In the 1960s, Stephen Karpman introduced the Drama Triangle, later popularized in Co-Dependents Anonymous communities. It names three roles we slip into reflexively in dysfunctional dynamics: Victim, Rescuer, and Persecutor.

The Victim feels powerless.
The Rescuer tries to fix or save.
The Persecutor criticizes or controls.

In a codependent relationship system (whether that is with other humans or with systems, behaviors, institutions, etc.), people move through all three. Victimhood can make someone else feel purposeful as a rescuer, and when rescuing fails, frustration can flip that same person into the persecutor role. Exhaustion can then return them to victimhood. Around and around it goes.

It’s tempting to treat the triangle as something other people live in, but in my observation, very few of us are completely outside it. Perhaps we are collectively hooked.

The Victim offers moral innocence. The Rescuer gives purpose and worth. The Persecutor grants the illusion of power. These rewards are strong. Even when the roles create suffering, they feel familiar. Many cultural narratives, from politics to media to spiritual spaces, run on this triangle like a hidden power grid. We love to fight against, stand up for, or save. It gives us a clear role to play. As humans we like things to be defined and prescribed.

But you see, to keep our chosen role, we need others to stay in theirs. Rescuers need victims. Victims need persecutors. Persecutors need someone to blame. Much of this happens beneath the surface. We tell ourselves we are helping or defending, and sometimes we are. Real problems and real suffering exist. But alongside them, sometimes there is loyalty to the drama itself. A part of us, still unhealed, feels safest when the triangle stays intact. It offers orientation and identity, letting us rehearse old wounds in new costumes.

I include myself here. I’ve played each role more times than I can count. My history, education, and privilege shape how easily I step into the triangle and which roles feel most natural. The point is not judgment, but clarity. To notice where we keep the loop alive.

Stepping out of the triangle (or really, stepping into the center and surrendering to stillness) often means sitting with ambiguity, discomfort, and not knowing. It’s less thrilling, less righteous, less electric. Quieter. But it’s there that genuine change begins.

What if our attachment to drama is largely because, as humans still healing, the triangle itself meets deeper emotional needs? The tender question is this: What if victimhood, rescuing, and persecuting are ways we keep belonging, keep feeling significant, and keep avoiding the vulnerable, quiet spaces transformation requires?