Why We Love Violence: The Dark Psychology Behind Our Social Urge to Win, Control, and Punish

“We don’t crave violence because we’re cruel—we crave it because we’re human. Because it gives structure to chaos, power to the powerless, and a feeling—any feeling—when we’ve gone emotionally numb.”

— RJ Starr

Transcript

Welcome back to The Psychology of Us. I’m Professor RJ Starr, and today we’re stepping into one of the more unsettling corners of the human psyche. A question you may have asked yourself in passing, or perhaps never dared to ask at all:
Why are we so drawn to violence?

Not just in the abstract, but as entertainment. Why do we settle in for an evening with movies drenched in bloodshed, binge-watch shows where every conflict is resolved with a bullet, or snap at strangers online just to feel in control? Why do we honk our horns in traffic like it’s combat, or escalate small disagreements into power struggles? What does it say about us—individually, culturally, psychologically—that cruelty has become entertainment, and aggression has become identity? What does it say about us—individually, culturally, psychologically—that so much of what we consume is soaked in cruelty?

This isn’t an episode about blame or shame. It’s not about censorship or moral panic. It’s about understanding—about getting curious. Because the attraction to violence doesn’t come out of nowhere. It comes from somewhere very old, very human, and often very unexamined.

We’ll look at this through the lens of psychological theory—evolutionary psychology, emotional regulation, trauma repetition, and social learning. We’ll consider real case examples of individuals drawn to violent content and what it helped them manage internally. And we’ll look at the broader cultural picture, especially how American media differs from other societies when it comes to glamorizing aggression.

So, if you’ve ever wondered why people watch what they do—why some stories are thrilling even when they’re horrific—this episode is for you. Stay with me.

The Brain Loves Danger — Evolutionary Psychology

To understand why violent content draws us in so powerfully, we have to begin with how the brain evolved—not just what it enjoys, but what it pays attention to. Human beings are not simply passive consumers of story; we are meaning-makers wired for survival. And from a survival standpoint, few things are more important than identifying threat.

Long before the invention of film, streaming platforms, or even language, our ancestors needed to be hypervigilant. They needed to notice the rustle in the bushes, the shift in a rival’s expression, the flash of a weapon. The capacity to detect violence—before it erupted—was an advantage that meant the difference between life and death. And that sensitivity didn’t vanish with civilization. It was handed down in our biology. Today, we may not be foraging or fighting for territory, but our brains still respond to perceived threat with urgency and focus. We are still captivated by conflict because conflict matters to the brain. It signals that something is at stake.

Neuroscience has shown that when we witness violent imagery, even in a fictional setting, the amygdala is activated. This is the part of the brain that processes fear and prepares the body to respond to danger. We may be intellectually aware that we’re watching a movie, but the limbic system doesn’t make that distinction. It reacts as if something real is happening, often triggering an increase in heart rate, dilated pupils, faster breathing, and heightened alertness. In other words, the body gets ready—just in case. What’s fascinating is that this physiological engagement is not only tolerated but often enjoyed by the viewer.

This is where dopamine enters the equation. Dopamine is often referred to as the brain’s “reward” chemical, but it’s more accurate to say it governs motivation and anticipation. It’s the chemical that draws us toward something stimulating, exciting, or important. And violent media, for many people, provides just that kind of neurological engagement. The intensity of the scene becomes an internal event—one that temporarily cuts through boredom, numbness, or emotional flatness.

There’s also the role of the hypothalamus, which regulates the fight-or-flight response. Even though we’re safe on the couch or in the theater, watching violence lights up these ancient survival systems. It’s almost like rehearsal—our nervous system gets to practice vigilance, watch power dynamics unfold, and predict outcomes, all from a distance. This simulation allows us to explore life-and-death stakes without ever being at risk ourselves. For many, that blend of intensity and safety is precisely the appeal.

In a sense, violent media allows the viewer to outsource their primal fears to someone else’s narrative. We get to watch someone else survive—or perish—while we stay in control of our environment. This, too, is a dopamine trigger: the control of danger without exposure to it. The combination of arousal and detachment can create a feedback loop. We learn to seek out stories that stimulate our survival systems while bypassing our real-life vulnerability.

From an evolutionary standpoint, this makes sense. Our species didn’t evolve by avoiding threat; we evolved by observing, analyzing, and adapting to it. The instinct to watch, even when afraid, is part of how humans learn. And when violence is packaged into entertainment, it still feels like learning, even when it’s dramatized or absurd.

But we also have to account for cultural differences in how these instincts are expressed. Not every society is obsessed with cinematic violence. American media, in particular, has made violence synonymous with excitement, justice, and even virtue. The idea that a story needs a gun, a chase, or a body count to be interesting is not a psychological necessity—it’s a cultural one. We’ll return to that theme later in the episode.

Still, the draw toward violence can’t be blamed entirely on media conditioning. The desire was already there. What media did was learn to package and deliver what the nervous system would find impossible to ignore. It took the primal need to detect danger and turned it into a multi-billion-dollar genre.

It’s also important to note that not everyone responds to violent content in the same way. For some, it’s exciting. For others, it’s distressing or overwhelming. Our responses are shaped by personality, upbringing, prior trauma, and even how well we regulate emotion. But the universality of attention—the fact that nearly everyone notices violence—is what makes it such an effective storytelling tool. It arrests the mind. It engages the body. And for a brief moment, it overrides distraction and reorients us to something primal.

When we ask why people watch violent media, it’s tempting to judge the content itself. But a more honest inquiry is to ask why it feels necessary—what psychological itch it’s scratching. Because often, what draws us isn’t the violence alone. It’s the illusion of control. It’s the chance to practice survival. It’s the rush of intensity in an otherwise regulated life. And it’s the quiet truth that inside each of us, there is a brain still looking for the next threat—just in case.

Catharsis, Control, and Emotional Regulation

If the brain is drawn to violence because it signals survival and commands attention, then the psyche is drawn to violence for more nuanced reasons. For many people, watching violent media is not about fascination with bloodshed—it’s about accessing something they can’t express elsewhere. It’s about the quiet, often unconscious, desire to release tension, restore agency, or metabolize emotions that have nowhere else to go.

This is where we begin to explore violence not as spectacle, but as catharsis. The idea of catharsis comes to us from Aristotle, who observed that watching tragedy on stage allowed audiences to purge their own sorrow, fear, and anger. Centuries later, Freud would revisit this idea through the lens of psychoanalysis, suggesting that people have aggressive impulses they repress to remain socially acceptable. According to Freud, art, fantasy, and dreamwork provide a way to symbolically release those impulses—without acting them out in reality.

Modern psychology has built on this with a more complex understanding of emotional regulation. Today we talk about vicarious regulation—the process of using media and storytelling to indirectly process emotions we may not be ready or able to confront in real life. Watching a character lash out in rage, seek revenge, or stand their ground in a violent confrontation can provide emotional release for someone who feels chronically suppressed, powerless, or emotionally numb.

And it’s not always rage that people are working through. For some, violent content is less about aggression and more about control. The world feels chaotic. Life feels unpredictable. So they turn to a medium where the conflict ends. Where there is a climax, a resolution, a clear villain, and often, a triumphant sense of justice. That structure feels good. Predictable. Safe. The violence might be disturbing, but the order is soothing.

This is particularly true for those who’ve experienced betrayal, humiliation, or powerlessness. A person who was never allowed to express anger might find a strange satisfaction in watching characters do exactly that—rage, scream, destroy, retaliate. There’s a reclaiming of voice, even if it happens by proxy. On a deeper level, these viewers aren’t rooting for blood. They’re rooting for the restoration of dignity, often through the only mechanism the media has made emotionally legible: violence.

Consider someone who has been wronged repeatedly in life—perhaps in childhood, perhaps in a relationship or workplace. They might never have gotten justice. But on-screen, justice arrives with precision. The bad guy falls. The punch lands. The gun fires. And in that moment, the viewer gets to feel what they didn’t get to feel in their own life: that wrong was answered. That someone stood up for them, even if symbolically.

There’s also the matter of emotional repression. In Western culture, and particularly in American society, anger is one of the most poorly managed emotions. Children are often punished for expressing it. Women, especially, are taught to suppress it. Men, meanwhile, are frequently conditioned to funnel every emotion into anger, but not to understand or contain it. That leaves a great many people in a double bind: flooded with emotion, but lacking the tools or permission to process it.

Violent films offer a kind of loophole. You don’t have to cry or scream or confront your own discomfort directly. You just watch someone else do it. And by identifying with them, you get to discharge the emotion without admitting it was ever yours. It’s a psychological workaround. You feel the thing, but at a distance.

Clinical observations support this. In therapy, people will often bring up a scene from a movie or a television show that triggered an unexpected emotional response. They’ll say, “I don’t know why, but when that character snapped and finally lost it, I started crying.” And what they’re really saying is that their own emotional material—pain, rage, grief—surfaced through the safety of fiction. The story gave them access to something they’d kept sealed off.

In some cases, the attraction to violent media becomes a kind of ritual. People rewatch the same revenge films, crime shows, or violent dramas not because they’re entertained, but because it helps them feel something. It becomes emotional maintenance. A controlled burn. Like a person who listens to sad music to feel less alone in their sadness, some people use violent media to reconnect with a part of themselves they can’t safely express anywhere else.

This isn’t inherently pathological. In fact, it often reflects a person trying—however imperfectly—to self-regulate. But it does raise an important question: what happens when violence becomes the only language for reclaiming dignity, expressing frustration, or accessing emotion?

When the only stories that move us are the ones that involve destruction, it might signal a deeper disconnection. From ourselves. From others. From gentler forms of emotional resolution.

What violent media offers is a shortcut to intensity. But that shortcut comes at a cost. It can flatten the emotional palette. It can reinforce the idea that rage is the only route to agency, or that destruction is the only way to be seen.

And for many, it keeps deeper wounds from ever being addressed. Because if you’re watching a gunfight, you don’t have to think about the grief that’s driving it. If you’re caught up in revenge fantasies, you don’t have to face the vulnerability of having been hurt in the first place.

In this way, the draw to violence isn’t about violence at all. It’s about trying to feel something real   It’s about control, release, and recognition—all filtered through a narrative that gives us the illusion of power without ever requiring the risk of true confrontation.

And it's not just what we watch. This same emotional displacement plays out in the way we argue with loved ones, how we interact with strangers, and how we escalate disagreements into wars of dominance. We may not realize it, but the way we engage with fictional conflict often shapes how we handle real ones. Violence isn’t just a story arc—it becomes a behavioral rehearsal.

Power, Fantasy, and the Attraction of Dominance

There is a reason why so many violent films are not about chaos but about control. In fact, most mainstream violence is carefully framed through a moral filter—someone was wronged, and now they’re setting things right. Someone was weak, and now they’re strong. Someone was invisible, and now they’re feared. This isn’t just about entertainment. It’s about wish fulfillment. It’s about the deep psychological hunger for power, especially among those who feel chronically powerless in their everyday lives.

Violent media often functions as fantasy—not fantasy in the sense of dragons and magic, but in the psychological sense of acting out unconscious desires. The desire to be respected, to be unafraid, to assert dominance, to silence the people who have hurt you, or to rise above humiliation. These themes are embedded in almost every action film, every revenge thriller, every superhero arc. And it’s not an accident. These stories sell because they touch something real inside us, whether we admit it or not.

In many of these narratives, violence is not random—it’s redemptive. It restores a lost order. The protagonist is typically a person who was ignored, doubted, threatened, or abandoned. And through a righteous explosion of violence, they reclaim their agency. The gun isn’t just a gun. It’s a symbol of control. The punch isn’t just force—it’s a declaration that this person will not be disrespected again.

For viewers who have experienced real-world disempowerment—whether from trauma, poverty, racism, bullying, or systemic neglect—these stories offer emotional compensation. They are symbolic scripts for reclaiming control in a world where control often feels like an illusion. 

And it's not just what we watch. This same emotional displacement plays out in the way we argue with loved ones, how we interact with strangers, and how we escalate disagreements into wars of dominance. We may not realize it, but the way we engage with fictional conflict often shapes how we handle real ones. Violence isn’t just a story arc—it becomes a behavioral rehearsal.

This is especially apparent in adolescence. Teenagers, in particular, are drawn to media where the underdog becomes the dominant force. Part of this is developmental—adolescents are in the midst of identity formation, and they’re grappling with feelings of invisibility, frustration, and limitation. Violent media, with its simple moral binaries and clear outcomes, offers a powerful fantasy: the idea that you can seize control, demand recognition, and force the world to pay attention.

But it’s not only teens. Adults feel this too—especially those who are emotionally stunted, socially isolated, or trapped in environments where they feel small. The middle manager who’s belittled at work. The woman constantly dismissed by her family. The man who never felt seen by his father. These emotional undercurrents don’t disappear just because we mature chronologically. They often become more covert, more internalized, and more likely to seek symbolic resolution through narrative consumption.

There’s also a gendered aspect to how this fantasy plays out. Research consistently shows that men, on average, are more drawn to physical aggression in media, while women are more often drawn to emotional conflict or psychological tension. This isn’t to reinforce stereotypes—it’s to point out how our early social conditioning shapes the forms of power we’re taught to value.

In Western cultures, and especially in American society, masculinity has long been equated with dominance, toughness, and control. For generations, men have been socialized to avoid vulnerability, dismiss emotional nuance, and assert strength through force. In that context, it’s not surprising that films saturated with violence feel familiar. They mirror the emotional blueprint many boys were given: if you’re hurt, hit back. If you’re scared, act tough. If you’re invisible, make someone afraid of you.

For women, violent media may offer a different kind of fantasy. One of protection. Or of finally being able to defend themselves after a lifetime of vulnerability. The rise of the female action hero is, in part, a response to this—offering not just entertainment, but empowerment. Watching a woman use violence to resist domination, escape danger, or destroy her abuser isn’t just thrilling—it’s symbolic reclamation.

These narratives don’t always come from a dark place. Sometimes, they represent hope—the hope that power can be reclaimed, that dignity can be restored, that justice will eventually be served, even if through unconventional means.

But we have to examine what it means when violence becomes our only language for resolution. When we repeatedly consume stories where problems are solved by dominance, not dialogue—by force, not complexity—we internalize that template. Even when we don’t act on it, we begin to expect it. And when real life doesn’t mirror those clean arcs of revenge and victory, we may feel more disillusioned, more defeated, more desperate.

There’s also a risk of emotional displacement. When someone spends years consuming violent narratives as a way to process their own helplessness, they may never actually process that helplessness. They just keep translating it into rage, into fantasy, into scenes where they always win. That doesn’t make someone dangerous, but it does make healing more difficult. Because fantasy is not the same as growth. And dominance is not the same as power.

Real power often looks like emotional fluency. Like being able to feel anger without needing to destroy something. Like standing your ground without dehumanizing the other person. But those stories are rarely as flashy. They don’t sell as many tickets. They don’t generate the same dopamine hit. And so we keep telling the old stories—the ones where someone’s dignity is restored only after someone else’s body is broken.

When violence is framed as the only path to agency, we reinforce a cultural lie—that being powerful means making others afraid. That control means domination. That justice means destruction.

But power, real psychological power, is much quieter. It’s about emotional capacity, not just force. And the more we can recognize the fantasy beneath the violence, the more we can ask ourselves what we’re really longing for—and whether there’s another way to feel it.

Desensitization, Voyeurism, and Real Violence

So far, we’ve been talking about violence in fiction—films, shows, stories that use conflict as metaphor, fantasy, or emotional catharsis. But there’s another layer that’s more unsettling. Some people are not only drawn to dramatized violence. They actively seek out real violence—videos of street fights, police brutality, war footage, accidents, even executions. And it begs the question: what kind of mind wants to witness real suffering, up close, unfiltered?

The answer isn’t simple. For most people, the attraction isn’t sadism or depravity. It’s something more nuanced, and often more troubling. It’s about desensitization. It’s about morbid curiosity. And it’s about the fragile boundary between emotional engagement and emotional numbing.

Let’s start with desensitization. Psychologists have long studied how repeated exposure to violent imagery reduces the emotional impact over time. In other words, the more we see violence, the less it shocks us. The first time someone watches a graphic scene, they might flinch, look away, or feel sick. But over time, those reactions dull. Not because the person is heartless—but because the nervous system can’t sustain a high-alert response indefinitely. It begins to normalize the stimulus. It categorizes it as background noise.

In some cases, this can be adaptive. First responders, for example, must train themselves to stay composed in the face of real trauma. But when desensitization happens outside of necessity—when it’s the result of compulsive viewing, or doomscrolling, or unfiltered online content—it often comes with a psychological cost. It can lead to emotional detachment. Reduced empathy. A diminished sense of the real consequences of violence.

And the internet has made that process disturbingly easy. With a few clicks, anyone can access footage that would have once been buried or censored. Violent car crashes, security cam murders, bodies pulled from rubble—there are entire platforms that exist to circulate these images. Some are disguised as news. Others are labeled as “shock sites.” But all of them operate on the same psychological mechanism: the irresistible pull of the real.

This is where voyeurism enters the equation—not in the sexual sense, but in the broader psychological sense of observing something intimate, painful, or taboo from a safe distance. Voyeurism is driven by curiosity, by the desire to know what we’re not supposed to see. And violence—especially real violence—holds a kind of forbidden power. It’s raw. Unedited. It breaks through the sanitized version of life most of us are used to.

Some people watch this content because they want to feel something. Anything. They’ve become so emotionally dulled, so overstimulated by everyday life, that only the most extreme images register. Then there are those who seek out violent content compulsively, even when it disturbs them. This is especially common among people with unresolved trauma. Psychologically, they may be trying to master the feeling of powerlessness. Watching someone else suffer becomes a reenactment of their own suffering—one where they are now in control. They can pause it. Replay it. Walk away. That shift from victim to observer can feel stabilizing, even if it’s unconscious.

But this kind of viewing also reinforces trauma loops. Rather than healing, the person may become trapped in repeated exposure, hoping each time that the feelings will make more sense—but they rarely do. It becomes emotional self-harm disguised as curiosity. The pain gets revisited, but not resolved.

We also have to acknowledge the role of cultural conditioning. In some societies, the line between news and entertainment has all but disappeared. In the United States, for example, mainstream news broadcasts often rely on violent imagery to boost engagement. Car chases, riots, shootings—it’s all folded into the daily narrative. And over time, viewers begin to expect this kind of content. Violence becomes normalized not just in fiction, but in how we consume the world.

By contrast, many other cultures handle real violence very differently. In Japan, for instance, media tends to avoid gratuitous coverage of real-world suffering. Death and violence are often treated with solemnity, not spectacle. In Scandinavian countries, graphic news images are often blurred or withheld entirely, to protect viewers’ emotional boundaries and to preserve the dignity of victims. In the U.S., though, violence is not only shown—it’s branded. It’s used to sell fear, outrage, and identity.

This matters because when a culture treats violence as consumable, it also trains its people to become consumers of human pain. To watch someone die and immediately ask: whose side are you on? What does this say about politics, about race, about justice? The human being becomes secondary. The suffering becomes symbolic. And in that shift, something crucial is lost.

This doesn’t mean we should avert our eyes from everything difficult. Bearing witness to injustice is sometimes necessary. But there’s a difference between witnessing and indulging. One is rooted in conscience. The other in compulsion.

If someone finds themselves seeking out violent footage on a regular basis—not for information, but for stimulation—it’s worth asking what emotional state they’re trying to manage. Are they anxious and trying to discharge adrenaline? Are they emotionally numb and trying to feel? Are they angry and looking for a place to put it?

Violence, even when real, becomes a kind of mirror. It reflects what the viewer brings to it. And if we don’t look at what we’re bringing—our history, our pain, our hunger for control—we may never understand why we’re watching in the first place.

Why American Culture Is Obsessed With Violence

It would be easy to assume that the draw to violence is a universal human trait—and to some extent, the biological pull toward threat, dominance, and emotional intensity is universal. But the way that violence is packaged, consumed, and even glorified is not the same across cultures. When we examine global media patterns, America stands apart. Nowhere else in the world is violence so central to national mythology, entertainment, and personal identity.

Violence in American media is not just spectacle. It is morality play. It’s not random—it’s purposeful. The violent hero isn’t just reacting; he’s restoring order. And this is the key difference between American media and that of many other cultures: in the American psyche, violence is often framed as redemptive.

To understand why, we have to look backward—at how the American story was built. The founding mythology of the United States is a story of conquest, rebellion, individualism, and revolution. From the earliest colonial narratives to the frontier expansion, violence was central. It was both the means of survival and the tool of domination. It became baked into the cultural DNA as a symbol of strength, autonomy, and justice.

This mythology didn’t disappear. It just changed clothes. The cowboy riding into town to kill the outlaws. The vigilante who breaks the law to protect the innocent. The soldier who uses force to defend freedom. These figures aren’t presented as dangerous—they’re presented as noble. Their violence is framed as a necessary response to a world gone wrong.

Hollywood took this blueprint and magnified it. Westerns, war films, action thrillers—they all follow the same basic arc: violence as a cleansing force. A way to settle scores. A way to prove virtue. The body count isn’t just tolerated—it’s expected. It affirms that justice has been done.

And while other countries certainly produce violent films, few cultures lean on violence quite as heavily to define who the hero is. In Japanese cinema, for example, honor, shame, and quiet sacrifice are often more central than physical confrontation. In Indian films, dramatic emotions, family dynamics, and moral dilemmas take precedence. Even in British dramas, psychological tension often replaces physical aggression. American stories, by contrast, often go directly to the trigger.

This matters because what we repeatedly watch doesn’t just entertain us—it trains us. It teaches us what strength looks like. What resolution looks like. What justice looks like. And if we are told, over and over again, that problems are solved with violence, we start to believe it. Not always consciously. But subtly, emotionally, narratively. Our internal moral frameworks are shaped by what we’ve rehearsed a thousand times.

Violence becomes not just familiar, but legible. It’s the language our culture speaks fluently. And when we’re faced with real-world conflict—whether in politics, relationships, or global affairs—we often revert to the only scripts we’ve been given. Attack. Retaliate. Eliminate the threat. Assert dominance. We’re not taught to sit with ambiguity. We’re taught to resolve it—fast, and with force.

This is reflected not only in our media, but in our institutions—and in our everyday behavior. American political rhetoric often mirrors action film dialogue: the war on drugs, the war on terror, the war on crime. Even conversations about healthcare or education become zero-sum battles. We debate not to exchange ideas, but to destroy the opposition. The same attitude trickles down into family disputes, online commentary, even how we speak to baristas or flight attendants. The impulse is not just to be heard—but to win. American political rhetoric often mirrors action film dialogue. The war on drugs. The war on terror. The war on crime. Even social issues are framed as battles to be won, rather than complexities to be understood. It’s not enough to disagree with someone—we must defeat them. That impulse is not purely political. It’s psychological. And it’s been fed for decades by a culture that equates strength with aggression and peace with passivity.

We see this too in the way the U.S. handles policing, incarceration, and national defense. There is a deep cultural investment in the idea that force restores order. That punishment corrects behavior. That violence, when used by the “right” side, is not only justified but righteous. This isn’t just policy—it’s psychology. It reflects what we, as a nation, have come to believe about power and morality.

Even our toys and games reflect this early on. American children are exposed to far more violent play and media than children in many other countries. Toy guns, combat video games, superhero battles—they're not just allowed, they’re marketed as aspirational. Violence is not portrayed as tragic. It’s portrayed as thrilling. As fun. As the natural way to win.

But this comes with a cost. When violence is embedded in our collective self-image, we become less sensitive to its consequences. We see shootings on the news, and we categorize them as tragic but inevitable. We hear of wars and we ask, “Did we win?” rather than “What did it cost?” The line between fiction and reality begins to erode, not because we can’t tell the difference—but because the emotional framework we use to interpret them is the same.

This doesn’t mean Americans are more violent people by nature. It means we’ve been trained—through story, through language, through repetition—to view violence as both problem and solution. As horror and heroism. As fear and fantasy.

And when we export that media to the rest of the world—as we so often do—we export that emotional conditioning too. The American film becomes the global standard. And so, even in cultures that once approached violence with solemnity or restraint, the appetite grows. The action blockbuster becomes a universal language. The gunshot becomes punctuation.

If we are to understand our obsession with violence, we have to stop asking only what we’re watching. We have to ask what we’ve been taught to feel when we watch it. Is this justice? Is this courage? Is this catharsis? Or have we simply forgotten how to feel anything else?

Closing Reflection: It’s Not About Blood—It’s About Meaning

The appeal of violence, when you really strip it down, has never been about blood. It’s about meaning. What violence represents in a world that often feels meaningless. What it stirs in us when we’re numb, what it gives us when we feel small, and what it distracts us from when we’re overwhelmed.

We don’t just watch people being hurt because we’re cruel. More often, we watch because we’re desperate to feel something—something sharp, something vivid, something that cuts through the fog of overstimulation and emotional detachment that defines so much of modern life. And violent media delivers that jolt. But it’s a jolt with a cost.

When we repeatedly turn to violence as a form of stimulation, entertainment, or emotional release, we begin to dull our ability to respond to other kinds of emotional information—subtlety, stillness, complexity, tenderness. We become more comfortable with extremity and less capable of sitting with nuance. We lose the ability to notice the quiet things: a shift in tone, a moment of hesitation, a sign of fear in someone’s eyes. These are the very details that make us human, that let us connect, that signal when someone needs care instead of correction.

And the more we consume brutality, the more we require it to feel anything at all. That’s the trap. What begins as catharsis becomes dependency. What starts as entertainment turns into erosion. We become less shocked, less moved, less reachable. Not because we’re evil, but because we’re emotionally exhausted. And violence—whether fictional or real—feels simpler. Easier. Cleaner than reality.

But this isn’t inevitable. It’s not who we are. It’s just what we’ve been taught to accept. The culture may condition us, but it does not decide for us. We are always at choice.

You are at choice.

Every time you click play. Every time you scroll past a video labeled “graphic.” Every time you watch someone’s body be broken for the sake of plot resolution, or justice, or someone’s twisted idea of closure—you are making a choice about what you reinforce in yourself. Not just what you believe, but what you feel. What you find familiar. What you normalize.

And I say this not to condemn, but to clarify. Because no one becomes emotionally numb overnight. No one wakes up one day incapable of caring. It happens in increments. Through repetition. Through exposure. Through the gradual replacement of complexity with spectacle.

We must stop pretending that media is just entertainment. It’s not. It’s education—of the emotional kind. It trains your nervous system, your reflexes, your imagination. It tells you what to feel, how quickly to move on, and how to define power, strength, resolution. If the only resolution we ever see is through violence, we come to distrust any other form of closure.

But here’s the truth that often gets lost: violence is not strength. Strength is the capacity to stay present when you want to run. Strength is knowing how to sit with your own rage without inflicting it on someone else. Strength is choosing repair over retaliation. And those aren’t cinematic moments. They’re quiet. Often invisible. They don’t get applause. But they are the foundation of every healthy relationship, every mature decision, every real act of courage.

We have to re-learn how to feel. Not just the adrenaline, the revenge, the high of domination—but the ache of grief, the discomfort of not knowing, the vulnerability of caring when it would be easier to look away.

If we don’t, we risk becoming spectators in our own lives—watching pain like a plot point, framing suffering as something that needs to be “dealt with,” rather than witnessed. And slowly, almost imperceptibly, we lose touch with our own moral compass. Not because we lack one, but because we stopped listening to it.

So when we shout at a service worker, belittle someone online, or lose our temper at a stoplight, it’s not just about the moment—it’s about the culture we’ve absorbed. We’ve been taught that dominance is clarity. That loudness is leadership. That the one who controls the room controls the truth. But this isn’t emotional strength—it’s emotional fragility dressed as certainty. And it’s costing us more than we think. It is entirely possible to be awake in a culture that’s emotionally asleep. It is possible to choose curiosity over compulsion, presence over passivity, humanity over brutality. But it will never feel as easy. It won’t give you the instant gratification of a fight scene. It won’t resolve in 90 minutes. It takes more from you—but it gives more in return.

Because when you begin to question your appetite for violence, you are not just questioning entertainment. You are reclaiming sensitivity. You are honoring the parts of you that feel too much, that break open instead of breaking down, that recognize a stranger’s suffering as something sacred.

And that is how we begin to heal—not only ourselves, but the culture that taught us otherwise.