Making friends after leaving the ‘movement’ is incredibly tough. For over 20 years, I surrounded myself with the same people, immersed in the same concepts and ideas, living in an echo chamber of violence. We listened to the same aggressive music, shared the same violent thoughts, consumed imagery steeped in brutality, and embraced over-the-top aggression. Supporting and glorifying violence wasn’t just accepted; it was celebrated. Now, I ask: what do I have in common with the average person?
This comes in the most surprising moments, like someone recounting previous wild nights. I can’t help but laugh, though not out of amusement. Do you think your night was crazy? Have you been stopped and questioned repeatedly at every border you crossed? Have the police shown up at your workplace, asking your boss about you? These weren’t isolated incidents—they were just part of my life. A life so far removed from most people's everyday experiences that it feels impossible to relate.
Friendship, I’ve come to realize, is more than just shared experiences or proximity.
How do I explain to someone that this was my reality? How do I explain that this was just a typical day for me? This disconnect stems from how deeply the ‘movement’ shaped every aspect of my identity. It dictated how I thought, how I acted, and even how I viewed the world. My friends weren’t just people I spent time with—they were comrades in a war we believed we were fighting. Everything we did, every decision we made, was filtered through the lens of ideology. When you’ve spent so long immersed in such a specific worldview, imagining life outside of it is hard. But leaving means you have to figure it out, ready or not.
Friendship, I’ve come to realize, is more than just shared experiences or proximity. It’s about connection, trust, and vulnerability—almost non-existent in the ‘movement.’ The idea of brotherhood was heavily emphasized there, but it was a hollow version of what brotherhood should be. It wasn’t about genuine support or care but loyalty to the cause, no matter the personal cost. Relationships were transactional, often rooted in fear or obligation rather than true camaraderie. We were bonded by a common cause, not mutual respect or understanding, and any deviation could lead to distrust or betrayal. Trying to build friendships outside that world feels like learning a language I’ve never spoken before—a language of authenticity and emotional openness that the ‘movement’ never taught me.
I often feel out of place—social norms, small talk, and occasional humor all feel unfamiliar. I struggle to talk about my past without either terrifying people or feeling judged. If I’m honest, I judge myself too. How could I have believed in those things? How could I have been part of something so destructive? The shame can be overwhelming, but so can the anger—anger at the lies I was told, at the people who manipulated me, and at myself for going along with it. When I open up, the reactions I receive vary. Some people are curious, asking endless questions. Others are horrified and unable to understand how someone could live that way. Some don’t want to know at all—they change the subject and avoid eye contact. It’s hard not to take it personally, but I get it. My past is heavy, and not everyone will carry that weight with me.
On the rare occasions when I find someone I genuinely connect with, it’s usually someone with a similar past. They’ve been through their version of shite. These people feel like lifelines, reminding me that connection is possible. But they are few and far between, and the loneliness can be overwhelming. I’ve also learned that real friendship requires vulnerability, something that was considered a weakness in the ‘movement.’ For years, I was taught to keep my guard up, to trust no one outside our circle, and even within it, to watch my back. Breaking down those barriers has been one of the most complex parts of leaving. Letting people see the real me—flaws, regrets, and all—feels uncomfortable. But it’s also necessary. Without vulnerability, there can be no trust; without trust, there can be no friendship.
The ‘movement’ offered me a sense of purpose, belonging, and identity—things I was desperately searching for.
Sometimes, I catch myself falling back into old habits—the armor I used to wear and the walls I built to protect myself from anyone who might challenge or undermine me. It’s easier to shut people out than to risk being vulnerable, but I know that’s not the path forward. I must let people in if I want to build a new life. I’ve realized that making friends isn’t just about finding people who accept me; it’s about learning to accept myself. The shame and guilt I carry can make me feel unworthy of friendship, as though my past disqualifies me from genuine connection. But I remind myself that no one is perfect. Everyone has regrets, and while mine might be heavier, they don’t define me.
The hardest part of all is trying to forgive myself. I can’t change the past. I can’t undo the harm I caused or the lives I impacted. What I can do is try to make amends and use my experiences as a warning to others. That’s why I know I can offer guidance—not because I’ve always made the right choices, but because I’ve learned from the wrong ones.
I’ve learned that rebuilding a life isn’t just about finding new friends or hobbies. It’s about unlearning everything you thought you knew and figuring out who you are without the ‘movement.’ It’s about confronting the person you were and choosing to be better, even when it feels impossible. It’s about facing the pain you caused and the pain you carry and deciding to keep going anyway.
Looking back, I see how I ended up where I did. The ‘movement’ offered me a sense of purpose, belonging, and identity—things I was desperately searching for. Stripping all of that away is freeing.
There are still moments when I wonder if I’ll ever truly belong anywhere. My past runs deep, and it doesn’t fade effortlessly. But I remind myself that I’m still here and trying, which counts for something. Every day is a step forward, even if it’s a small one.
Making friends after leaving the ‘movement’ isn’t just challenging—it’s a journey. It’s a journey of self-discovery, healing, and redemption. It’s about learning to live in a world that once felt like the enemy and finding your place. It’s about building bridges, even when you feel like you’ve burned them all. And most of all, it’s about holding on to the hope that one day, you’ll find peace—not just with others, but with yourself.
