When loyalty turns cultish

By Herman M. Lagon

There is always that one comment thread that just drains you. You scroll, thinking you will read something reasonable, maybe even learn something new. Then it turns. Someone raises a valid point—calm, sourced, not even aggressive—and the replies come in waves. Not to engage, not to clarify, but to defend—or worse, to troll. Quickly, firmly, almost reflexively—like a small digital cult forming in real time.

It is not the disagreement that catches you. It is the certainty. The way people close ranks around a person they have never met, protecting not just the argument, but something deeper. At that point, it starts to feel less like ordinary support and more like blind loyalty—something held onto, even when it no longer holds up.

I have seen it in classrooms, too. A student once insisted that a public figure “could not be wrong,” even when the evidence was right there on the screen. Not out of arrogance. Not even out of defiance. It was something quieter—almost like the idea of being wrong felt heavier than the facts themselves. So we paused. I did not correct. I asked. Where did that belief come from? What made it feel so certain? That opened a better conversation than any lecture could.

Because the truth is, people do not cling like that simply because they cannot think. Many of them can. Some of them teach, manage teams, raise families, run businesses. It is not that people do not think—it is that they are looking for something to hold on to. And sometimes, without realizing it, that need slowly reshapes ordinary support into something closer to fanaticism. When everything feels uncertain, someone who sounds sure can feel comforting. Not perfect. Just firm.

And once that feeling settles in, it starts to attach itself to identity. You are no longer just agreeing with a policy or a speech. You are aligning yourself with a story. A side. A group. A position you can benefit from. You begin to recognize the same people online, the same tone, the same arguments—one silo, almost cult-like in how tightly it holds its members together. There is comfort there. Familiarity. And before long, disagreement from the outside does not feel like a difference in opinion. It feels like intrusion.

This is where things become difficult—not dramatic, just quietly complicated. Because now, questioning the leader is no longer just about the leader. It brushes against something personal. It asks, in a roundabout way, “What if you misjudged?” And that is not an easy question to sit with. So instead, we adjust the situation. We question the source. We shift the frame. We hold on.

Psychologists have long described this tendency. When beliefs and evidence collide, we do not always follow the evidence. We protect the belief, especially if we have already invested in it—emotionally, socially, even publicly. That is often how cult thinking quietly takes root. It is rarely intentional. It grows in small ways—brushing aside details, facts, and logic, sharing before thinking, or believing what fits.

Then social media steps in and reinforces it. Not louder—just easier. You see more of what you already agree with. Less of what unsettles you. Over time, it creates the feeling that your view is not just valid, but widely shared—reinforced by both influencers and provocateurs, all within the same algorithm-shaped space you move in. That it must be right because it keeps showing up. You do not notice the narrowing. You only feel the reinforcement.

But this is not just about platforms. It is also about people. For many families, politics grows out of stories, not arguments—stories of help received and presence felt. Over time, these shape belief. Research by Josol et al. (2025) shows that loyalty is often rooted in lived experience rather than abstract thinking. That matters. Belief is not shaped by theory alone, but by memory—and it can hold firm even when facts begin to shift.

There is also pride—subtle, sometimes stubborn. Admitting doubt, especially in public, is not easy. For some, holding on becomes a way of holding ground. For others, there is even a kind of satisfaction in going against the grain. Being the one who does not bend. Even if the position becomes harder to defend, the stance itself becomes part of the identity.

And then there are those who stay for reasons that are harder to argue against. Some saw their place become quieter at night, roads finally paved, or services that once felt out of reach suddenly within grasp. For them, those changes are real, felt, and personal. So even when larger, deeper issues surface—questions about abuse, excess, lies, or misuse—they weigh those against what they experienced on the ground. And often, that lived benefit becomes enough to justify, or at least soften, what others find harder to accept.

Still, there are moments that should give us pause. When every criticism is dismissed before it is heard. When explanations become excuses. When conversations turn into rehearsed lines instead of honest exchange. That is often where loyalty begins to resemble a cult, not just a conviction. You notice it not in one big instance, but in patterns. Repetition. Deflection. A kind of exhaustion in trying to have a simple, grounded discussion.

So what do we do with that?

Probably less than we think—and more than we admit. You cannot undo years of belief in one sitting, not with a clever line or a viral post. What seems to work, if anything, is slower and quieter. A question that lingers. A tone that does not provoke. In class, I have learned that people rarely change because they were cornered. They change when something does not quite sit right anymore—and they are given space to face it.

We also have our own part to watch. Not everything needs to be shared the moment you feel it. Not every strong reaction needs a post. Sometimes, pausing to ask deeper, clearer questions about where it is coming from can shift how you see it.

And for those who stay grounded, even when it is easier to go along—that matters. It shows in quiet ways: checking, asking, not excusing. It holds things in place. Because discernment is not about always getting it right. It is about being open enough to look again. It asks more from us than simply picking sides—it asks us to stay awake, even when it is uncomfortable.

And part of discernment is recognizing that when a person no longer holds that space—whether by stepping down or falling short—it is not something to grieve too deeply. What matters is whether the principles still stand, and whether we are still willing to stand by them.

Maybe that is what matters most now—not proving a point or winning arguments, but holding on to that inner check, making sure we have not drifted from what we once said we would stand for, our non-negotiables. The one that asks, “Have I stayed true to what I once believed mattered most?” The one that does not easily bend to noise or pressure.

Because this was never just about leaders. It is about us—how we think, how we choose, and what we are willing to stand by, even when it is not convenient.

And that line between support and blind loyalty? It rarely announces itself. It forms quietly, when truth becomes negotiable and questions feel unnecessary. And when we stop asking, we stop thinking—and start following blindly, the way a cult does.

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Doc H fondly describes himself as a “student of and for life” who, like many others, aspires to a life-giving and why-driven world grounded in social justice and the pursuit of happiness. His views do not necessarily reflect those of the institutions he is employed or connected with.