Conservatism Is for Losers

The political right is full of self-sabotaging people

I. The Strange Appeal of Defeat

Like a prizefighter who shadowboxes in an empty gym, the American right often appears more interested in the motions of conflict than in the achievement of victory. It talks of restoration, strength, and national pride, yet backs leaders who fail to deliver results, build institutions, or secure lasting influence. A strange pattern emerges—not of accidental defeat, but of chronic self-defeat.

This is not the result of lack of opportunity. The right has, in many moments, held the reins of power. It has commanded majorities in Congress, held governorships, controlled school boards, and occupied the White House. And yet, the culture it claims to defend continues to decay, the institutions it swears to protect continue to erode, and the people who entrusted it with power are no better off than before. This is not a coincidence. It is a symptom.

A young man recently stood in front of a city hall in rural America, clutching a flag and raging about lost values. He had no plan, no allies, no roadmap—only indignation. He believed he was part of something noble. But he was not a builder. He was an echo. And echoes do not change the world. They only remind it of what is gone.

To lose once is misfortune. To lose repeatedly, with no adjustment, is pathology. The right has, in many places, stopped fighting to win. It has embraced the romance of resistance, and like all romantics, it confuses passion with effectiveness.

II. Owning the Libs Is Not a Governing Strategy

A bumper sticker slogan is not a blueprint for governance. Yet much of the modern right has come to believe that the apex of political action lies in humiliating its opponents online. Viral videos, sarcastic tweets, and insult-laden rants have become substitutes for policy. The goal is not to persuade or reform, but to provoke a reaction. And the louder the outcry from the left, the greater the perceived victory.

But the truth is that this approach does not shift power. It burns time, attention, and credibility while producing no durable result. A school district remains captured by progressive ideologues no matter how many memes are shared. A corporate boardroom does not lose its grip because a podcast episode got ten million listens. These performances, no matter how emotionally satisfying, are political theater without a script for change.

There is something hollow in watching a movement define success by how angry it can make its enemies. It is the strategy of the powerless—those who no longer believe they can build, so instead they jeer. Those who once had plans for a nation now settle for punching down at campus protesters or celebrity activists, as if these targets were the true levers of society.

A governing movement must take on responsibility, not merely ridicule. It must understand how power works and what it takes to claim and hold it. Until then, it will remain what it has become in too many places—a heckler in the gallery, not a speaker on the floor.

III. Pride in Powerlessness

There is a kind of pride that festers in defeat. It begins as a coping mechanism and ends as an identity. Among many on the right, this has hardened into a belief that being out of power is a mark of virtue—that to be marginalized is to be pure, that to win is somehow to be compromised. This moralizing of failure has become a refuge from the hard disciplines of politics.

In the churches and town halls of the interior, you will find men and women who wear their alienation from mainstream institutions like a medal. They speak of universities, corporations, media outlets, and even the military as foreign empires. And in many cases, they are not wrong. These institutions have become unrecognizable to those who built and once trusted them. But instead of setting out to rebuild parallel systems, the response has too often been retreat.

Powerlessness becomes a performance. Movements that once sought to shape the country now define themselves by how little they are allowed to touch it. They mistake exclusion for righteousness, as if political exile were evidence of faithfulness. And so they turn inward, reinforce their victimhood, and mock the very idea of returning to the centers of power.

But governing requires entry. It requires the unglamorous work of negotiation, administration, and persistence. It requires showing up in rooms where decisions are made. When a movement treats every institution as irredeemable, it forfeits the chance to influence any of them. And in doing so, it ensures the permanence of its defeat.

IV. Sabotage Disguised as Purity

Among the ranks of the right, there is a recurring pattern that has crippled every promising effort to regain influence: the reflex to purge. Anyone who shows skill, pragmatism, or the ability to work across lines is met not with support, but with suspicion. Accusations of being a “sellout,” a “traitor,” or insufficiently pure are hurled without restraint. And so, talented leaders are driven out, leaving behind a circle of ideologues who agree on everything—except how to win.

This obsession with purity is dressed in noble language. It claims to defend principle. It insists on consistency. But in practice, it behaves like a trap. It prevents compromise, poisons alliances, and guarantees that no coalition is ever stable for long. Movements split, campaigns implode, and promising figures are torn down before they can even act.

In one county-level organization, a group of volunteers had managed to take control of a local school board. They faced an entrenched bureaucracy and needed public backing to enact changes. Instead, they turned on each other. One member was ousted for attending a bipartisan dinner. Another was accused of harboring secret liberal sympathies because he quoted Lincoln. Within a year, the board was back in old hands—and the community, demoralized.

Political movements that sabotage their own do not remain movements for long. They become rituals of self-immolation. True strength lies in building a vessel that can carry many kinds of people, bound by shared direction. The right cannot afford to eat its own and expect to lead a nation.

V. The Cult of Martyrdom

There is comfort in being wronged. It offers a sense of purpose without the burden of action. Many on the right have come to treat political martyrdom as a destination, not a danger. They seek it. They dramatize it. They build entire identities around the idea that they are constantly under siege. Every lost election, every media slight, every canceled speech is presented as proof of their righteousness.

This mindset may inspire defiance, but it does not inspire progress. A people obsessed with being victims cannot also be builders. The energy once used to organize, strategize, and govern gets spent on commemorating defeat. Grievance becomes a lifestyle.

In one conservative church, the pastor no longer preached transformation or civic engagement. Instead, he warned weekly of persecution, of rising darkness, of inevitable collapse. The pews were full, but the town around them fell deeper into decay. The members shook their heads at the news but never ran for school board, never built shelters, never took back the neighborhoods they mourned.

This is the logic of the bunker. It looks out from behind sandbags and says, “We held our ground.” But nothing was gained, nothing improved, and no child is safer because of it. Martyrdom may win sympathy. It does not win wars.

To be conservative is to conserve something. That means standing guard—but also taking action. If all energy goes into lamentation, then even the memory of what was once valued will vanish in the smoke.

VI. Incompetence as Identity

It is a strange moment in American politics when failure becomes a badge of honor. Yet within much of the modern right, there is a growing glorification of amateurism. Candidates with no experience are preferred over those with records. Experts are mocked. Professionals are distrusted. The result is a movement that increasingly celebrates its own inability to operate the machinery of governance.

This is not without consequence. Governing a nation is not a game of slogans—it is a discipline. It requires knowledge of law, policy, finance, infrastructure, negotiation. When those skills are dismissed as signs of corruption or elitism, the right ensures its own political impotence.

During a state legislative session, a first-time conservative representative introduced a sweeping education reform bill. He had passion. He had support. But he had no legislative allies, no legal team, and no budget plan. The bill failed before it reached the floor. He blamed the system. But the truth was, he had refused to learn how the system worked.

There is a quiet resentment among some on the right toward competence itself. As if those who study policy, build networks, and manage institutions are somehow less authentic. But movements that cannot manage complexity will never be trusted with power.

To turn things around, the right must recover a respect for skill. It must welcome the architect as well as the agitator, the planner as well as the preacher. Patriotism is not a substitute for ability. It must be joined to it, or it will become a hollow word.

VII. Fantasy Politics and the Cowardice Behind It

In times of confusion, fantasy can be a balm. But when it replaces strategy, it becomes a trap. Too many on the right have fled into imagined realities where secret cabals pull every string, where collapse is always imminent, and where salvation comes not from hard work, but from sudden revelation or divine intervention. These stories relieve people of responsibility. They whisper that nothing can be done—so nothing should be tried.

Fantasy politics is comfortable. It paints the world in absolutes. Every opponent is a villain, every setback is sabotage, and every failure is explained by betrayal. It removes the burden of learning, listening, and adjusting. Most of all, it removes the risk of doing something real and failing.

In a Midwestern district, a local right-wing group turned down a chance to back a serious candidate for mayor. They preferred to focus on hosting documentary screenings and circulating exposés about global conspiracies. They felt enlightened, vigilant, and morally clean. The election came and went. Their town was annexed into a regional plan they had once vowed to resist. No one even noticed.

This is not resistance. It is retreat into narrative. And it reveals a kind of fear—fear of hard choices, fear of complexity, fear of being wrong. Real politics involves risk. It means stepping into uncertain rooms and making compromises that may not feel perfect but move things forward.

The right cannot afford to wait for a savior. It must choose to act in the world that exists, not the one it wishes were real.

VIII. The Business of Losing

Failure has become an industry. There is profit in defeat, and many on the right have learned how to milk it. Every lost election, every new policy outrage, every cultural setback becomes fodder for a newsletter, a podcast, a merchandise drop. Grievance pays. And the people who profit from it have little incentive to win, because victory would end the show.

Look closely, and the pattern becomes unmistakable. A candidate flames out in a primary—within weeks, he’s a guest speaker on the conservative circuit. A pundit is deplatformed—he launches a subscription site promising “the truth they don’t want you to hear.” Millions flow in. But no local seats are flipped, no unions are broken, no laws are changed. The only thing built is an audience.

This is not grassroots. It is a form of entertainment. And it has begun to shape the movement itself. Policy takes a back seat to virality. Strategy bows to spectacle. What matters is who can generate outrage, who can tell the best story of betrayal and collapse. Meanwhile, the institutions of the left grow stronger, more organized, and more confident.

One media figure, who once ran for office, now boasts he would never try again. He makes more money as a commentator. His fans applaud his refusal to “play the game.” But politics is a game. And refusing to play is not a virtue. It’s surrender.

To reclaim its soul, the right must disentangle itself from the machinery of its own outrage. It must learn to build again—not audiences, but victories.

IX. Betrayal of the Capable

A healthy movement recognizes and rewards talent. It lifts up its builders, its thinkers, its strategists. But on much of today’s right, excellence is met with mistrust. Those who show vision are labeled egotists. Those who display competence are accused of ambition. And those who try to professionalize operations are dismissed as sellouts or infiltrators. The result is a movement that bleeds its best people.

Again and again, one observes a pattern: a capable young organizer tries to modernize a local party. She streamlines messaging, builds donor relationships, and recruits volunteers. But her efforts draw envy. Accusations begin. She’s too polished. Too intellectual. Too connected. Within months, she’s isolated—and gone. What remains is the old guard, proud of its moral certitude, and entirely unprepared to win the next election.

This dynamic repels the very people needed for revival. Artists find no home. Intellectuals are cast out. Entrepreneurs are seen as suspect. The right has developed a culture of internal sabotage, where mediocrity feels like safety and distinction is mistaken for betrayal.

It wasn’t always this way. The conservative movement once attracted statesmen, scholars, architects, poets. It cultivated a canon. It debated with rigor. It built coalitions across class and creed. It valued the long game.

To recover that spirit, the right must break its habit of cannibalizing its finest. It must invite back the builders, the planners, the makers—and give them room to lead. A movement that punishes excellence will never achieve it. And without excellence, power is brief, and progress impossible.

X. The Dangers of Sentimentalism

Nostalgia is a poor substitute for direction. Yet the right has grown addicted to it. Instead of crafting a future, it clings to memories of the past—glorious, simplified, and untouchable. The Founding Fathers. The Greatest Generation. The postwar boom. These become icons not of inspiration, but of escape. They are invoked to mourn, not to model.

This sentimentalism distorts priorities. Rather than ask what institutions must be built to secure the next century, many ask how the present can be made to resemble a lost era. Flags are waved. Speeches echo with the tones of old campaigns. But the country has changed. And nostalgia, however comforting, does not govern a living nation.

One community group spent years organizing Fourth of July parades, complete with antique uniforms and military hymns. They drew crowds and stirred emotion. But when the local school curriculum shifted radically, they had no infrastructure to respond. No one had run for the board. No legal challenges were prepared. No alternative materials had been drafted. They had honored the past—and lost the present.

Tradition should be a root, not a cage. It gives strength when it feeds new growth. But when it becomes sentimentalism, it turns brittle. A movement that speaks of Burke and Jefferson must also produce new philosophers, new statesmen, new builders who carry the work forward.

The future will not be inherited—it must be made. If the right wants to lead again, it must stop polishing relics and start forging tools.

XI. What a Winning Right Would Look Like

A right that wins does not complain. It coordinates. It does not idolize the outsider. It trains insiders. It does not spend its energy diagnosing decline. It builds institutions that outlast the storm. The shift is not cosmetic—it is cultural. Victory begins with a change in temperament.

A winning right values competence over spectacle. It respects those who master law, finance, media, and education. It seeks out governors, not gadflies. It cultivates lawyers, not influencers. It equips its members to enter contested spaces and hold their ground. This requires humility—an acknowledgment that passion alone is not enough.

In one southern county, a coalition of conservative parents created a shadow school board. They studied the rules. They mapped decision points. They trained candidates, drafted policies, and prepared for resistance. Within three election cycles, they controlled the board. Within five, they had reshaped the curriculum. It was not flashy. It was not dramatic. But it worked.

A winning right rewards discipline. It tolerates disagreement in pursuit of shared goals. It creates room for artists, engineers, craftsmen, and statesmen—those who think long-term. It learns to talk less about what it hates and more about what it intends to preserve.

This is not utopia. It is work. And work requires structure, sacrifice, and a clear sense of what matters. The romanticism of losing must give way to the realism of leadership. Because those who cannot govern themselves will never be trusted to govern others.

XII. A Call to Grow Up

If the right wishes to be more than a mood, it must grow up. It must stop mistaking outrage for strength and victimhood for virtue. The hard truth is that maturity—not militancy—is the foundation of power. And maturity means taking responsibility for results, not merely intentions.

It begins with a new posture. Not flinching from complexity. Not retreating into grievance. Not tearing down every leader who attempts reform. It means learning the rules, showing up early, staying late, and keeping the long view. It means letting go of the adolescent thrill of being the rebel, and embracing the sober calling of being the steward.

The habits of defeat are deep. But they are not unbreakable. They can be unlearned—by rebuilding trust, by welcoming talent, by setting clear goals, and by rewarding those who pursue them with discipline. The culture of complaint must be replaced with a culture of competence. The myth of the doomed hero must be buried and replaced with the example of the responsible builder.

A young man once told me he was proud to be hated by the establishment. He wore it like a badge. But he had never built a coalition, never passed a motion, never won an election. Hatred, it turns out, is cheap. It takes no courage to be disliked. But it takes vision to be followed, and it takes endurance to lead.

If the right seeks to matter again, it must leave behind the drama of decline and take up the quiet labor of rebuilding.