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By: Kiyah Willis

Published: Jun 17, 2024

Not your typical red pill narrative

There are so many “why I left the left” stories, but I promise you this isn’t your typical red pill narrative. I didn't go from a Democrat to a Republican or a woke leftist to a conservative. This false dichotomy—this idea that there's only left and right—is how I got into this mess in the first place. I want to discuss how I ended up on the left, why I left the left, and where I stand now as someone disappointed by both political options we are presented with today.

As a Gen Z individual, I witnessed social media indoctrinating many people my age into wokeness. For me, it was through school. My home culture played a part, especially the heavy emphasis on identity politics, where being black was supposed to determine my decisions, particularly political ones. But the full woke hierarchy—the idea that every aspect of your identity has to be categorized as either oppressed or oppressor—was introduced to me through my school’s DEI program. Affinity groups at school, separated by race to discuss oppression, introduced me to the privilege-oppressed hierarchy, or what could be called the “whose-feelings-matter-more hierarchy.”

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I learned that white people were more privileged than non-white people, men more privileged than women, straight people more privileged than gay people, Christians more privileged than Muslims, and so on. This was supposed to determine a person's morality—judging people not by their actions or words but by these arbitrary labels of “oppressed” or “privileged” based on group identity.

At first, I didn’t buy into the DEI identity politics because it contradicted what I saw with my own eyes. I had friends of all races. I had friends that were men. I had friends that I was being told were more “privileged” than I was, but I never felt oppressed or harmed by them. However, my views changed in 2016 when Trump was nominated for president. As a high school senior in Texas, I didn’t know much about his politics (I wasn’t following any of his speeches), but I heard from teachers that if Trump were elected, America would become a post-apocalyptic hellscape where my rights would be violated, and I would be enslaved or put into a concentration camp because I was a black woman.

Living in a predominantly Republican area, many of my friends supported Trump. I never questioned their support of Trump’s policies; I simply assumed my friends—my white friends, my male friends—were voting for someone who wanted to harm me because they were privileged. That was what I was being told and taught in school.

The next year, I went to MIT in Boston—one of the bluest cities in one of the bluest states—where the DEI and identity politics culture was even more intense. Everyone was paranoid about offending someone due to the serious social and academic repercussions. The DEI department at MIT was super intense, and you could get in serious trouble for offending someone with “hate speech,” a loosely defined term that pretty much meant asking, (1) Did you offend someone?, (2) How badly were their feelings hurt?, (3) And where are they relative to you in the hierarchy? The answers would determine what repercussions you’d face.

I don’t want to pretend this had everything to do with the people around me. There was no one putting a gun to my head and telling me I had to accept these crazy ideas. No one forced me to believe that you had to validate everyone’s pronouns and identities or else you were harming them. No one forced me to believe that you couldn’t wear certain makeup or hairstyles or you were harming them. No one forced me to believe that you couldn’t state certain factual truths about history or the world, or else you were harming people. All of these were ideas that I accepted willingly.

One of the craziest things that I believed during that time was that I was non-binary. For one thing, I wasn’t a very stereotypical girly girl, and I had (and still have) some traditionally masculine traits. I tend to prefer leadership positions, and I was told that if I didn’t identify as non-binary, I would be invalidating the people who did because I shared similarities with them in the way that I acted and behaved. But honestly, there was a second, subconscious reason: I knew, on some level, that if I identified as non-binary, I would gain more oppression points in the hierarchy. I wouldn’t feel so paranoid about my words offending people.

This paranoia (of offending people) was so intense—at least for me, and I would assume for others—that I was willing to accept something or to claim that I was something that wasn’t true. By the end of my first semester in college, I was at my most woke. I was paranoid about offending people, sensitive to being offended, and aggressive in policing others’ actions and words. I even reported people to the DEI department for being offensive. (I was a menace!)

But things changed when I got sick and was diagnosed with an autoimmune disorder. At 18, I ended up in the hospital with half of my body paralyzed, the youngest person in the adult ward of the hospital, in need of 24/7 care.

Even though I identified as non-binary, I was still biologically female. Needing a female nurse for my safety and personal comfort conflicted with my identity as non-binary and the fear of offending someone. To ask for a female nurse—to acknowledge a difference between male and female—meant invalidating my own non-binary identity. More importantly, I wondered about the hospital’s definition of “female.” What if I got a nurse who identified as a woman but wasn’t what I was asking for? In that case, I’d have to clarify what I meant by “female” or “woman,” which might offend someone. Offending someone (I thought at the time) meant harming them, which was the worst thing I could do.

So I’m sitting in the hospital, and I’m weighing these two alternatives: Either (1) I prioritize my safety, which means I have to give up everything that I think is moral, or (2) I do what I think is right, but that means putting myself potentially in a more dangerous situation. I decided to put my safety first. I asked for a female nurse. I was ready to specify what I wanted, but I was in Texas at the time, and this was 2018, so it was not an issue. Gender ideology wasn’t very widespread; they knew exactly what I was talking about, and I ended up with a nurse who was a woman.

But this led to a moral crisis. What I believed to be moral and what I believed to be true were at odds. And it wasn’t just this dilemma—I’d discovered a serious flaw in my entire path of thinking, a deeper philosophical issue. Were reality and morality incompatible? Surely, that couldn’t be right.

Returning to school, I had a lot of questions: Is it true that hurting someone’s feelings is the worst thing that we can do and is actually the equivalent of physically harming someone? We are pretending that “man” and “woman” don’t have definitions, but this conflicts with biological reality. Why are we doing this? Is it healthy to constantly live in fear and be paranoid about being a bad person when nothing that you’re doing or saying has any bad intent?

These questions led to a lot of pushback. Some people seemed nervous that I was asking questions, and they would either quickly change the topic or whisper something like, “Oh, of course, these ideas are true. Why are you even asking? We don’t ask if these ideas are true. It’s just obvious.” Some got angry: “Why are you asking questions?! Trump supporters ask these types of questions! Fox News right-wing conspiracy theorists ask these types of questions! Are you a Trump-supporting, Fox News-watching, right-wing conspiracy theorist?—because that means that you’re against us! Either you’re with us, or you’re against us, and if you’re asking these questions, you’re siding with the people who are trying to enslave you and put you in concentration camps and doing all of these evil things!” These reactions were, in retrospect, a very obvious red flag, and I wish that at this point I’d realized I was in a kind of cult, but unfortunately, I didn’t.

If it’s not obvious, everything that I believed at this time was something somebody else said that I blindly followed as if it were true. I didn’t have the self-esteem to think through these ideas and consider whether they made sense. My peers, family members, friends, and mentors accepted these ideas, so I had no legitimate reason to question or challenge them. I fell back into accepting these beliefs, or at least that’s how I made it appear. While I reverted to calling myself non-binary, policing other people’s language, and reporting people to the DEI department, I secretly struggled with the idea that this was all wrong.

I began to realize there were so many cracks, inconsistencies, and illogical aspects to what I believed that I couldn’t put my head back in the sand and pretend they weren’t there. This was a really hard time in my life. I became depressed because I believed that asking these questions and searching for the truth made me a bad person.

Then the COVID pandemic came along, which surprisingly saved my life. During lockdowns, I was forced to sit with my thoughts and acknowledge the doubts and confusions that I had without any of the external influences that kept me trapped in this mindset. After thinking things through, I concluded that almost everything I believed was bullshit. But I still needed an extra push to fully trust my brain.

I was struggling with that self-esteem bit when I coincidentally had a conversation with my brother, who was not a Trump supporter, didn’t watch Fox News, wasn’t a right-wing conspiracy theorist, and had no interest in politics at all. Out of nowhere, he asked me, “Have you met these people in Boston who are crazy? They can’t define what a woman is. They’re offended by everything. They think facts don’t matter if they hurt people’s feelings.” Hearing this from my non-political brother made me realize I wasn’t the only person asking these questions. It was the nudge I needed to accept that it’s okay to ask questions and to explore alternatives to the woke nonsense I’d been taught. I started to pay attention to what was happening around me and think through what people were saying, what they believed, and why.

COVID may have been the catalyst for me to reassess my beliefs, but it also hit me particularly hard. Living with an autoimmune disorder, I was one of the individuals the government claimed their policies around lockdowns, mask requirements, vaccine mandates, and other measures were intended to protect. Unfortunately, they did the opposite. I know how to take care of my health. I’ve been doing it for years. I know when to wear a mask, but the government mask mandate—in Boston, you had to wear masks in public spaces—caused the price of masks to skyrocket and, in many places, created a shortage. Getting a mask under those policies was much harder for me.

Further, I needed to go to my specialist for treatment, but I had to travel to get there. The government required vaccines to fly, but my disorder makes certain vaccines riskier. I faced a dilemma: Should I risk my health by getting the vaccine or by not getting it? Not getting it would mean that I couldn’t travel to see the one specialist who could treat my rare condition. The shutdowns were another challenge. I preferred staying home to avoid crowded grocery stores, but when they closed all “non-essential” businesses, the remaining “essential” ones became overwhelmed. This, again, led to shortages of necessities like food and medical supplies (not to mention toilet paper!), and since delivery services were also suspended, I was forced to venture out for supplies that were often out of stock. None of these policies improved my life in any way.

I remember confiding to some of my friends (who happened to be woke leftists), “Hey, I have an autoimmune disorder, and these policies are not helping me, I don’t think I support them.” Their unsympathetic response was, “Are you listening to Trump supporters? Are you watching Fox News? Are you suddenly a right-wing conspiracy theorist?!”

Not long after, the BLM riots happened, and I had friends who couldn’t leave their houses because they were under curfew. It became apparent that these riots stemmed from non-factual beliefs about a police shooting. I remember asking questions like, “Do you really think that burning down buildings and businesses is going to get you what you want in this situation, which is policy change?” And the response that I got back was (can you guess?) that I must be a Trump-supporting, Fox News-watching, right-wing conspiracy theorist. There were no facts or logic behind their beliefs, just parroting what they heard, believing it made them good people.

Many had their “red pill” moment in 2020, leaving the Democrats and embracing conservatism. And let me be honest: when I left the left, I first called myself a conservative, not because I believed everything conservatives said, but because I saw it as the lesser of two evils. When I took the time to explore the full range of ideas out there—because there’s more than just woke or conservative, there’s more than just Democrat or Republican—I realized that I didn’t have to call myself a conservative or woke. Neither label applied. I realized I could reject both, and I did.

The conservative movement has almost all of the same flaws as wokeness. Many conservatives are easily offended, valuing faith and feelings over facts. They might get upset when they see a man wearing a dress, a woman expressing her choice not to marry or have children, or someone speaking Spanish (rather than English) at the grocery store. Many conservatives are religious, and like wokeness, their beliefs often lack a factual or evidentiary basis. Christianity, like gender ideology, relies heavily on subjective belief. I was briefly labeled a conspiracy theorist for expressing some ideas associated with conservatives, and I even joked about it. But there’s truth to the stereotype. Many conservatives blindly accept claims from sources like Fox News or personalities like Tucker Carlson and Candace Owens without demanding evidence.

Conservatives often engage in identity politics as well. It’s common to see individuals on social media disparage the achievements of black people, attributing their success to affirmative action or DEI policies without evidence or consideration of the individual’s merits. They make assumptions based solely on race, mirroring the flawed privileged-oppressed hierarchy often associated with the left. This is the point where some will say, “Oh okay, well you’re not an ‘extremist,’ you don’t believe in the extreme left or the extreme right, so therefore you’re a ‘centrist,’ you’re somewhere in the middle—you believe in a mix of both.” Frankly, that’s absurd. I don’t think of myself as halfway between crazy and crazy. Rational thinking is not on a spectrum with crazy at each pole; consequently, I reject this left-right dichotomy altogether. It’s illogical to place conservatives on one end of a spectrum and woke people on the other. I don’t identify as woke, conservative, or a centrist. So, what am I?

First, I am a rational thinker. I value logic, facts, and evidence. I think for myself. You won’t hear me deferring to anybody else to determine my views. I will never say, “Oh yeah, so-and-so thinks this is true, or so-and-so has these credentials, therefore, everything they say is right.” That’s not how I think. I also will never claim morality should be based on people’s feelings regardless of facts; morality and reality are not opposed. Second, I consider myself an individualist. I completely reject the idea that someone’s race, sex, sexual orientation, nationality, or any of these unchosen characteristics determine what somebody should say or do, how they should think, or how they should be judged. I have my brain, as everybody else on the planet does, so I will judge each person based on their beliefs and actions in their unique circumstances, not based on some unchosen group they’re part of. Third, I’m a capitalist without apology. I believe in the individual’s capacity for rational thought. Every person should be allowed to live according to what they know best suits their circumstances.

I don’t believe that either the Democrats or the Republicans truly embody these ideals. They fail to grasp that people have their own minds and require the freedom to make decisions for their own lives. This lack of understanding is reflected in their policies. Someone will inevitably say, “Well, you must be a libertarian.” No, I don’t identify as a libertarian, and the reason behind that deserves its own dedicated story (perhaps I’ll share one if there’s enough interest).

Despite the abundance of “why I left the left” stories out there, my motivation for sharing this testimonial stems from the realization that many people find themselves in a situation similar to mine. They are abandoning the left, recognizing the presence of an incredibly bizarre and cultish ideology that’s reaching a boiling point. Yet, they’re simultaneously dissatisfied with what they observe in the conservative movement, leaving them feeling lost and unsure where to turn. Like me, they feel politically homeless.

I understand that this sense of political homelessness can be isolating, but I want to assure anyone experiencing these feelings that you are not alone. Countless individuals share our perspective, and I am committed to creating content that challenges the false dichotomy that you must be either left or right, Republican or Democrat, conservative or woke. This notion is fundamentally flawed and simply untrue.

There are many ways of thinking, and I want to explore them on my YouTube channel and in other forums, including the Journal of Free Black Thought. You can be your own person. Build trust in yourself, use your brain, and come to your own conclusions about things. How do you describe your political philosophy or orientation? Do you consider yourself left or right, woke or conservative, Democrat or Republican, or libertarian? Or are you politically homeless like me?

Kiyah Willis is a fellow at Objective Standard Institute focusing on cultural trends and their causes and consequences. A graduate of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, Kiyah worked as a data analyst before transitioning to philosophy. You can find her advocating reason, individualism, and liberty on Twitter and TikTok and on her Substack, Growing to Truth.

Editors’ note: This essay is a lightly edited transcript of a YouTube monolog. The video is linked below, in the body of the essay.

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