The Devil Wears Merch

From faux activism to trauma-mining, a look at how a radical counterculture turned into a corporate playground for predatory egos.

Photo by Максим Власенко on Unsplash

There’s a special kind of slow-burn disappointment that comes from watching something you once loved just… lose its spark.

For a while, modern Satanism felt genuinely exciting. If you grew up queer, or neurodivergent, or stuck in a suffocatingly religious home, finding a group that dressed in black, championed personal autonomy, and told the Christian Right to buzz off really did feel like finally finding your people. This was supposed to be the big outpost for nonconformists—a haven for misfits and a smart, rational stand against old power structures.

But you look around at the big Satanic groups now, and that rebellious spirit just isn’t there anymore. It’s been hollowed out, leaving behind a mess of corporate vibes, online scams, pointless stunts, and ugly power trips.

What used to be sold as a force for real rebellion has just become another brand—chasing merch sales, mining people’s pain, and circling the wagons around bad actors. Honestly? Modern Satanism traded freedom for internet points.

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We’ve all seen those headlines. They’re perfect for grabbing attention, almost begging you to click. There’s a huge, horned Baphomet statue rolling onto a statehouse lawn. An “After School Satan Club” pops up to challenge the local Christian group. Someone files a lawsuit claiming religious freedom to defend abortion rights.

At first glance, it looks like bold, important activism. On Twitter or wherever, these stories explode—you want to retweet that so badly, maybe even toss a few bucks their way. But if you hang around to see how things really play out, it gets pretty depressing.

This stuff isn’t genuine activism. Sure, they get loads of media coverage and donations, but when these cases hit the courts, they usually don’t get far. Lawsuits get tossed. The reporters move on.

And the local communities left in the wake of these media circuses? They are the ones who have to deal with the heightened right-wing backlash, while the national organization retreats back to headquarters with a fresh wave of digital donations. It turns activism into a subscription model, where you buy a sense of rebellious righteousness without ever having to do the messy, unglamorous work of actual grassroots organizing.

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Satanism tends to draw people who’ve been hurt most by the status quo—like survivors of religious abuse, LGBTQ+ folks who’ve been kicked out by their families, or just anyone who never quite fit in. Ideally, a space outside the mainstream would be a place where everyone could start to heal together. But things don’t always work out like that. Instead, in a world that rewards grifters, your vulnerability gets treated like something to exploit.

That’s where the “trauma clout” economy comes in. Modern Satanic communities now have a weird, toxic undercurrent—people feel pressured to showcase their trauma. It’s not enough to process what you’ve survived; you’ve got to make your pain visible, almost as currency. And so-called leaders? They take it a step further. They’ll use the real suffering of their followers as a shield against criticism.

Try calling out a big Satanic group for shady finances or messy management, and you hardly ever get a clear response. Instead, leaders deflect: “How can you attack us? We’re the only ones fighting for survivors of religious trauma. You must be siding with the bad guys.”

By pitching themselves as the ultimate defenders of the wounded and marginalized, they build this fortress you can’t easily criticize. They end up using the genuine pain of others to boost their own position—turning honest trauma into a kind of political and financial insulation. It’s messed up, honestly.

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The hardest thing to watch as this subculture falls apart is how predators slip in, all while pretending they’re champions of “radical liberation.” Since Satanism breaks so sharply from any kind of traditional or puritan morality, it ends up attracting guys who see the philosophy as a stage to grab power and pressure others, especially sexually.

You see the same kind of guys in alternative wellness circles—the so-called “Tantra Bros” or those “woke guru” types who act like pseudo-feminists. They pick up all the right buzzwords about bodily autonomy and radical freedom, then twist them around to get what they want.

Predatory behavior gets a fresh coat of paint in spaces like this.

Set a boundary? Suddenly, you’re accused of clinging to “Christian guilt” or having hang-ups you need to shed.

Get manipulated by a leader? They chalk it up to “individual will” or some self-mastery lesson you’re supposed to learn from.

Speak up about a leader’s bad behavior? Now you’re just someone who can’t handle “radical energy” or whatever term they want to throw at you.

So, again and again, you get the same ugly story: powerful men taking advantage of followers, protected by the very ideas that were supposed to set those followers free.

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Honestly, it’s hard to admit, but a lot of modern Satanism just got stuck chasing attention. The movement attracted people who love the image of rebellion, yet most aren’t ready—or just don’t want—to actually put in the work to create safe, decent communities.

Take away the drama—the costumes, the flashy symbols, and all the merch—and what’s left really isn’t that groundbreaking. It feels more like some ego-driven pyramid scheme than a real challenge to the status quo. That’s the classic truth about people: flashy symbols don’t mean much if there’s zero transparency, no accountability, and nobody’s humble. Skip those, and you’ve just created a new space for the same old monsters.