The Complexity of Moral Rigidity

Why do I judge those who harm others so harshly, yet feel only empathy for those who harm themselves? This tension in my moral framework feels intuitive, but the more I examine it, the less clear it becomes.

Harm turned outward—exploiting gifts to hurt others or serve only oneself—triggers a visceral reaction in me. It feels like a betrayal, not just of others but of something sacred about the gifts themselves. And yet, when harm is turned one’s own self, when someone’s choices erode their own well-being, whether through neglect, despair, or unprocessed pain, I feel no judgment. I feel only grief, curiosity, and a desire to understand.

Moral frameworks, no matter how instinctive, rarely fit cleanly into the messy realities of human behavior. The line between outward harm and harm of self is thinner than it seems—and it bends under closer scrutiny.

Judgment, Empathy, and Power

Judgment often feels like a tool for accountability. It draws a boundary, declares a wrong, and holds someone responsible for the harm they cause. But accountability without curiosity risks becoming something else: rigidity.

Judgment is rarely neutral. It often carries the weight of personal history, shaped by our experiences of harm and fairness. When someone hurts us, judgment can feel like a way to reclaim power, to assert control in a situation where we once felt powerless. In those moments, harshness feels justified, even necessary—but it also shifts the dynamic. The act of judging positions us above the person being judged, reinforcing our own moral authority.

This raises an uncomfortable question: Is judgment always about fairness, or is it sometimes a way to protect ourselves from vulnerability? And if judgment can reposition power, does it also risk reinforcing the very dynamics we seek to challenge?

Empathy, in contrast, softens those boundaries. It seeks understanding rather than dominance. When I witness harm of self, I don’t feel the need to position myself above; I feel drawn to connect. This difference in my reactions isn’t just about harm—it’s about power.

Perhaps this is where my moral rigidity falters. Outward harm feels like an abuse of power, while harm of self feels like powerlessness. But both are expressions of pain, and both ripple outward in ways that are easy to overlook.

The Ripple Effect of Harm

No harm exists in isolation. Harm of self, though seemingly contained, often impacts others in profound ways. Outward harm, too, often stems from inward struggles: trauma, insecurity, and unresolved pain.

Even justified harshness ripples outward. When we judge someone for their harm, it doesn’t just hold them accountable—it also reshapes how we see ourselves. Was the harshness about justice, or was it about protecting ourselves from further harm? These questions are uncomfortable but necessary. They reveal how harm and power are always entangled, shaping not only our relationships but our own moral frameworks.

The ripple effects of harm are particularly charged when power is involved, as this carries an implicit responsibility. The person who misuses their power to exploit others may be driven by the same forces that lead someone else to harm themselves. What looks like cruelty in one context may stem from despair in another.

This doesn’t erase accountability, but it complicates the picture. It asks us to hold harm and its roots together, even when they seem to point in opposite directions.

Gifts and Responsibility

There’s something uniquely charged about the idea of gifts—abilities, resources, or positions of power that carry an implicit moral responsibility. To waste a gift feels tragic; to weaponize it feels unforgivable.

This is why I find myself reacting so strongly to people who use their gifts for harm. It feels like a betrayal not just of others but of the potential those gifts represent. But this framework, too, can become rigid. It assumes that people with gifts always have the capacity to use them responsibly, that their failings reflect malice rather than limitation.

The ripple effects of misusing gifts often mirror other forms of harm. For example, someone in a position of power who manipulates others might be acting from a place of unresolved fear or insecurity, just as someone who wastes their gifts through harm of self might be acting from despair. Both reflect a kind of disconnection from the purpose those gifts were meant to serve.

What if the misuse of gifts is, in itself, a kind of harm of self? What if it reflects a loss of connection to something deeper, a potential that has been eclipsed by pain or fear?

Rethinking Moral Rigidity

My moral rigidity has served me in many ways. It’s helped me set boundaries, hold others accountable, and protect myself from harm. But it has also blinded me to complexity. It assumes clear lines where none exist and reinforces a binary view of right and wrong.

Accountability and empathy are often framed as opposites, but they are better understood as complements. Accountability names harm; empathy seeks its roots. Together, they allow for a moral framework that is both firm and flexible—one that holds space for complexity without losing its integrity.

Curiosity, in this sense, is not a retreat from accountability—it is its ally. By asking questions, by exploring the roots of harm, we create space for accountability to grow beyond punishment and into understanding.

An Invitation to Curiosity

Ultimately, my discomfort with judgment is less about the people I judge and more about the questions I’m afraid to ask: What does harm truly look like? Where does it begin and end? And how do I reconcile my need for accountability with my capacity for empathy?

What if, the next time I felt the pull of judgment, I paused to ask: What power am I protecting here? What might curiosity reveal instead?

Perhaps the most radical act is not to abandon judgment but to meet it with curiosity. To see harm not as black and white but as a spectrum of experience shaped by power, pain, and human fallibility.

This isn’t about excusing harm or erasing boundaries. It’s about holding space for the full complexity of being human—ourselves included.