It's 2026... Being a "Victim" Isn't Cool Anymore

P.s. This is a long one… so bear with me.

There are so many aspects of my teenage years in particular that I spent most of my life deeply resenting. Being one of the few kids from a broken home in a largely Christian community—in fact, my parents separation caused me to be baptized much later than most, as my mother stopped attending church with the family for many years… and Father Fred insisted she start attending again (with us) before he would do me the honors. My childhood, like many others, was filled with plenty of turmoil… addictions, violence, low income… and pretty much every checked box that in many cases results in individuals who—in their later years—are less likely to become productive members of society.

I mean it when I say that in sharing some more vulnerable details, lesser known to the general public, it is not because I secretly want sympathy or for the world to be nicer to me because of any hardships. I am not ashamed of these trials and tribulations, or how quickly I had to grow up and figure things out. Rather, I find these sorts of details important in the quest to understand why some people find comfort in various causes, activism, and statistically-bad-for-your-mental-health-and-wellbeing schools of thought.

Recently, the CEO of NVIDIA Jensen Huang, a man with a net worth nearing $200 billion, said something that really stuck with me:

“People with very high expectations have very low resilience, and unfortunately, resilience matters in success. I don't know how to teach it to you, except that I hope suffering happens to you. I was fortunate that I grew up with my parents providing a condition for us to be successful on the one hand, but there were plenty of opportunities for setbacks and suffering. To this day, I use the phrase "pain and suffering" inside our company with great glee — and I mean that. This is going to cause a lot of pain and suffering, and I mean that in a happy way, because you want to train, you want to refine the character of your company. You want greatness out of them, and greatness is not intelligence. Greatness comes from character, and character isn't formed out of smart people — it's formed out of people who suffered.”

Unlike many of my peers who seem to find great (and entitled) pride in what the world has done to them, seemingly complaining about the most mundane things for attention, so desperate to belong that there best shot is be a perpetual victim because they exist… and therefore are owed some sort special treatment; I have no shame in my unstable and at times chaotic early years. And as I recently celebrated my 30th birthday, I found myself reflecting on the many memories that will never be shared, the dark shadows of my past, filled with tragedy/injustice that I plan to continue privately and quietly healing/learning from.

Having been born in 1996 and spending most of my life on a rural property with no cellphone service (or cellphone for much of it), rare at home internet connectivity… nothing but walking barefoot in the moss, observing ant hills while laying the grass, and reading countless books to distract me… I frequently found myself feeling left out, alone, and ostracized from the many kids I wished I was rich enough, funny enough, or interesting enough to become friends with. I carried great embarrassment in the lack of wealth my family had at the time… my inability to join my classmates on school trips, or having to sit out of certain activities because my single mom—who worked full time, on top of attending university again in her 40’s, to try and improve our situation—forgot to sign the permission slip (even after I asked her repeatedly).

I remember sitting in the back of the room during lunch time, watching all the other kids whose parents packed them the best snacks my family could never afford, feeling embarrassed about my boring peanut butter and jam sandwiches… but there was one thing my mother did up until the time I graduated. Something I never once saw any of them pull out of their lunch boxes. While they would all laugh together, listen to music on their iPod’s or take turns playing someone’s Gameboy; there I would be… usually alone, discreetly pulling out the one item in my plastic Walmart bag lunch-bag that meant more than anything to me… a ripped piece of lined looseleaf with my mothers handwriting on it, saying things like: “I love you, have a great day!”, or “Good luck on your test… love mom”.

You see, while many would accurately view aspects of my life as sad, unfair or even traumatic… I always had something that was arguably more important than any modern day defined “privileges”. A foundation—not defined by money or any familial connections that would give me an upper hand in life—The foundation I had, was built solely out of love. We suffered together. We cried together. We ate powdered boxed potatoes together. We experienced life… in its raw, cruel and most unpredictable forms… together. It may have been unstable and chaotic. But Despite all of it, I knew how deeply I was loved by both of my parents. Even my father, who to this day, still celebrates every major holiday with us.

That was something I didn’t realize was unusual in split families until I was in my late 20’s and was introducing a new boyfriend at Christmas. Privately he said to me: “So… you have your mom, and step mom… and dad and step dad… and grandparents from both sides… together? That’s unheard of!”

I also have this unrelenting faith… a secret weapon I only discovered recently, that each and every moment of catastrophic lows… failures… and those times where you struggle to even remember how to breathe because they knock you on your ass so brutally—they belong to me… for a reason I will not know until my time on this earth comes to an end. There was something in each of those experiences… a series of turning points, and choices that were given to me because there was a version of myself I would have never became without them. Someone’s life I may have positively impacted through the ripple effect of actions… actions I wouldn’t have taken if that suffering never showed up at my front door. Personality traits that wouldn’t exist if I didn’t crawl my way out of the darkness.

Each and every grievance is an opportunity to do something important… something I fear we have now glorified losing… and more nefariously, actively prevented people from finding: Meaning, purpose, and beliefs that are yours. Not because anyone told you what they were… but because you had to discover them on your own.

you see, a person who has had to do that, is a person who does not easily blow with every gust of wind. One who has already done the work of becoming… and has no need to borrow an identity from a crowd.

Confidence and conviction that's been earned is a grave threat to anyone trying to profit off your vulnerabilities—the bad actors who need your attention, your dedication, and your outrage, to survive.

“Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything.” - James 1:4

There’s something I’ve shared a few times now, on stages across this country, whenever this topic comes up: there are two things that can happen to you when you experience tragedy and hardship. It’s either going to make you bitter and resentful, or it’s going to become the very tool you use to reach heights you didn’t know you could climb.

It’s the same wound, with two completely different lives on the other side of it.

Life is hard. Life is filled with suffering, some seasons more than others. Life is unfair—genuinely, structurally unfair, more often than any of us would like. But your life is yours. And maybe that’s exactly why I have such a visceral reaction to the glorification of victimhood in the modern world.

I cannot fathom why anybody—no matter how difficult things have been—would ever willingly hand the person who wronged them that much power over the rest of their life. Why would you let your worst moment become your whole identity? Why would you choose to stay in a powerless place, when the door to rise above it has been sitting open the entire time? I’d far rather spend my time in proving them wrong. Make them look like fools for ever underestimating you. Make them regret it.

When I spoke at the 2026 National Conservative Convention, an opportunity I am still stunned I was able to have, I closed my speech by saying:

“To every single person who has ever doubted me, criticized me, dehumanized me, and done what they could to discredit me… thank you. Because thanks to you, I’m here”. The crowd laughed, and much to my surprise (and great honour), I received a standing ovation…

I didn’t say that to be clever. I said it because it’s true. Every person who counted me out handed me something they never meant to give: proof. Proof that I could take the hit and still stand. Proof that their opinion of me was never actually a verdict—just a guess, and a bad one.

That’s the part nobody tells you about resentment: it keeps you facing backward, staring at the person who hurt you, waiting for an apology that may never come. But purpose faces forward. And the moment you stop asking “why did they do this to me” and start asking “what am I going to build in spite of it,” you’ve already won. They just haven’t figured that out yet.

underneath all of it: claiming victimhood is a trade. And I don’t think people make that trade because they’re weak—I think they make it because someone, somewhere, made it look like the better deal. In a world driven by clicks, likes, and chasing the feeling of false importance… the victim card gives you several things you would have to work hard to achieve the same level of dopamine for. You get sympathy, and attention. You get to skip the part where anyone’s allowed to question you… because who interrogates a person who’s suffering? Worst of all, you get status in the rooms that have decided suffering is the new nobility. All you have to do is post a new Facebook status or carry a sign at a protest.

But look at what you handed over to get all that: the pen. The authorship of your own story—and its not even a story you truly believe in. So you get a half-assed version of who you want to be, with someone else guiding your reactions, purpose, and deciding what makes you worthy. Not because they believe in you, see you, or know your pain… but because you have chosen to hand yourself over to the tribe for someone else to claim your light and use it for their own (usually political) advantage.

Really think about this… the modern day feminists as an example: marching in the streets back in 2016, adorned with hats and standing behind “The Pussyhat Project”. A movement so large it was featured in Time Magazine, international news… and despite being based in the United States of America, gathered enough attention that similar marches were held in Canada, Europe, Australia, New Zealand, Asia, Africa… and to try to push the movement to all 7 continents… a small group of scientists even staged a small demonstration in Antarctica.

While it may have been framed as their own website reads: “The Pussyhat Project™ is a social movement focused on raising awareness about women’s issues and advancing human rights by promoting dialogue and innovation through the arts, education and intellectual discourse. The Pussyhat™ is a symbol of support and solidarity for women’s rights and political resistance. Make a hat! Give a hat! Wear your hat! Share a hat!”

Described as a genuine “grass-roots” movement… until of course, later documents obtained revealed that the marches themselves and subsequent activist mobilization and digital media campaigns by the same organization during the Covid-19 pandemic, well… they were largely funded by several progressive dark money networks. With a significant amount tracing back to George Soros.

You could say that despite the entire thing being funded and pushed by the Democratic party’s largest activist donors and their many media connections, people who bought their own yarn and knitted their own cult-like-uniform hats is evidence of a genuine “women’s rights” movement that gained traction for the greater good of society… except… those same “grassroots” supporters have been completely silent over biological men dominating women in sports, forced child marriages, honor killings, and the legal subjugation of women in many parts of the middle east… somehow the absolute stripping of autonomy from 20 million Afghan women did not trigger mass marches in Western capitals, who by their own words, exist solely to: support and solidarity for women’s rights and political resistance.

I guess areas where women are ACTUALLY under threat and could use some western political resistance against the Taliban (as one of dozens of examples) just don't count: Afghanistan, Sudan, Iraq, Pakistan… the list goes on and on.

It wasn’t really about women’s rights… it was actually just a textbook case study in political sociology. "Women's rights" was used as a universal slogan, but the actual operational scope of their activism was strictly bounded by domestic partisan politics. It was truly a well funded, well organized, professional and partisan political operation to build the first layer of the “Trump resistance network”.

But I'll bet those same women felt really virtuous protesting in a democratic republic against a president who said something they didn't like on leaked tapes (which were themselves used as a political weapon), despite the fact he never took away their rights and recently oversaw the highest percentage of women in the workforce in decades. I'll bet they also feel incredibly virtuous protesting against ICE under that same president—who's removing the dangerous men from the aforementioned "women have no rights" countries they allegedly care about and don’t want America turning into.

There are real fault lines in this country and this continent—poverty, addiction, family breakdown, regional neglect, genuine and documentable discrimination in specific cases. Those deserve rigor… and they often get it.

But I’m talking about the manufactured grievance. The practiced flinch. The identity built not out of what actually happened to you, but out of what you’ve decided to feel about what didn’t. And I’ll say the word, because it’s the accurate one: it’s lazy. Self-examination is hard… self-narration as “the wronged party” is easy. “Someone did this to me” requires no evidence, no accountability, and no plan. “I need to change something about how I’m living” requires all three… and it’s terrifying. It’s also the only version that actually gets you somewhere.

Go ask a woman in Iran what oppression costs her. Go ask a Uyghur. Go ask someone who grew up in Cuba what happens when you say the wrong thing to the wrong person. Then come back and tell me your feelings got hurt by a tweet.

This was never about gatekeeping suffering. It’s about respecting the word enough not to spend it on ourselves for cheap… because every time we borrow the language of the actually oppressed to describe our own discomfort, we don’t elevate ourselves. We cheapen the real thing. We make it harder for anyone to hear the genuine cry for help buried underneath all the manufactured ones.

I’ve stood in front of rooms full of people who have lived through things that would break most of us, and the ones who make it—the ones who actually go on to build something—are never the ones who moved into the wound and decorated it. They’re the ones who used it as fuel and left.

Your worst moment is not required to be your identity. It’s allowed to be the thing you point to later and say: that’s where it started, and look how far I got from there.

I don’t think people choose victimhood because they’re weak. I think they choose it because it’s available… and VERY trendy. We, in our silence, allowed for our culture to build an entire reward system around it, and humans (being humans) respond to incentives. That’s not a character flaw unique to any one group. It’s just what happens when you make grievance profitable.

The harder, better path is the boring one: build something, take the hit when it’s your fault, and reserve the word “oppressed” for people who are actually living it. If everyone’s a victim, no one is, and the word stops meaning anything for the people who need it to mean something.

I don’t know about you… but I'm pretty tired of the many redefinitions of words these days. Especially when 9/10 they aren’t redefined and broadened for any reason other than a political tool to activate the base around election time. And frankly, it’s disgusting.

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