Identity Crises in the Modern World

At the root of the overwhelming majority of maladaptive social movements is a deep and profound crisis of identity: no one seems to have any true sense of security about who they are and why they were made. In the absence of this security, they perform, often with great zeal, a caricature of who they’ve come to believe they should be, or, perhaps even more frequently, who they deeply want to be.

We see this in the red-pilled manosphere with deeply insecure men thumping their chests and overcompensating in every single area of their lives from the trucks they drive to the guns they hoard to the trophy wives they subjugate. They carefully craft their environments to orbit around their egos and affirm their legitimacy as men. “Real men are alpha warriors.” “Real men don’t cry.” “Real men call all the shots.” “Real men are the bosses.” Every creed exists to remind them of their own greatness, and the people affected by the narcissistic nature of it are merely collateral damage in a war they fight against themselves. They’re floundering at meaning.

We see this also in the online tradwifery wars, where carefully curated Instagram posts depict flawless blondes with flowing locks walking barefoot in expensive peasant dresses through amber waves of grain, a quiverfull of modelesque children in tow. “How could any woman pay a stranger to raise her kids when this is an option?” they sanctimoniously post, masking their superiority complexes as feigned concern for the fate of strangers’ children. They don’t actually care that much about other peoples’ kids. They just want their superfans to praise their own example and to tell them, “Great job, womaning! You’re such an exemplary human!”

It’s gross. I clearly don’t have a ton of patience for it. Show me the mile high stack of dirty dishes in the kitchen sink or the freshly ripped and muddied pair of jeans you just bought your pre-teen YESTERDAY before he decided to catapult himself off an entire flight of stairs to see if he could clear the puddle at the bottom. Show me the bags under your eyes or the photos of yourself in your oversized sweats and messy bun as you aggressively conquer that clogged toilet, plunger in hand like a friggin’ battle sword. I want to see the struggle that underscores the beautiful moments. I don’t believe you when you only show me your perfection.

Of course the identity crises look a bit different on the opposite side of the political divide. I’ve spent more than enough time writing about them. From the deviant men in women’s locker rooms to the teen girl requiring everyone to call her “Ash” because she’s uncomfortable inhabiting the rapidly changing sexed body that’s so frequently weaponized against her, there’s no shortage of examples of deep and concerning personal confusion cluttering the public sector and monopolizing legislative efforts.

People whose entire self-concept hinges on their reputation for being loving and compassionate have ultimately proven to endorse full blown hate and bigotry; just look at any major college campus where, over the course of less than a decade, the people screaming “Nazi bigot” at anyone with the audacity to use accurate pronouns, were the same people actually behaving like Nazis, terrorizing Jewish students, and screaming “intifada!” on campus. You can’t make it make sense.

The point, of course, is that people who are not secure in their own identities are generally people who end up inadvertently hurting others from that place of insecurity. None of us exist in a vacuum. Paul Simon was not, in fact, a rock or an island. No one is. Our insecurities bleed out onto other people, so it behooves us to face them head on and really wrestle with the underlying questions: Who am I, and what was I made for?

Divorced from answers to these really important questions, confusion reigns supreme. I’m a Christian, so it is my deeply held belief that every human alive was intentionally designed by a loving God and with a specific purpose in mind— a purpose no one else could possibly fulfill. We are not an accident. We are here on mission. There’s work specific to our passions and aptitudes that we are expected to champion. And the closer we can get to naming that purpose, the happier and more fruitful our lives will be, and the richer the lives of those around us will become by proxy in the process.

I could wax on for about a hundred more paragraphs if it were helpful, but I’m really sensing I should keep this one simple. It’s nothing more than an invitation. Who are you? What were you made for? Do you have security in that? If not, is your insecurity about it having a negative impact on the people around you?

Please share your thoughts in the comments. I’m eager to hear how this lands today.

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