Tag: accountability

“Your Triggers Aren’t My Problem!”

Posted in identity, language, morality, perception, philosophy, politics, power, psychology, societyTagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , Leave a comment

…except, sometimes they are.

This came across my feed, the laminated wisdom of our times: Your triggers are your responsibility. It isn’t the world’s obligation to tiptoe around you. A phrase so crisp, so confident, it practically struts. You can imagine it on a mug, alongside slogans like Live, Laugh, Gaslight. These are the language games I love to hate.

Now, there’s a certain truth here. Life is hard, and people aren’t psychic. We can’t reasonably expect the world to read our mental weather reports—50% chance of anxiety, rising storms of existential dread. In an adult society, we are responsible for understanding our own emotional terrain, building the bridges and detours that allow us to navigate it. That’s called resilience, and it’s a good thing.

Audio: NotebookLM Podcast on this topic.

But (and it’s a big but) this maxim becomes far less admirable when you scratch at its glossy surface. What does triggers even mean here? Because trigger is a shape-shifter, what I term Shrödinger’s Weasels. For someone with PTSD, a trigger is not a metaphor; it’s a live wire. It’s a flashback to trauma, a visceral hijacking of the nervous system. That’s not just “feeling sensitive” or “taking offence”—it’s a different universe entirely.

Yet, the word has been kidnapped by the cultural peanut gallery, drained of precision and applied to everything from discomfort to mild irritation. Didn’t like that movie? Triggered. Uncomfortable hearing about your privilege? Triggered. This semantic dilution lets people dodge accountability. Now, when someone names harm—racism, misogyny, homophobia, you name it—the accused can throw up their hands and say, Well, that’s your problem, not mine.

And there’s the rub. The neat simplicity of Your triggers are your responsibility allows individuals to dress their cruelty as stoic rationality. It’s not their job, you see, to worry about your “feelings.” They’re just being honest. Real.

Except, honesty without compassion isn’t noble; it’s lazy. Cruelty without self-reflection isn’t courage; it’s cowardice. And rejecting someone’s very real pain because you’re too inconvenienced to care? Well, that’s not toughness—it’s emotional illiteracy.

Let’s be clear: the world shouldn’t have to tiptoe. But that doesn’t mean we’re free to stomp. If someone’s discomfort stems from bigotry, prejudice, or harm, then dismissing them as “too sensitive” is gaslighting, plain and simple. The right to swing your fist, as the old adage goes, ends at someone else’s nose. Likewise, the right to be “brutally honest” ends when your honesty is just brutality.

The truth is messy, as most truths are. Some triggers are absolutely our responsibility—old wounds, minor slights, bruised egos—and expecting the world to cushion us is neither reasonable nor fair. But if someone names harm that points to a broader problem? That’s not a trigger. That’s a mirror.

So yes, let’s all take responsibility for ourselves—our pain, our growth, our reactions. But let’s also remember that real strength is found in the space where resilience meets accountability. Life isn’t about tiptoeing or stomping; it’s about walking together, with enough care to watch where we step.

Banality of Evil

Posted in anarchism, economics, healthcare, identity, language, morality, philosophy, power, societyTagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , Leave a comment

I thought I was done wittering on about Brian Thompson, the late CEO of United Healthcare, but here we are. His name lingers like the corporate perfume of systemic rot—an enduring testament to how we’ve elevated unethical behaviour into performance art. It got me thinking: what if we brought back a bit of old-school accountability? In Ancient Rome, outlaws lost their citizenship, legal protections, and status as people. That’s right—booted out of polite society. Meanwhile, we’ve done the opposite: we hand out golden parachutes and slap their faces on business magazine covers.

To some, Brian Thompson was a good man – apart from the insider trading, of course. He was successful, a nice guy, funny, and had a good family, and a few million-dollar homes. What else could you ask for? But his success came in the way of blood money. It seems we need fewer people who think like this, not more.

Then I recalled The Purge franchise. And sure, The Purge is a dystopian fantasy, but let’s up the stakes. Picture this: bounties on corporate villains. Not literal carnage, of course—let’s leave that for the big screen—but the return of real consequences. Instead of allowing their PR teams to smooth it all over with buzzwords and philanthropy crumbs, what if we made it socially unacceptable to be a snake in a suit? What if moral suasion—the lost art of persuading someone to do right because it’s, you know, right—actually came back into fashion?

Nietzsche nailed it ages ago. We’ve got two moral codes: one for people and one for money. And guess which one wins every time? All it takes is enough cash and the right rhetoric, and suddenly, everyone forgets who’s really getting fleeced. This is the banality of evil in its purest form: not grand acts of villainy but a shrugging normalisation of corruption. We don’t even consider it corruption. We see it as business as usual. We support and work for these businesses.

The tragedy is that we’ve become so desensitised to it that we are adept at ignoring the stench of moral failure that even calling it out feels quaint. But it’s not hopeless. Some of us still notice. Some of us still care. The real question is, how long can we keep tolerating this farce before we remember that morality isn’t just for the powerless?

Meantime, I just imagine these grubbers being stripped of power and protection, running scared from the likes of Luigi Mangioni.

Apologies

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Apologies. The sacred cow of social rituals. We’re told they’re essential—an ego on its knees, a ritual cleansing of the proverbial moral ledger. And yet, for all their lofty promises of redemption and relationship mending, aren’t apologies just glorified public relations exercises?

If you don’t like my position, I apologise. This is my response to Philosophy Minis, a channel I follow.

The philosophical breakdown you provide is charmingly earnest: admit guilt, promise reform, and repair the damage. It sounds good, doesn’t it? But let’s not kid ourselves—this is an ideal that seldom leaves the page. In practice, apologies are often nothing more than a performance. The “I’m sorry if you took offense” genre is merely the tip of the iceberg; the whole construct is a social mirage, designed more to shield the offender than to restore the wronged.

Take the idea that a “good” apology must paint the apologizer as a villain. In the real world, does that happen? Rarely. Instead, we get the watered-down version—a careful choreography of noncommittal contrition, crafted to absolve the perpetrator while barely acknowledging the harm. It’s the politician’s bread and butter: “I made a mistake” becomes code for “I’m not actually sorry, but my PR team says I should say something.” Serial apologists thrive on this economy of empty gestures, repeating offences with impunity, because they know the script will always offer them an escape hatch.

Then there’s the supposed promise of change—“I will try my best not to do this again.” Admirable in theory, utterly laughable in execution. Actions speak louder than words, but apologies, divorced from tangible behavioural shifts, speak volumes about their futility. The self-flagellation of guilt is easy; reform is hard. The apology may declare, “This is not who I want to be,” but the track record often screams, “This is exactly who I am, and I’ll see you here next week.”

And let’s not forget the crowning jewel of the apology trilogy: relationship repair. The idea that an apology rebuilds bridges is as idealistic as it is naive. True repair requires more than words; it demands effort, time, and trust—not the performative recitation of a three-step apology handbook. Worse, the insistence on a good apology as a relationship panacea risks shifting the burden onto the harmed party. If they don’t forgive, they’re the villain. Apologies weaponized as moral obligations are nothing short of emotional coercion.

Even the social utility of apologies feels overstated. Sure, children may warm to those who apologise, but is this truly evidence of moral profundity, or just a reflection of our preference for surface-level niceties? If anything, our societal obsession with apologies perpetuates the illusion that words can magically undo harm. This is a comforting narrative for offenders, but it does little for the offended.

Ultimately, apologies are not the noble moral endeavour they are so often made out to be. At best, they are flawed attempts at social cohesion; at worst, they are phatic placeholders that substitute genuine accountability with a hollow facsimile. Before we canonise the “good apology,” perhaps we ought to ask whether its real purpose is to humble the ego—or to let it off the hook entirely.