace—the kind that comes only after sleepless nights, reluctant handshakes, and the faint scent of gunpowder still lingering in the air.

For over a century, I’ve been awarded to those who built bridges where there were none: presidents and poets, scientists and activists, even a few whose names made my own committee tilt its head and say, “Well, that’s an…interpretation.”

But lately, I seem to have lost my quiet dignity. Somewhere between the invention of cable news and the dawn of Twitter (X), I plummeted from symbol to storyline. Where I was once tucked reverently into speeches about global unity, I’m now no more than a trending topic wedged between a celebrity divorce and the occasional cryptocurrency scandal. Every time I resurface, I can practically hear the newsroom groan: “We’re doing this again?”

I remember the first time I heard the name Donald J. Trump echo through Oslo’s marble halls. It wasn’t a nomination so much as a shockwave.

Now, I was used to political surprises—I’ve adorned everyone from Henry Kissinger to Yasser Arafat, after all—but this was different. This was heated to a temperature I’ve never felt in my 125 years. The headlines arrived long before the nomination letters. News anchors blinked at teleprompters, pundits debated my moral integrity, and the word “peace” briefly trended alongside “covfefe.” A typo!

Each nomination cycle since has followed the same rhythm. Whispers, speculation, and eventually a headline that could power a thousand opinion pieces: “Trump Nominated for Nobel Peace Prize.” Six simple words—guaranteed to summon chaos.

Within minutes, I’m plastered across social media, spun into memes and monologues alike. Some insist I’m proof of his greatness. Others claim I’ve been defiled beyond redemption. I watch the arguments unfold, my golden surface reflecting the glare of every cable news graphic.

If medals could blush, I would’ve melted by now.

I don’t entirely blame the journalists. They’re merely chasing the same thing I once stood for—a glimpse of hope, or at least a headline that isn’t about disaster. But the problem with turning peace into clickbait is that peace doesn’t perform well under pressure. It’s subtle. Uneventful. Hard to film.

When the world used to achieve peace, the story unfolded slowly. Decades of talks, drafts, and compromises led to treaties printed on yellowing paper. Now, peace needs to fit into a push notification. It’s grown controversial and divisive, rather than consistent and unifying.

And so, I’ve become part of the news cycle—debated, deconstructed, and occasionally “canceled.” Reporters speculate on who deserves me like it’s a political draft. “Should it be Trump? Zelensky? Greta Thunberg? Taylor Swift for uniting humanity under heartbreak?”

I admire the enthusiasm. Truly. But some mornings I’d like to sip my metaphorical coffee in peace without seeing my name trending yet again.

Mr. Trump, for his part, seems genuinely fond of me. That’s not unusual—most politicians are. Some want me for their legacy, others for their ego. I can’t fault ambition. It’s part of the human condition. Still, it’s strange to watch a prize for peace become a campaign talking point. I’ve heard my own name chanted at rallies, printed on T-shirts, and used as proof and validation.

But I belong to no one—not the left, not the right, not even to Norway. I belong to the rare, fragile idea that human beings can choose calm over chaos, even when it’s inconvenient. People forget: being “nominated” for me isn’t rare. Thousands are every year, from heads of state to high school teachers to organizations most of you have never heard of. But “Trump Nominated” makes for better television than “Several Qualified Individuals Submit Paperwork.”

And so, the narrative takes shape. I’m hauled back into the spotlight, my worth debated by pundits who’ve never set foot in Oslo and more than likely never will. The spectacle continues until the next crisis pushes me off the ticker (at least until next year, when we do it all again).

If I could make one plea—and it’s an ironic one, given my job—it would be for a little peace. Peace from the punditry, from the endless parsing of nominations, from the feverish declarations that I have either saved or doomed civilization. I promise I’m not that powerful. I’m a medal, not a messiah.

I don’t pick sides; I commemorate moments when humanity does the right thing—or at least tries to. Sometimes those moments come from people that history later questions. Sometimes they come from people who never seek recognition at all.

That’s the beauty and the curse of being me: I’m not a verdict. I’m a mirror.

So yes, I’ve heard the chatter. I’ve read the think pieces and the tweets and the “Nobel Peace Prize trending for all the wrong reasons” articles. I take no offense. Truly. You’re only human, and humans crave stories more than stillness. But remember this: peace was never meant to go viral. The best kind doesn’t need an announcement, a ceremony, or even a gold medal to prove it happened.

Real peace doesn’t make headlines. It quietly retires them.