When Disruption Serves the Self—Not the Collective

Some people disrupt systems to open doors. Others do it to center themselves. Both wear the costume of courage. But only one is anchored in truth…

I've been reflecting on the psychic tradeoffs we make when we reach for power. Especially when we come from the margins—when we’re racialized, gendered, or marked as “other.”

There’s a moment when access is granted. But not acceptance. You’re allowed in the room—but only if you make yourself easier to digest. You’re praised for your composure—but not invited to speak your whole truth. You’re celebrated as a symbol—but never encouraged to disrupt the systems that keep others like you out.

This is the quiet ache of being seen, but not known.

And many of us—if we’re honest—don’t want to be known. We want to be admired. Respected. Polished. We want our refinement noticed. But not our grief. Not our anger. Not our doubt.

But when we curate our image too carefully, we become strangers to our own complexity. And eventually, that cost shows up—in the relationships we sabotage, the shadows we project, the systems we critique without confronting in ourselves.

So what happens when someone who has risen to elite status—by marriage, wealth, performance, or proximity—still feels unseen? They often reach for the most familiar wound. Sometimes that wound is racial.

Other times, it’s the long ache of class trauma, early invisibility, perfectionism, or the fear of being found out. For many women, it’s the scar of misogyny. For queer folks, it’s the fear of being excluded for existing. For the neurodivergent and disabled, it’s the quiet agony of being misunderstood, misdiagnosed, overlooked—or pathologized.

And when those wounds intersect with systemic injustice, they’re not imagined. They’re real. But they also become harder to separate from the personal pain we’ve never metabolized.

This is where discernment matters.

Because when the world rewards performance but punishes vulnerability, it’s easier to reach for what society will validate. Racism. Misogyny. Bias. Not because they aren’t real—but because they’re recognizable.

They’re the only kinds of pain the world knows how to nod at.

And so we use them. Sometimes to survive. Sometimes to deflect. Sometimes because we haven’t yet told the truth to ourselves.

There’s a difference between using your identity to integrate a system… And using it to avoid your own reckoning.

One is sacred. The other is self-protection.

We’ve seen leaders who disrupted with grace: Wangari Maathai. Dolores Huerta. Benazir Bhutto. AOC. Greta Thunberg. Malala. Tarana Burke. Barack Obama. Alice Wong.

Each of them embodied a vision that was bigger than the room they were in.

They weren’t disrupting for attention. They were disrupting to tell the truth.

Sinead O’Connor disrupted too.
But her truth wasn’t held. It was swallowed by the space that wasn’t ready for it. Disruption without attunement will cost you your clarity.

And then there’s Kanye. Disrupting for spectacle, not service.

His is the energy of a young soul—driven by expression, not elevation.

He isn’t trying to lead a collective forward. He’s trying to satisfy a personal ache.
And that ache becomes noise. Not insight.

Even this has something to teach us. Not every truth is ready to be heard. And not every disruption is anchored in service.

This isn’t about perfection. It’s about integrity.

Are you protecting your access—or using it to change the room?

Sometimes, the most radical thing you can do is refuse to split yourself. Sometimes, the most disruptive thing you can do is stop performing.

Not for approval. Not for protection. But for wholeness.

Disrupt wisely.
Hold nuance.
Be willing to be known.

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