The Narratives of a New Age Philosopher: The Business Model of Misfortune (and How to Opt Out)

"Some people tend to perpetuate and exploit others' misfortunes."

People love to say pain builds character. Cute line. But I’ve met plenty of characters constructed on other people’s pain. There’s a whole economy around it—the Business Model of Misfortune. Low overhead. High margins. Infinite supply, if the wounds keep bleeding.

You’ve seen it. The coworker who only looks competent when something’s on fire. The “friend” who brings tissues and a ring light. The relative who needs a villain to feel like a hero, so they cast you—again.
When your life calms down, they get itchy. When you heal, they lose market share.

I wish I were being dramatic. I’m not. I’m just awake.

The Pattern: Perpetuate → Profit

Perpetuate. Keep the problem alive. Mislabel it, misdiagnose it, wrap it in mystique. Pretend the solution requires their special access, language, or permission.
Profit. Convert your pain into their status: savior, saint, expert, martyr. Control the narrative; hoard the spotlight. Set the fire, sell the water, guard the hose.

Why It Works

Dependency = power. If I need you to “fix” me, you own the clock. Spoiler: the clock never stops.
Chaos is a credential. In some rooms, calm looks lazy. Juggling flaming torches? Heroic—especially if you soaked them in gasoline.
Identity addiction. If your identity is “the helper,” my healing threatens who you are.
Attention economics. Outrage trends. Quiet recovery doesn’t. Healing doesn’t farm clicks.

Lemming complacency should be a familiar term. Whole crowds will follow the loudest voice off the cliff if it sounds like a sermon.

Where It Shows Up (Not Just Work)

This isn’t a workplace disease—it’s a people pattern. Anywhere attention, power, or identity are on the line, it grows.

Family. Assigned roles (Hero, Scapegoat, Caretaker) keep the plot alive. Your growth gets framed as betrayal. Red flag: “concerned” interventions that feel like courtrooms.
Romance. The Fixer dates the Project. Crisis = intimacy. Red flag: you’re most “loved” when you’re hurting; boundaries are called “walls.”
Friendships. The constant debriefer who needs a weekly catastrophe to bond. Red flag: quiet when you’re stable, loud when you wobble.
Community / Church / Activism. Perpetual problems justify perpetual authority. Red flag: testimonies about “healing” that never graduate into change.
Health & Caregiving. Info gatekeepers thrive on confusion. Red flag: solutions shrink when a particular person enters the room.
Social Media. Trauma-as-content. Your story becomes their brand. Red flag: DMs fishing for details + public subtweets “about someone.” It’s you.
Coaches / Mentors / Programs. Moving goalposts for a fee. Red flag: independence is treated like ingratitude.

The Costs

To you: time, dignity, sleep, holidays, career paths, healthy love. Years of dancing around someone else’s storyline.
To them: empathy atrophy. The more you cash in on someone’s pain, the less human you become. Quiet debt. Heavy interest.

I’ve paid the tax on both sides—being the reliable fixer and the designated problem. Either way, you bleed.

Red Flags: Spot the Misfortune Machine

Solutions shrink when they enter the room. Everything gets bigger, fuzzier. You feel smaller.
Private help, public highlight reel. Somehow, your breakdown has a theme song.
Conditional compassion. Kindness that expires unless you repay with loyalty, silence, or access.
Confusion after clarity. You entered steady; you’re leaving foggy.
Narrative monopoly. They “remember it differently”—conveniently.
Perpetual emergencies. Especially when you’re about to rest, set a boundary, or level up.

If three or more ring the bell, you’re not imagining it. The house is wired.

Breaking the Loop (No Speeches Required)

You don’t have to burn the bridge. Just stop letting them collect tolls.

Name it—quietly. “They need me stuck to feel necessary.” Naming it kills half its power.
Say less. Over-explaining is a guilt tax they trained you to pay. Try: “I’m not available for that.” Period.
Refuse triangulation. “If they have feedback for me, they can tell me directly.” Sunlight is harmful to business.
Change the medium. Move hot topics to writing. Performers hate transcripts.
Lower access, not love. Boundaries are oxygen, not punishment.
Measure outcomes, not intentions. If you always feel worse, that’s data.
Create redundancy. Build support with people who don’t need your crisis.

Quick Scripts for Cornered Moments

“I’m not discussing that.”
“That decision’s made.”
“If you’re upset, that’s yours to hold.”
“I’m not available for a debrief.”
“Please keep my name out of that conversation.”
“I appreciate your concern. I’m handling it.”

The Boundary Ladder

Say less.
Change the medium (text/email).
Lower access (fewer details, less time).
Opt out entirely if needed. Forgiveness ≠ reunion.

What Healing Actually Looks Like

It’s a Tuesday with no crisis sandwich in your texts. Boredom stops feeling like a warning and starts feeling like weather. Your nervous system unclenches enough to remember what you like besides survival.

You collect small proofs: a walk without narrating it for strangers; dinner without defending your choices; a bedtime without replaying old arguments. You stop auditioning for roles you never wanted. You become a person again.

Thaddism: Real help makes you less central to someone’s story. If your “help” keeps you center stage, it’s not help—it’s marketing.

Permission Slip (Tear Here)

You are allowed to outgrow the role that kept everyone else comfortable.
You are allowed to choose people who don’t need you broken to feel whole.
You are allowed to be boring, balanced, and beautifully unavailable to chaos.

If someone’s ego, livelihood, or identity depends on your misfortune? Close the shop. Change the locks. Let their business fail.
Your life is not their revenue stream.

Journaling Prompts (for later, when the room is quiet)

Who benefits when I stay confused?
What do I become when I stop explaining?
Which boundary would give me the most oxygen this month?
Where does my body feel “no,” and what happens when I honor it?

If this helped, share it with the person who needs a gentle nudge to stop starring in other people’s emergencies—and start living their own life.

The Narratives of a New Age Philosopher

Tuesday, October 21, 2025

The Business Model of Misfortune (and How to Opt Out)