On the surface, and as the subtitle suggests, this is a book about standing firm to our current outrage culture. Within the pages, however, there are many more lessons offered for living a life of meaning and, obviously, fortitude. Not just fortitude in the face of our cultural weaknesses, but our own personal ones as well. These things are of course interrelated—society is made up of individuals who collectively set cultural trends. But it can be of supreme use to examine each separately, so that we may be better able to understand how they work in conjunction. With chapters like “Who Is Your Hero?” and “Do Something Hard” Crenshaw does exactly that. Once upon a time, life was inherently hard. Suffering was the default, as human beings were perpetually struggling with providing themselves and their loved ones with the base essentials: food, clean water, and shelter and safety from all things perilous. Once we nailed those down, and delivered them en masse, we began to ratchet up our comforts. What we lost along the way was the connection between suffering, the hard work needed to alleviate that suffering, and the sense of purpose that comes from that hard work. We have, in essence, lost our ability to get a sense of meaning out of life. Crenshaw argues that this is a direct cause of our shift in cultural focus towards comfort, both in material things and cultural ideas. The reality is that comfort makes you weak (not inherently, but without an opposing force it reigns supreme) and a mentally weak person is prone to extreme emotional reactions to stimuli. Factor in a media machine that is specifically designed to deliver that stimuli, and outrage is the result. Crenshaw writes: “If you are triggered, it is because you allowed someone else to dictate your emotional state. If you are outraged, it is because you lack discipline and self-control.” He postulates, and I fervently agree, that we must take responsibility for ourselves if we are to constructively contribute to public discourse and society as a whole. He further instill this in a chapter titled: “The Stories We Tell Ourselves.” In the face of failure, Crenshaw brings some important questions to light. Do we ask ourselves: “what could I have done differently?” or “how was I wronged?” Do we ask: “which actions of mine caused this?” or “whose fault was it?” The first set examines self, while the second investigates others. The way in which we frame ourselves in the face of hardship is important because it is the difference between being a victim or a potential victor. Now, no one person is solely a victim or a victor, we are all both; one or the other depending on the context. I’m a victor when I miss a shot on goal, spend focused time practicing to get better, and make the shot the next time. I’m a victim when someone else fouls me before I attempt the shot. This is a simple example for the sake of understanding, but where it gets muddy is when the context is an inherent grey area filled with many opinions, such as cultural ideals or political efforts. The dynamic is even more complex when you factor in group identity. What if, in the face of a political controversy, you don’t feel personally slighted, but your party does? If you contend that the collective should also not feel slighted, you may be expelled. If you assimilate and accept the popular opinion, you sacrifice your own individuality. Both options are hard to choose from. In the United States, where less than half the country participates in voting for our elected officials, is it truly any wonder that the majority is silent? What do we do about our seemingly inability to tolerate others? We practice fortitude.