You’ve seen the videos. The ones where a man in a wheelchair suddenly stands up when he thinks no one’s watching. You feel disgust. But here’s the uncomfortable truth: we’re all guilty of the same game — just with different masks.
Take Tyler Corcoran. He called himself the White Crip. For months he pretended to be a disabled black man, walking with a cane, speaking with a slur. And it worked. He got sympathy, followers, a community that wrapped him in a warm blanket of belonging. Until someone filmed him walking normally in a parking lot. The mask fell off. But the question nobody wants to ask is: why did he do it?
The most dangerous lie isn’t the one you tell others — it’s the one you tell yourself to justify your own victimhood.
You’ve probably noticed the explosion of identity labels online. Everyone suddenly has a diagnosis, a trauma, a marginalized status. We roll our eyes at the TikTok teenagers claiming DID or Tourette’s. But we miss the deeper current: this isn’t about being sick. It’s about being special. In a world where mainstream success feels hollow and competitive, adopting a victim identity gives you instant status, a built-in tribe, and a shield against criticism. Say the wrong thing to me? You’re ableist. You’re racist. You’re attacking the vulnerable.
You think this is about sympathy? No. It’s about power.
I saw this firsthand at a conference last year. A white woman in her thirties introduced herself as a “disabled, non-binary, neurodivergent, trauma survivor.” She listed six labels before her name. Everyone in the room nodded reverently. Nobody asked her what she actually did for a living. The labels were her resume. And they worked — she was invited to speak on three panels. Later I learned she had a mild anxiety disorder and a sprained ankle from yoga. The rest? Text from a self-diagnosis app.
This is dangerous. Not because we shouldn’t respect real disabilities — but because every fake identity erodes trust for the people who actually struggle. When you perform victimhood, you steal the oxygen from real victims. You turn genuine vulnerability into a currency that inflates until it’s worthless. And then the skeptic who sees a wheelchair is no longer generous — he’s suspicious. That’s the tragedy.
Adopting a marginalized identity is the ultimate social currency: it buys you community, immunity, and a moral high ground — and you never have to actually suffer.
Take a side, any side. I’m taking this one: this trend is poisonous. It’s not about inclusion. It’s about escaping the terrifying ordinariness of being a middle-class person with no labels. We have created a culture where being broken is rewarded more than being whole. And we are shocked — shocked! — when someone fakes a broken limb.
The twist is this: we’ve all been trained to do it. Think about the last time you complained about burnout, anxiety, or “your trauma.” Did you lean into it? Did it feel good when someone said “I’m sorry you’re going through that”? That dopamine hit is the same mechanism. We’re all a little bit Tyler Corcoran. The difference is the length we’re willing to go.
So here’s the real question: what do you do when being ordinary feels like failure? When belonging requires a badge of suffering you don’t have? The answer isn’t to fake the badge. It’s to realize that the badge is a dead end. Real connection doesn’t come from shared wounds — it comes from shared values, shared actions, shared laughter. That’s harder. That’s worth it.
The cure for this plague isn’t more labels — it’s the courage to be ordinary.
FAQ
Q: Isn't this just a rare case of one bad actor? Why generalize?
A: The psychology behind it is widespread — from faking mental illness online to performative activism. The mechanism (adopting a victim identity for social gain) appears across subcultures, social media platforms, and even in corporate diversity initiatives. Tyler Corcoran is just the extreme end of a spectrum.
Q: So what should we do? Stop believing every sob story?
A: No. We need to shift from believing identity claims to verifying actions. Reward vulnerability that costs something — like sharing a real struggle with evidence — not just words. And more importantly, create communities where belonging doesn't require suffering as a ticket in.
Q: Maybe this is a net positive — it destigmatizes disability by making it a choice?
A: That's dangerously wrong. Real disabilities are not choices. Equating them with performative identity erases the struggle of actual marginalized people. Choosing to adopt a label you don't have doesn't destigmatize anything — it trivializes the real pain and creates backlash that hurts everyone.