Let me start with this: I’ve seen some shit.
I’ve been kicked out at 16 for being gay, subjected to conversion therapy, survived cancer, buried friends, lost my nursing license for reporting a mistake I didn’t even make, and watched my dreams crumble while overdressed in a Holiday Inn Express lobby. I’ve weathered abusive relationships, battled body dysmorphia, lived without a sense of smell, and gotten through ER shifts that made warzones look quaint. In the great ledger of human suffering, I have receipts.
And yet—I’m done playing the Trauma Olympics.
For the uninitiated, the Trauma Olympics is that insidious cultural game where we pit suffering against suffering like it’s the damn Hunger Games of hurt. It’s a place where you’ll be midway through describing your abusive stepfather when someone suddenly interrupts with, “Well I had to eat cat food during the recession.” Or you’re opening up about surviving cancer and someone says, “Well, at least you had insurance. I had to crowdfund my chemo and lost three teeth from stress.” Welcome to the arena—where empathy is conditional, healing is transactional, and the prize is a crown made entirely of red flags.
It’s exhausting. It’s toxic. And most of all, it’s pointless.
Where Does It Come From?
I get it. I truly do. When your identity has been forged in pain, it becomes the story you know how to tell best. Trauma shapes you. Sometimes it is your introduction—especially in queer, chronically ill, or survivor communities. It’s your icebreaker, your credential, your emotional street cred.
But somewhere along the way, our society decided that the worst thing that ever happened to you is the most interesting thing about you.
We went from “I survived” to “I out-suffered you.”
It’s especially brutal online, where vulnerability gets flattened into digestible content and shared like battle stats. On any given Tuesday, I can scroll through TikTok and see a girl trauma-dumping about her abusive ex with a makeup tutorial in the corner while someone in the comments is like, “Yeah but did he kill your dog and burn your house down? Didn’t think so. Next.” We’ve replaced empathy with algorithms and nuance with Nielsen ratings.
My Own Jersey Moment
I’ve worn my trauma jersey like it was custom-tailored. I thought it made me relatable. It did. I thought it would earn me understanding. Sometimes, it did. I thought it would make people less likely to hurt me. Reader, it did not.
There’s a kind of trauma performance we all unconsciously participate in at some point, especially when we come from communities where we’ve had to fight for attention, rights, or basic survival. In my case, as a gay, biracial man in Texas who grew up around abuse and was later criminalized for trying to do the right thing, it felt like I had to preface my existence with a trigger warning just to be taken seriously. My pain had to walk into the room before I did. It had to soften people, prepare them, explain me.
It’s only now, in the safety of love—thanks to Matthew, thanks to Daisy, thanks to my chosen family—that I’m realizing: I don’t want to be defined by the worst things that have happened to me. I want to be defined by what I did with them.
The False Meritocracy of Suffering
Trauma is not a résumé booster. It is not a personality. It is not a flex. And it certainly shouldn’t be a prerequisite for being heard.
But in American culture—especially online—it’s become a grotesque meritocracy. People feel the need to “rank” their pain before they can speak on an issue. “Well, as a cancer survivor…” “As someone who was homeless…” “As a trauma-informed queer…”—and look, I’ve done this. We all have. Sometimes, context is vital. But sometimes, it’s just a performance. A resume line to validate our voice in a world that constantly demands we explain our existence.
This becomes especially dangerous when it silences people who haven’t been through hell. You don’t need to have walked through fire to recognize smoke. You don’t need scars to show compassion. Not every person who advocates for change needs a sob story, and not every sob story needs a platform.
The Healthcare Lens: Where It Gets Real Messy
Let’s talk briefly about the ER.
When I was running Emergency Services at Parkland, a county hospital where we were chronically underfunded and endlessly overwhelmed, I saw suffering stripped of narrative. It didn’t matter if you were a decorated veteran or a houseless teenager—we assessed your injuries, your vitals, your odds. Not your résumé. Not your trauma credentials.
But even there, the Trauma Olympics crept in.
I had patients downplaying their pain because “someone else probably needs that bed more.” I had nurses rank which patients “deserved” more sympathy based on backstory. I even caught myself doing it. It’s insidious. Because the truth is, suffering doesn’t need justification. It doesn’t need a gold star. It needs care. Dignity. Validation.
Not a podium.
The Exit Strategy
So here’s my exit speech from the Trauma Games:
I am not competing anymore. I am not auditioning for empathy.
I will not compare my pain to yours like we’re both trying to win a $50 gift card to Therapy.com. I will not cheapen my healing by turning it into a one-act play for people who only clap when it mirrors their own. I will not allow the worst chapters of my life to become my only biography.
You are not just your pain. Neither am I.
And if you ever find yourself in the presence of someone who feels the need to one-up your suffering, feel free to hand them a medal. Then walk away. Because the real prize? It’s not their validation.
It’s your peace.
Let them compete. I’m busy living.