Activism as an Emotional Drug: The High, The Crash, and the Consequences
Your cause won’t save you. It might even break you.
We don’t talk enough about the emotional undercurrent of activism—the part that isn’t about policy or strategy, but about the hit of purpose, the rush of belonging, and the lure of moral righteousness. We glamorize the resistance—but behind all that is something quieter, darker, and far more personal.
Activism, for many, isn’t just a mission. It’s an emotional fix. And if we’re not honest about that, we risk building movements that burn out, turn on themselves, or become tools of manipulation.
I used to think I was just deeply committed. Uncompromising, principled, passionate about freedom. And I was all of those things—but I was also addicted to what activism gave me emotionally.
Not long ago, I came across a video of myself giving a speech at a rally. Watching it back, I saw the resolve in my face—but also the desperation. I was chasing significance. I wanted to matter. And in that moment, on that stage, I did.
It made me feel seen, wanted, and powerful. At home and work, I felt frustrated and misunderstood. But out there, at the rallies and various actions, I felt like a warrior. People cared what I believed and had to say. They agreed with me. We had a common enemy, and I was on the front lines.
It was fulfilling—but it was also intoxicating.
What no one tells you is that activism can feel like a drug. There's a rush: dopamine from the purpose, adrenaline in the actions, and clarity in chaos. And like any addiction, you start to crave it. When there’s no crisis, you feel aimless. When others aren’t as fired up, they seem weak. Eventually, you’re not just fighting for a cause—you’re fighting for the high and the feeling that you matter. And THAT, right there, is leverage.
I began to see others—especially those closest to me outside of my activism—as less. Less committed. Less patriotic. Less worthy of respect. If they weren't on the front lines, I secretly questioned their love of country. It was us vs. them, and I was the one drawing the line.
Eventually, the cracks showed. The group began to splinter. The leader turned out to be an infiltrator. There was sexual misconduct, emotional abuse, and a growing tilt toward extremism. Anyone who pushed back was labeled a traitor—or worse, an informant. Righteousness became a weapon. The cause disappeared under dysfunction, ego, and chaos. In short, it all fell apart, and I chose to leave.
Walking away was like going through a sort of detox. I still believed in the values, but I had to face the hard truth: I’d let a movement hijack my identity. Without the high, I had to figure out who I really was. That meant dealing with my past—my trauma, my need for validation. I needed to do the work to become whole before stepping into any future fight.
If you're an activist—idealistic, fired up, ready to change the world—hear me on this.
Before you commit to any group, make sure:
Their goals are crystal clear and measurable.
Roles are defined, with real boundaries and expectations.
There’s space for dissent, rest, transparency, and accountability.
Most importantly, do your internal work first. Heal what’s broken. Examine your motives. Find your cracks—because if you don’t, someone else will. And they’ll exploit them, either in the name of the cause or to destroy it.
Activism is powerful. But if you’re using it to escape yourself, it will eat you alive. Movements don’t need martyrs, or people running from themselves in the hopes that the cause will fill their emotional needs. They need sober-minded, strategic people who know who they are—and fight from a place of emotional health and maturity.
This isn’t just about changing the world. It’s about not losing yourself in the process.
There’s a reason.
If this hit home—if you’ve seen the cracks, felt the high, or watched a movement devour its own—then you know this isn’t just a story. It’s real life.
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Tango down