Community Projection

From the False Family Game to an Exacting Relationality

It’s time for a thought experiment. Imagine a tight-knit activist collective or spiritual intentional community. A younger member – well-meaning but emotionally fragile – begins to voice “concerns” about an older, long-standing member. The younger person (often white and carrying unhealed trauma) claims the elder (often non-white, reserved but neutral in demeanour) makes them feel unsafe. They have never directly talked with the elder about these feelings, yet they interpret the elder’s perceived aloofness or feedback as threatening. Instead of addressing it head-on, the younger member confides in peers about their unease. “Friends” rush to validate the person’s feelings – after all, they seem vulnerable – and soon a narrative takes hold: the elder is cast as a problem, perhaps even a hidden oppressor. Whispers spread; meetings grow tense. The elder, blindsided by cold shoulders, is never asked for their side of the story. What began as one person’s subjective fear snowballs into a group consensus that something is “wrong” with the elder. This recurring drama – a kind of projection game – distorts reality in many intentional or activist communities, turning personal insecurities into collective judgments.

In this essay, we will unpack this projection dynamic through multiple lenses. We’ll explore the psychology behind it – how projection, triangulation, and trauma responses fuel such conflicts. We’ll examine the sociological side – how biases of race, gender, and group “consensus” norms can validate a distorted narrative. We’ll consider the political and power dimensions – the micro-physics of power at play in gossip and sympathy, the affective economies that make emotions “stick” to certain bodies, and the colonial or gendered scripts being unconsciously followed. Throughout, we’ll use narrative examples (composites of real patterns of different communities) to illustrate points. Finally, we’ll conclude with an expanded vision of relationality beyond cliqueish friendship – one grounded in mutual accountability, self-restraint, ethical growth, respect for agreed governance, and the courage to face one’s own blind spots. This expanded relationality draws on abolitionist, queer, and decolonial insights to suggest a healthier way for communities to handle conflict and care for each other.

The Projection Game

Projection is a psychological defence mechanism as old as time: we project disowned feelings or traits onto others. In our scenario, the younger member offloads their inner anxiety, anger, or fragility onto the elder member, assigning them the role of aggressor without real evidence. It’s likely not a conscious deception; it’s an unconscious self-deception. As conflict mediation scholar Brian Martin notes, projection leads people to attribute their own negative traits or feelings to others, “taking no responsibility for their own role”. For example, someone who feels deep hostility might be unable to admit it, instead believing others are hostile and “out to get them”. In our “projection game,” the younger individual genuinely believes the unease is caused by the elder’s alleged threatening aura – because acknowledging it as originating in their own trauma or insecurity would be too painful.

Once the projection is cast, a triangle quickly forms. Rather than approaching the elder (Person B) directly, the younger person (Person A) reaches out to a third party or parties (Person C, D, etc.) for validation. This is classic triangulation, described in family systems theory as what happens when two people in conflict recruit a third to diffuse tension. By involving friends as allies, Person A reduces their anxiety – but now the tension is “shifted around three people instead of two”. The friends, hearing only A’s emotionally charged story, naturally empathize and may even feel outraged on their behalf. A drama triangle emerges, with A in the Victim role, the elder B painted as the Persecutor, and the friends stepping in as Rescuers. In psychologist Stephen Karpman’s model of the drama triangle, a self-declared victim will “set someone else up in the role of Persecutor” if one isn’t already present, and will seek out rescuers to “save the day,” which ironically only perpetuates the victim’s feelings of helplessness and the group’s distorted dynamic. Everyone feels righteous and justified, but nothing is resolved – in fact, the real issues get obscured. The group may even become entrenched in these roles, cycling through blame and sympathy while the actual source of the conflict (such as A’s unmanaged trauma or a simple misunderstanding) remains unaddressed.

Importantly, the younger member’s alarm is authentic on a subjective level – they truly feel afraid or hurt. Trauma researchers note that unprocessed trauma can dysregulate affect, priming a person to see danger where none exists as a way to make sense of their triggered emotions. The body keeps the score, and if someone carries a wound of past abuse or abandonment, a neutral remark or boundary from an elder might feel uncannily similar to that past harm. In attachment terms, an insecurely attached person (especially with a history of inconsistent or unsafe caregivers) can misinterpret neutral behaviours as signs of imminent betrayal or threat. Their nervous system sounds an alarm (“I’m not safe!”) before the rational mind can contextualize. Without self-awareness, they externalize this alarm onto the present target. In psychological terms, they are experiencing transference – the elder unintentionally becomes a stand-in for a parent or past abuser in the person’s psyche.

At this point, any attempt by the elder to defend or explain themselves may get reinterpreted to fit the projection. If the elder stays quiet (perhaps unaware of the rumours or choosing dignified non-engagement), the silence itself might be seen as “menacing.” If they ask what’s wrong, that could be twisted into “they confronted me, confirming they’re unsafe.” The projected narrative becomes self-reinforcing. As psychoanalytic theory tells us, we tend to notice or even provoke in others the very traits we refuse to acknowledge in ourselves. Activist and author Anthea Lawson observes that righteousness can provide excellent cover for such projections: one can obsess over others’ wrongs specifically to avoid facing one’s own shadows. In our scenario, the younger member’s insistence that “X is the problem” spares them from having to examine their own reactivity. It’s a form of affect regulation – by focusing attention outward on the elder’s supposed flaws, the younger person momentarily soothes their inner turmoil without actually processing it. Meanwhile the recruited “friends”, stepping into rescuer roles, also get to avoid their own anxieties or conflicts by uniting against a common enemy and bolstering their identity as loyal, caring friends. The affect economy of the group thus revolves around the drama: sympathy for A and subtle hostility toward B become the circulating currencies of emotion.

False Family

Intentional communities and activist groups often pride themselves on being “like a family.” Shared ideals and emotional bonds create a sense of intimacy that can indeed feel familial – people refer to each other as sisters and brothers, speak of “community love,” and strive for deep trust. But this strength has a flip side: these spaces can also reproduce the dysfunction of family systems – without the benefit of actual familial bonds or professional boundaries. In a healthy family, elders guide the young and conflicts are worked through with love and accountability. In a false family dynamic, however, an immature member might cast themselves as the “hurt child” and assign another the role of the “abusive parent,” reenacting a personal trauma story with group members unconsciously playing along. The group’s desire to be a supportive surrogate family can morph into unhealthy enabling of one person’s narrative, however skewed it may be.

Sociologically, group members may rally around the person who signals vulnerability for multiple reasons. First, there is a consensus-seeking reflex common in progressive circles: a well-meaning ethos that we should “believe victims” and centre the comfort of those who speak up about feeling harmed. This principle arises from good intentions – protecting people from abuse – but can be misapplied when discomfort is mistaken for genuine harm. As Sarah Schulman incisively observes, in many communities “there is the opportunity to conflate discomfort with threat, to mistake internal anxiety for exterior danger, and in turn escalate rather than resolve” situations. In other words, feeling uncomfortable or upset is not always proof that someone else is abusing you – but the group, eager to show support, might not make that distinction. Especially in predominantly white activist spaces influenced by call-out culture, there can be a performative element to validation: one gains moral status by immediately siding with the person who voices a grievance. Nobody wants to be seen as defending a potential oppressor. Thus the easiest way to preserve group harmony (and one’s own reputation as an ally) is to join the chorus of concern about the accused party. This is how a false consensus solidifies around a one-sided story.

Compounding this is the uncomfortable reality of racial and gender bias in how narratives are received. The user scenario often involves a younger white woman (or person from a majority group) feeling uneasy about someone with older, non-white, queer or otherwise marginalised identity aspects. In such cases, deeply ingrained social scripts can take over. White women in Western cultures have historically been coded as delicate, innocent, and in need of protection – their tears can automatically elicit sympathy and credence, even when strategic or unfounded. Non-whites, by contrast, have been saddled with stereotypes like the “angry Black woman” or “threatening Arab man,” leading others to perceive them as aggressors even when they are simply setting boundaries or minding their business. Writer Ruby Hamad describes how a white woman can “weaponize her tears” to “muster sympathy and avoid accountability, by turning the tables and accusing her accuser”– or, in our case, accusing someone who has not actually harmed her. The mere image of a white woman in distress carries cultural weight as a “damsel in distress” needing rescue, whereas a non-white person labelled as the source of that distress may be quickly demonized as a bully without evidence. Hamad recounts numerous examples of Black or brown women being labelled “mean” or “threatening” when they dared to confront or even just exist in ways a white woman disliked, often resulting in the non-white woman being disciplined or pushed out while the white women garnered sympathy. In our projection scenario, the younger white member probably doesn’t consciously plot to exploit this bias – but the dynamics of white innocence vs. racialized menace can implicitly juice up their claims. The peers, also likely conditioned by the broader society, may more readily believe the worst about the older racialized member and feel few qualms about excluding them. This reflects what Hamad calls the “imbalance of credibility” – the white accuser’s feelings are automatically credited, while the non-white person’s perspective is discounted or never sought.

Gender plays a role as well. If the elder is male and the younger is female, the group might quickly frame the situation through a #MeToo lens (“believe women”), assuming any discomfort a woman feels must indicate some inappropriate behaviour by the man. Certainly, real abuses happen in communities and should be taken seriously. But here we are examining a case where no actual misconduct has occurred –only perceptions filtered through trauma and bias. When bias and projection combine, emotional manipulation can occur even without anyone realizing that’s what it is. The younger member’s emotional display (tears, panic attacks, etc.) and invocation of trauma can manipulate the group’s protective instincts. As a result, empathy is weaponized: fellow members, wanting to prove their compassion, scapegoat the elder as the cause of the discomfort, rather than pausing to question if the discomfort might have an internal origin or a different explanation. This aligns with what anti-racism educator Tema Okun terms the “right to comfort” syndrome in dominant culture. Okun notes that those with social power often believe they have a right to avoid feeling uncomfortable, and thus “blame the person or group causing discomfort, rather than addressing the issues being named”. Here, the younger person’s discomfort is assumed to be evidence of wrongdoing by the elder; eliminating the discomfort (and protecting the group’s sense of itself as a safe, comfortable space) means eliminating or punishing the supposed source of it. The group thus targets the one who allegedly caused distress instead of taking a more nuanced look at why the distress arose.

Another facet of the false family dynamic is informal power and consensus. Activist circles often eschew formal hierarchy, imagining that without titles or bureaucracy, everyone will be equal and no one will wield undue power. In practice, however, the lack of clear structure can foster hidden hierarchies and clique dynamics. Jo Freeman’s classic feminist essay The Tyranny of Structurelessness warned that when groups have no transparent rules or roles, what tends to happen is that unofficial power cliques (often friend groups) take control behind the scenes. “Structurelessness,” Freeman wrote, often “becomes a way of masking power” – decisions get made in backchannel conversations, and those not in the know are left confused or even feeling paranoid. In our scenario, a tight friend circle forms around the younger member (perhaps they were friends already, or the situation creates a new bond of “us vs. them”). This in-group starts effectively controlling the narrative and the group response, outside of any formal process. They might meet privately to discuss “what to do about B,” come to a consensus (e.g. ostracize B or demand B leave), and then present it to the wider group as a fait accompli. Those on the outside of the friendship clique – including the elder in question – are not truly part of the decision-making. They may notice something is happening but not know the “rules” of this informal game, leading to confusion and a sense of being secretly persecuted (ironically mirroring what the younger person felt). Freeman observed that within such cliques, friends “listen more attentively [to each other], and interrupt less; they repeat each other’s points…and tend to ignore or grapple with the ‘outs’ whose approval is not necessary for making a decision”. If the elder was never socially close with the younger clique (perhaps due to age, culture, or simply different friend circles), they are now clearly an “out.” The clique doesn’t need the elder’s input to validate their story – in fact, excluding the elder entirely serves their purpose by avoiding inconvenient facts. The rest of the community, if it is conflict-averse or trusts the clique’s judgment, goes along with this ostracism. Thus a toxic form of group consensus emerges, not through open dialogue but through emotional pressure and behind-the-scenes alliance.

The result of these false-family machinations is a distorted narrative solidified as communal truth. The younger member feels vindicated and supported (“My family believes me”). The friends feel righteous (“We protect the vulnerable; we rooted out a threat”). The broader group feels relieved that a consensus was quickly reached – conflict has been “resolved” by effectively expelling or marginalizing the presumed bad actor. And the elder member? They are left isolated, bewildered, and likely deeply hurt by the betrayal. If they try to defend themselves, it may be too late – their attempts can be dismissed as “gaslighting” or further proof that they lack accountability. They have been scapegoated, a process by which a group projects its collective shadows onto one individual and then rejects that individual to purify itself. As Brian Martin cautions, once someone is labelled a “difficult person,” there is a grave “risk that [this label] prejudges the issue and maybe even creates a scapegoat” for all the group’s problems. Indeed, scapegoats often serve a structural function: by focusing all anxiety and blame on the chosen person, the group avoids facing internal tensions, contradictions, or the personal growth of each member. In a perverse way, the conflict unites the rest of the group – against the other. Sociologist René Girard, who studied scapegoating in cultures, noted that communities often resolve their own discord by identifying a victim to bear the brunt of everyone’s anger, thus restoring unity among the rest. In an activist community that prides itself on egalitarianism and kindness, admitting that they might have collectively wronged an innocent member is very difficult. It’s much easier to double down on the narrative that the elder deserved this (perhaps retroactively finding new faults in them to justify the treatment). And so, the projection game reaches its bitter end: one person expelled or silenced, and the real underlying issues (trauma, bias, poor communication practices) left unexamined – only to surface again later, perhaps with new actors in the roles.

Maturity and its Absence

At the heart of this recurring drama is a question of maturity – emotional, relational, and organizational. The younger member’s behaviour, however understandable given their background, demonstrates emotional immaturity: an inability to separate old hurts from present situations, an incapacity to self-soothe or reflect before reacting, and an unwillingness to engage directly or take responsibility for their part in a conflict. The elder member, by contrast, may actually be demonstrating maturity in their calm neutrality – but that very maturity is misread as callousness or danger by those operating from a less mature emotional place. How can communities foster greater maturity so that conflicts don’t devolve into projection and scapegoating?

Emotional maturity involves recognizing one’s feelings without immediately letting them dictate one’s perception of reality. A mature person can feel strong emotions (“I feel afraid or offended”) and yet pause and examine whether those emotions are justified by the evidence at hand. An immature response takes the emotion as proof of an external cause (“I feel afraid, therefore you must have done something scary”). In our scenario, had the younger member been equipped with more emotional maturity or support, they might have reflected: “I’m feeling triggered by X’s demeanour. Is it truly X doing something harmful, or is this feeling coming from somewhere in me? Could I be projecting? Maybe I should talk gently with X or seek a neutral perspective.” That kind of reflective inward query is a sign of maturity – as opposed to the immediate outward accusation. Brian Martin suggests that a “vital insight” in dealing with conflict is to “check your own behaviour: you might be the one being difficult. This can be remarkably challenging,” since projection is so easy and self-awareness is hard. It takes maturity to even consider I might be contributing to this problem. Activist communities could benefit from explicitly encouraging this kind of self-check when conflicts arise: rather than assuming one person is all victim and another all villain, ask each to introspect on their own possible blind spots or missteps. As Schulman notes, “being uncomfortable signals [for some people] that they are being abused, when it is not necessarily the case”. Developing maturity means learning to tolerate some discomfort without jumping to blame – essentially, strengthening one’s affect regulation abilities. Many social justice spaces now talk about being “trauma-informed,” but this must include understanding that trauma can cause distorted perceptions. A trauma-informed approach would support a triggered person in grounding themselves and distinguishing the present from the past, rather than automatically validating their perception of another person as a monster. In practice, this could mean the community gently guides the younger member to take a breath, maybe speak with a trained conflict mediator or therapist, before mobilizing the whole group. It could mean encouraging them to have a direct, calm conversation with the elder (perhaps with a supportive witness or facilitator present) to voice their feelings and hear the elder’s perspective – rather than allowing covert gossip to take over.

Relational maturity is also key. This refers to how we handle relationships and conflicts in a group setting. An immature relational pattern is the triangulation we saw earlier – unable to face someone directly, Person A talks about them to Person C. In contrast, a mature relationship practice strives for direct communication and transparency. Murray Bowen, who developed family systems theory, identified triangulation as a common response to dyadic tension, but a counter-strategy is differentiation – the ability of each person to maintain their own perspective and calmly engage the other without dragging in third parties unnecessarily. If A could calmly tell B, “Hey, I feel uneasy about our last interaction, could we talk about it?”, B might have a chance to clarify or apologize for any misunderstanding. By cutting straight across the triangle, they would reduce the static and stories that build up in the shadows. Naturally, not everyone will feel confident to do this, especially if trauma is involved – but communities can create structures to help. For example, having a conflict resolution protocol or team can channel issues into a productive, face-to-face (or mediated) dialogue early on. Unfortunately, in many activist groups, formal conflict resolution is weak or absent (sometimes out of conflict-aversion (“we are all friends here”), a naive hope that “like-minded people” or “evolved people like ourselves” won’t clash, or a fear of anything that sounds hierarchical). Instead, problems are left to fester informally. The elder may not even know the younger person is upset until it’s too late. Instituting clear, agreed-upon processes – such as “If you feel someone has harmed or upset you, here’s the steps: talk to them one-on-one if you feel able, or ask two other members to join a circle to discuss it together, or bring it to the community council” – can prevent the corrosive informal spread of accusations. It’s notable that in our scenario, the group’s governance failed: decisions were effectively made by gossip and backroom consensus. A mature community would insist that serious concerns be handled through the official channels (e.g., mediation or a grievance committee) rather than through rumour. If someone refuses and continues to agitate informally, the community should recognize that behaviour as the red flag, rather than whatever allegations they are levying. In other words, how a person is handling their complaint (openly and maturely, or covertly and immaturely) should factor into how much credibility and support they receive.

Cognitive maturity involves nuance and resisting black-and-white thinking. In the projection game, we see very stark binaries: A is pure victim, B is pure perpetrator; one is innocent, one guilty; one entirely “safe,” the other “unsafe.” This is essentially childlike thinking, reminiscent of fairy tales with heroes and villains. Real life, and real human beings, are rarely so absolute. Even if the elder had been a bit insensitive, does that make them a monster? Even if the younger is genuinely hurting, might they not also be overreacting or misinterpreting? Maturity means holding complexity: someone can cause you discomfort without meaning harm; you can be upset yet still be partially misunderstanding the situation. Adrienne Maree Brown, an abolitionist thinker, warns that binary thinking underlies cancel-culture dynamics: “We can only handle binary thinking: good/bad, innocent/guilty, angel/abuser, black/white, etc.”, she writes, critiquing the knee-jerk call-outs that allow no grey area. A mature approach actively cultivates the grey. The community could say, “We have Person A feeling hurt and Person B with a different perspective; let’s acknowledge multiple truths and see the bigger picture.” This doesn’t mean moral relativism or ignoring actual harm – it means not leaping to a simplistic narrative prematurely. Brown points out that when we respond to conflict by immediately designating a villain and ostracizing them, just to avoid ambiguity, it reflects a lack of belief in people’s capacity to change or in our own capacity to handle complexity. It is, in essence, a failure of imagination and patience.

Finally, accountability is a facet of maturity on all sides. If the elder did do something wrong, maturity on their part would mean they could hear the feedback and take responsibility or apologize as needed. If the younger person misjudged, maturity would mean they could admit “I was mistaken” or at least “I might have exaggerated – my reaction was about something inside me.” In the projection game as described, neither of these healthy forms of accountability occur because the process never allowed for real communication or reflection. Instead of anyone holding themselves accountable, the group attempted to hold the elder “accountable” based solely on one side of a story – a process that, ironically, lacked due process or fairness. True accountability is a collaborative truth-seeking, not a performative punishment. Activist communities often struggle with this distinction. As Schulman observes, “unjustified accusations of harm avoid confronting one’s complicity in creating conflict”. In our case, the unjustified accusation against the elder allowed the younger and their friends to avoid confronting their own roles – their rush to judgment, their possible biases, or the younger’s personal work needed to heal. A mature community culture would emphasize that everyone is accountable for how conflicts unfold. Those who raise concerns are accountable for doing so honestly and responsibly; those who are accused are accountable for listening and correcting behaviour if needed; bystanders are accountable for not engaging in gossip or mob mentality, and for insisting on fair procedure. It’s a shared duty. Without that shared ethos, “accountability” devolves into a one-way street (often targeting someone more marginalized in power, ironically).

Expanded Relationality: Beyond Friendship and Fear

How might communities break out of these destructive patterns? The solution requires reimagining relationality – how we relate to each other – beyond the narrow confines of personal affinity or emotional comfort. In an intentional community dedicated to social justice or spiritual growth, relationships cannot be only about who likes whom or who feels emotionally close. They must also be about principled commitment to each member’s humanity and growth. This means extending care and respect even to those you are not personally fond of, and being willing to remain in community with people who challenge you – as long as they are willing to uphold the community’s agreed norms and values. In short, it means grounding relationships in shared purpose and accountability rather than in clique allegiance or vibes.

One cornerstone of expanded relationality is mutual accountability. This concept has been richly developed by abolitionist and transformative justice practitioners, who argue that communities should handle harm and conflict internally, through processes that seek understanding and change, rather than through punitive or exclusionary measures. Mutual accountability means that when conflict arises, all parties and even the community as a whole ask: “What is our part in this? How can we each take responsibility for what is ours to own, and how can we help each other do better?” Instead of immediately designating a sinner and a saint, everyone engages in self-reflection. In our scenario, a mutually accountable process might have sounded like this: the younger person says, “I know my past trauma might be colouring this, but I felt scared when you did X”; the elder says, “I hear you. I was unaware that affected you so badly – I will be more mindful. Are there things you might be projecting from past experiences? Let’s figure this out together.” The community might add, “We realize we all jumped to conclusions – next time we will slow down and get both sides.” This level of honesty and humility is only possible if the community has deliberately cultivated it. Activist Adrienne Maree Brown emphasizes that movements and groups should be “practice grounds” for the liberatory values they espouse. She writes that movement participants should be “practicing freedom every day… Not already beyond harm, but accountable for doing our individual and internal work to end harm and engage in generative conflict,” including actively learning about how we have harmed each other and how to stop such cycles. Such generative conflict is conflict that, rather than being destructive, becomes a source of deeper understanding and transformation for those involved. For a conflict to be generative, though, people must let go of the idea of totalizing blame. They have to approach conflict with curiosity and care, not as a battle to be won. This mindset aligns with queer and feminist ethics of care, as well as indigenous and decolonial approaches that see each person as part of an interdependent web. It’s the opposite of the punitive, colonial logic of rooting out the “bad apple” and casting them away. As Brown puts it, “even the most heinous [harms] require a way home” for the person who caused harm– meaning, an opportunity for rehabilitation and reintegration, not permanent banishment. While our case might not even involve harm, the principle still applies: if we had a truly problematic member, the response should be a path to accountability and change, not summary excommunication (except in truly extreme cases). And if we have a falsely accused member, the community owes them a path to restoration and apology.

Another pillar is restraint – specifically, emotional and communicative restraint. This may sound counterintuitive in cultures that encourage us to “speak our truth” and prize emotional honesty. Certainly, we do not want to return to repressive norms where people silently endure abuse. But some balance is needed: not every feeling needs to be broadcast or validated as objective truth. There is wisdom in pause. The Quakers, known for intentional community practices, have a saying: “Proceed as way opens” – encouraging a slow, spirit-guided approach to action. We might translate that to conflict: “Proceed when clarity opens.” In practical terms, communities can normalize waiting before reacting. If someone is triggered and wants to send an accusatory email or make a public call-out, the community norm could be: take 24 hours, talk to a designated confidant (ideally someone trained in conflict resolution, who will neither fuel your fire nor dismiss you), and consider constructive options. This built-in pause guards against the instantaneous group chaos we see online and increasingly in in-person spaces. It’s an antidote to the rapid spread of the projection narrative. Restraint also means resisting the urge to gossip – to not pass on one-sided information without verification. For those who hear a grievance, restraint might mean listening compassionately without immediately agreeing that “yes, it must be as you say.” It could involve gently asking, “Have you spoken to them? Would you like support to do so? There might be another side here.” These responses require a level of personal ethical development – having the courage to not simply appease a friend’s every emotional impulse, but to stand for fairness and truth even when it’s uncomfortable. It’s about principle over loyalty, or rather a deeper kind of loyalty: loyalty to the well-being of the whole community, including the person not present in the room. In expanded relationality, one is a friend not just in the sense of personal affection, but in the sense of being a friend to the truth and to all involved. This resonates with the teachings of many abolitionist and decolonial writers who stress interdependence. In Indigenous philosophies, for instance, there is the concept that “All My Relations” includes those you may not personally like – the circle of community is broader than individual preference, and everyone has a place if they uphold communal values. Thus, you restrain the ego’s knee-jerk reactions out of respect for that larger relational field.

Governance adherence is another crucial ingredient. As discussed, lack of structure enables power imbalances and covert attacks. So, communities must explicitly agree on processes – and then actually stick to them. If the agreed process is “don’t spread accusations; bring them to the council,” then the community has to gently correct members who start going off-book. This requires leadership – which can be rotating or collective, but someone (or some committee) has to have the role of upholding process. In a horizontalist culture, this can be tricky, because people often resist anything that feels like authority. But remember Freeman’s warning: avoiding formal structure just lets informal, unaccountable authority reign. It is far better to have a transparent conflict resolution committee than to let a friendship clique dictate outcomes. Adhering to governance also means being willing to confront those who, under the banner of being “marginalized” or “traumatized,” engage in destructive behaviour like character assassination. Progressive spaces sometimes give a pass to someone causing harm if that person claims a marginalized identity or victim status, because members fear being seen as insensitive. However, true justice inside a community means everyone is held to the standards of honesty, respect, and due process. It means having the integrity to say, for example, “We take your trauma seriously, but we cannot condone spreading unverified accusations. Let’s get to the bottom of this in a fair way.” The community needs the moral backbone to enforce its norms evenly. This also protects genuinely vulnerable individuals in the long run, because it ensures conflicts are resolved with clarity rather than left to fester or explode. By following good governance, the community can avoid many projection games from getting out of hand in the first place.

Finally, an expanded relational approach encourages constant practice of engaging one’s blind spots. We all have blind spots – implicit biases, unresolved issues, ingrained habits – that affect how we see others. In the projection scenario, the younger member’s blind spots included their own trauma triggers and perhaps unconscious racial bias; the group’s blind spots included their bias toward believing the person they felt closer to, and their lack of awareness of informal power cliques. To prevent such distortions, communities can foster a culture of feedback and learning. This might look like regular group dialogues about power and bias, training in recognizing microaggressions and manipulations, and encouraging individuals to seek feedback on how they come across. Martin advises that one of the safest ways to learn about your own possibly difficult behaviour is to ask trusted friends for candid feedback – but crucially, do it in a way that makes it easy for them to be honest. For instance, someone might say, “I sense I reacted strongly in that meeting; did it seem proportionate to you?” or “I worry I might be unfairly harsh on X; do you see something I’m missing?” These are vulnerable questions that require humility. If community members at all levels practice this kind of self-inquiry, it normalizes not knowing everything about oneself. It then isn’t seen as disgraceful to admit, “I realized I projected onto you, I’m sorry,” or “I had a bias I wasn’t aware of.” In a way, this is practicing the opposite of what projection does. Projection externalizes one’s own flaws onto others; engaging your blind spots is about internalizing – looking within to claim your own flaws so you don’t dump them on others. Groups can even agree on language to call each other in: for example, if someone is going on a tirade about another person, a friend or facilitator might interject, “Can we pause and check if any shadow projection might be happening here? Are we certain this interpretation is accurate, or could it reflect something in us?” Far from being an attack, this kind of question can be framed as a compassionate invitation to deeper analysis. It echoes the practice in some indigenous circles of having a designated “truth-teller” or elder who intervenes when group discourse is veering off course. In our modern activist context, it might be a skilled mediator or just any member who’s cultivated the courage to lovingly challenge the group when needed.

In conclusion, a community that achieves this expanded form of relationality – rooted in accountability, restraint, ethical commitment, structure, and self-reflection – will be far less susceptible to the projection game. Conflicts will still happen (they always do), and trauma will still echo (healing is ongoing), but these conflicts will be met with conscious processes rather than unconscious theatre. Instead of a spiral of triangulation and scapegoating, there can be a spiral of learning and repair. Abolitionist thinkers remind us that abolishing unjust systems isn’t only about the external world, but also about abolishing the punitive, domination-based impulses in ourselves and our groups. Queer and feminist thinkers show that building a liberatory future requires us to grapple with the “messy” emotions and power dynamics in our own spaces, not pretend they don’t exist. Decolonial voices urge us to unlearn the colonial habits of othering and disposing of people, and to re-learn community in a way that honours every individual’s complexity and capacity to grow. By embracing these lessons, intentional communities can transform these recurring projection dramas into opportunities: opportunities to practice what they preach, to strengthen trust through truth, and to ensure that no one – neither the originally vulnerable nor the falsely accused – is unjustly cast out.

Such a community moves from being a false family (one that demands superficial harmony and sacrifices members to maintain it) to being a true community – one where love and justice are intertwined. In a true community, people don’t have to be best friends to work together in respect. Conflict isn’t feared or hidden; it’s faced with courage and compassion. Power isn’t a shadow whisper network; it’s acknowledged and checked by collective agreements. And members strive not for the comfort of always feeling right, but for the growth that comes from being willing to be wrong and to make amends. This is, no doubt, an ideal to work towards rather than a state one magically reaches. But every time a group chooses dialogue over demonization, process over impulse, and understanding over projection, they are practicing the world they want to see. In that world, the projection game has no reward – because a problem raised in good faith will be met by empathy and discernment, and a concern raised in bad faith or confusion will be met by patience, gentle truth-testing, and a path to clarity. The imagined elder and younger in our story could then find themselves not in a melodrama of villain and victim, but in a real conversation, backed by a caring community that holds them both in a container of safety and accountability. That is the kind of relationality that sustains movements and heals broken bonds – a relationality expansive enough to include all our relations, even the parts of ourselves we’d rather project away.

References

1. Brian Martin (2001). “Activists and ‘difficult people.’” Social Anarchism, no. 30, pp. 27-47.

2. Anthea Lawson (2019). “Activists don’t need to be so off-putting.” openDemocracy, 25 June 2019.

3. Ruby Hamad (2018). “How white women use strategic tears to silence women of colour.” The Guardian, 7 May 2018.

4. Tema Okun et al. (2021). “White Supremacy Culture – Right to Comfort & Fear of Conflict.”WhiteSupremacyCulture.info.

5. Stephen B. Karpman (1968). Karpman Drama Triangle – Transactional Analysis Bulletin (via Wikipedia summary, accessed Nov 2025).

6. Sara Ahmed (2004). “Affective Economies.” Social Text, vol. 22, no. 2, pp. 117-139.

7. Jo Freeman (1972). “The Tyranny of Structurelessness.”

8. Sarah Schulman (2016). Conflict Is Not Abuse: Overstating Harm, Community Responsibility, and the Duty of Repair. (Arsenal Pulp Press).

9. Adrienne Maree Brown (2020). We Will Not Cancel Us: And Other Dreams of Transformative Justice. (AK Press).