Fighting the urge to trauma-bond in every conversation? I feel ya!
Why are we always leading with trauma? Here is my love (or rather breakup) letter to the age of oversharing.
I sat through a conference this past weekend, and by the third speaker I could practically predict the theme: childhood wound, tragic loss, massive betrayal, cue the transformation, ta-da - now they're a leadership coach with a six-figure side hustle. Don't get me wrong, every story was powerful! Every speaker was brave! However, somehow between the third and seventh time someone said "struggle," I found myself wondering: when did connection become synonymous with confession? When did we decide the only way to inspire was to bleed on the microphone?
To be fair, this isn't the first time I've had these thoughts as I sat through speaker after speaker vomiting their past hardships and traumas all over the audience. We are living in what can only be described as the golden era of trauma-as-introduction. You know the format: "I used to [insert major life hardship], but now I [insert impressive successes]."
Yes, I know struggle makes compelling storytelling. Yes, it builds empathy. However, lately it feels like we are mining pain for clout. There is a fine line between authenticity and performance, and it seems we are continuously doing cartwheels right across it.
When did this trend begin? I think it was somewhere around 2013, when social media became less about what you were doing and more about what you survived. Facebook became a therapy session. LinkedIn became a book of short stories based on broken ladders. And suddenly, everyone had a TED talk inside them. Brene Brown told us vulnerability was strength (she's not wrong), and the Internet took that as an invitation to weaponize every scar.
The media, of course, helped! Watch any documentary, read any profile piece, and you'll notice a formula: trauma, turmoil, triumph. It's American Idol storytelling at a grand scale. Happy endings only hit if they have a gritty prologue. We've trained ourselves to value redemption arcs more than the thing being redeemed.
And...in doing so, we have inadvertently set a strange bar for relatability: suffering. If you haven't overcome a major life collapse, what are you even doing on stage!?
There is a problem with making pain the price of admission. Here is where this gets dangerous. When trauma becomes the currency of connection, people without obvious scars start to feel...bankrupt. We begin to measure worth by how much we've endured, not how we've lived. Even worse, we imply that success is only meaningful because of pain, not despite it.
Think about it for a second. How often do we celebrate someone who quietly worked hard, got a few lucky breaks, and built a beautiful life? We don't - too bland. Not enough drama. But someone who clawed their way out of a near-death experience, childhood trauma, financial ruin, and three toxic bosses? THAT gets a standing ovation!
I'm not saying adversity doesn't shape us. It absolutely does! But should it be required reading for your highlight reel?
We even do this with pets. Seriously, rescue dogs with three legs and a tragic backstory practically have their own PR teams. If your dog didn't escape a puppy mill, learn to love again after abuse, or survive two weeks in the elements in the depths of a Nebraska winter, are you even allowed to post about them? Pets are apparently more lovable if they've been through hell. A healthy, well-adjusted golden retriever may be cute, but probably isn't trending.
Public figures perform their pain, too! Look at the narratives that get traction. Matthew McConaughey, Taylor Swift, even Oprah - icons who rightfully own their stories, but whose platforms often orbit their past struggles. Meanwhile, those with less marketable trauma are often dismissed as "out of touch." There is a reason every tech founder now opens with a tale of humble beginnings or mental health battles. It's not all about relatability. It's STRATEGY.
Even politicians have caught on to this vibe. You're more electable if you can prove you've suffered. Bonus points if it happened on camera.
But what if...what if we led with joy?
Here is a radical idea: what if we built connection through shared joy, curiosity, creativity - not just the ways we've been broken. What if inspiration didn't require emotional receipts? What if success stories didn't need a prologue of pain?
Not everyone's hardest moment is meant to be content. Not everyone who hasn't faced visible adversity is living an unexamined life.
We can acknowledge our pasts without making them the thesis. We can celebrate resilience without glamorizing the rubble. We can start seeing each other not simply as survivors, but as whole, complicated humans who, yes, sometimes got here exclusively through a series of good decisions and decent sleep.
TL;DR
Connection doesn't require confession. You don't need a dramatic backstory to be worthy of attention and admiration. Maybe next time we tell our stories, we can start with where we are, not where we were when we were at our lowest.
