💥 BREAKING NEWS: Toyota slashes U.S. output as Canada cashes in on Trump’s “America First” tariff disaster⚡NN

At first glance, it looks like a success story. A massive $14 billion Toyota battery plant in North Carolina, gearing up to ship its first packs in a matter of weeks. Soon, millions of Toyota hybrids, plug-in hybrids, and EVs across the country will be powered by batteries built in Greensboro.

But look a layer deeper, and the story shifts from “Made in America” triumph to something far more unsettling.

Across North America, a subtle but powerful realignment is underway. The confidence that once defined U.S. auto manufacturing—the feeling that plants would hum forever and jobs would always be there—is cracking. The rhythms inside factories are changing. The chatter on the floor has turned cautious. The old assumption that America would always be the gravitational center of the auto world is starting to slip.

Nowhere is that clearer than at Toyota’s flagship Georgetown, Kentucky plant.

For decades, Georgetown was the pride of Toyota’s global network—a symbol of efficiency, reliability, and stability. The plant powered the local economy. Towns were built around its shifts. Families planned their lives by its schedule.

Not anymore.

This year, the mood is different. Lexus production halted. RAV4 output cut back. Workers still clock in, machines still run—but the sense of certainty is gone. Local businesses that depended on the plant’s steady flow of shifts and paychecks are facing scenarios they haven’t had to think about in a generation.

And it’s not just Kentucky.

Supplier hubs across the Midwest and South are feeling the squeeze. Parts makers, metal shops, and tool manufacturers tied to Toyota and other automakers are cutting hours, slowing production, and freezing hiring. Truck drivers who once had guaranteed routes now sit and wait for loads that used to appear like clockwork. Even state officials—normally eager to brag about any industrial win—are suddenly choosing their words carefully.

The root of the shock? A policy sold as patriotism.

Earlier this year, the White House slapped a 25% tariff on imported autos and parts. It was marketed as a bold “America First” move to rebuild domestic manufacturing, protect U.S. jobs, and force supply chains to “come home.”

Instead, it detonated inside the very system it was supposed to save.

According to research from the Center for Automotive Research, automakers in the U.S. ate nearly $18 billion in new costs in the first year alone. Vehicle production across the continent dropped by more than 20,000 vehicles per day. In one month, output cratered nearly 30%. Global brands responded fast: Volvo, Mercedes-Benz, Audi, Hyundai and others scaled back or shifted production away from the United States. Companies that stayed jacked up prices.

The result? The average new vehicle price in the U.S. shot past $50,000. Families who might’ve bought new are now clinging to old cars and combing the used market. A policy meant to save American manufacturing ended up squeezing American consumers and kneecapping American plants.

Canada saw the opening—and sprinted through it.

Instead of chaos and whiplash, Ottawa offered stability. Instead of tariff shocks, it offered long-term certainty, clean energy, and open trade lanes. Global automakers noticed.

Honda announced a $15 billion EV and battery mega-project in Ontario, backed by nearly $5 billion in federal and provincial incentives. The plan: 240,000 EVs per year by 2028, 36 gigawatt hours of battery capacity, and around 1,000 direct jobs—plus countless more in the supply chain.

Toyota doubled down in Canada too, leveraging trade agreements that give it access to more than 50 global markets. Through deals like CPTPP and USMCA, Canada positioned itself as the calm, predictable hub in a turbulent world.

The numbers tell the story: Japanese automakers now build nearly half of all vehicles produced in Canada—around 930,000 a year. Toyota makes roughly 500,000. Honda, about 430,000. Research centers and advanced facilities continue to cluster around Ontario and Windsor, fueled by a cleaner electricity grid that cuts energy costs by an estimated 20% compared to many U.S. plants.

Meanwhile, Toyota’s U.S. operations are under serious strain.

Global earnings dropped by about $9.5 billion. North American operations slipped into loss territory in Q1 2025, hit with roughly $3 billion in tariff-related expenses. Management slashed its annual profit forecast by 16%, citing higher costs, weaker demand, and a supply chain still trying—and failing—to adapt.

It gets worse.

Around 40% of the value of an “American-made” car actually comes from imported components. When tariffs slam those inputs, everything gets more expensive. Steel, copper, aluminum—up between 18% and 40%. That alone added roughly $3,000 to the cost of each U.S.-built vehicle. Smaller suppliers, already operating on razor-thin margins, are pausing operations or shutting down altogether.

Ford and GM have cut output by up to 10%. Vehicle shippers are reporting their weakest volumes in more than 15 years. Parking lots outside big assembly plants, once jammed, now have empty rows. Machines sit idle for long stretches. The speeches about “rebuilding American manufacturing” ring hollow against the cold math of tariffs, costs, and collapsing demand.

In contrast, Canada’s auto industry is accelerating. Plants ramp up. New investments keep coming. The country is on track, analysts say, to capture as much as 40% of North America’s EV and battery capacity by 2030, while the U.S. risks losing up to a quarter of its auto supply chain.

The irony is brutal.

A policy designed to “put America first” is pushing factories, jobs, and investment across the border. American plants slow down while Canadian plants staff up. U.S. workers tighten their belts while Canadian workers sign on to new shifts.

In the end, the companies are simply following the same rule they always have: capital goes where the future looks safest.

Right now, that future is pointing north.