Your political activism is making you sick
There is a better way
They say it’s been going strong since the 70s. But the mental whiplash for me started back in 2017. People everywhere were shouting about who was right and who was irredeemably wrong, slinging accusations like I’d walked into a dodgeball game where I didn’t even know the rules. The only way to survive was to pick a side, or else be mistaken for a target. I chose identity politics, thinking it was the compassionate path—the team waving banners of inclusion, the folks saying, “Come as you are.” It seemed like love in action, the kind of group that looked out for everyone, no matter their background. I believed I was joining a movement with open arms and open minds, a place where everyone could belong.
For a while, it felt like I’d made it. I climbed that social ladder with all the grace of someone who actually believed they understood the code. I was part of *the* circles—glossy, important circles that threw words like “ally” and “intersectionality” around with such practiced ease. And then, one day, I blinked and those circles seemed to change shape. They didn’t look like bastions of inclusivity anymore; they looked a lot like the echo chambers they’d once criticized. The focus had shifted. It became less about shared humanity and more about dismissing those who didn’t follow the exact narrative. When I dared to voice the smallest, most reasonable doubt, it was like I’d committed high treason. I was booted out of those circles with a speed that made my head spin, labeled and dismissed without a second thought. People I’d once considered friends weren’t just angry—they were out for blood. I hadn’t just disagreed; I’d somehow morphed into their enemy. Falling from that ladder, I was disoriented and confused, wondering when the openness we’d once championed had turned into the same dogmatic mindset we’d set out to break.
As I picked up the pieces, I started to see that “loving everyone” and “belonging somewhere” might be two entirely different things. It dawned on me that the people I’d admired were becoming less interested in mutual understanding and more wrapped up in something else entirely: appearances, approval, power—yes, even fame. This movement I’d believed in didn’t look like a place of growth and support anymore. It looked like an assembly line for egos. And maybe I was no better, playing my part just as they were. I realized I’d become so attached to the *idea* of belonging and so terrified of being on the wrong side that I’d lost sight of what I actually believed. So, I turned away from it all and started searching for what love, compassion, and truth looked like outside of an identity or an ideology. I realized that while these movements were feeding people’s sense of purpose, they weren’t necessarily helping them become better, kinder people. I didn’t want to live in that bubble anymore.
Activism can run into trouble when it champions ideas so broadly defined that there's no clear way to get to the destination. You might start out with noble aims like equality or empowerment, but without a defined path, these aims easily become a means to an end—a kind of mirage that keeps shifting every time you think you're almost there. Instead of making real progress, the focus narrows to a single, often rigid vision, leading to tunnel vision that hides the actual ground that’s being lost. And ironically, while activists strive for justice, the outcome often becomes something entirely different, even disastrous, for the very people they intended to help.
With the goalposts always moving, activists can wind up in a cycle of disappointment, where hard work starts to feel less like progress and more like an ever-deepening pit. This cycle can breed a sense of frustration and futility, which might explain why activists often seem worn down and, well, miserable. It’s a classic sunk-cost fallacy: so much time and energy invested that turning back or reevaluating feels impossible. Yet without that reevaluation, the work becomes more about keeping up the fight than achieving any tangible outcome.
Social media spreads information so fast there’s barely time to check if it’s even true. if you haven’t learned to trace where your news is coming from beyond its author, it’s possible you’re taking in nefarious sources such as the Internet Research Agency (IRA), foreign special interest groups, or even terrorist groups at face value. The goal, of course, is not to inform, but to threaten national security by creating highly contentious and emotionally-driven content to sow discord and confusion into mass hysteria. Once your lizard brain is in full survival-mode, you’re state of mind is unable to think critically, causing you to blindly follow the mob and become easily manipulated into believing all sorts of propaganda. You can read plenty of examples of this happening in echo chambers with anti-capitalist sentiments, certain social justice and environmental groups and anti-authoritarian regimes.
Friends don’t let friends become useful idiots.
It’s hard to watch, honestly. This brand of political activism—the kind that chews people up, pits them against each other, and only seems satisfied when the “wrong” side is obliterated—doesn't just wear people out; it makes them sick. I’m deeply concerned, watching people I once shared so much life with, fall further into this cycle of outrage and radicalization. The need to always be right, to be the loudest, most righteous voice in the room, is draining them dry. It’s like they’re all slowly giving up pieces of themselves to fit some mold, convinced that this will finally get them the acceptance they crave. And it pains me, because despite everything, I still love those friends who now say they hate me. I haven’t given up on them. My hope is that one day, they’ll manage to break free of the echo chamber they’re stuck in, the “us vs. them” mentality that’s holding them hostage, because beneath all the noise and anger, they’re still there—the friends I’ve known for a long time. And I’ll be here, waiting, if they ever want to come back.