When walking away is the only rational thing to do
A conversation I had with my brother has kept me deep in thought for most of the day. The truth is, although he’s not known for being patient—at least not with people—this time I think his lack of patience is justified. Some people are just not worth the effort, and that’s that.
I can remember a version of myself that wasn’t very connected to ideologies. I had ideals, which isn’t exactly the same thing, but I didn’t fall neatly into a belief system, nor had I defined my political compass. I’m not going to say I miss those days, although it might sound like I do, because back then I was probably enjoying a kind of bliss born from my own ignorance.
As we know, there’s no way to go back, to press rewind, to unknow things—at least not without blunt force trauma, but that’s another subject entirely. The point is, I’ve reached a stage where I no longer have the energy or the desire to break bread with certain people. I guess that means I’m once again redefining what tolerance means to me.
There’s a type of person I just can’t relate to. We live in different worlds, and we can barely agree on the color of the sky. I try—although I fail sometimes—to put myself in the shoes of people I disagree with. I’ve even arrived at many of my current positions by exploring the other side: their whys, their hows, and the historical baggage humanity carries. I share this so people don’t mistake me for someone who avoids friction at all costs, because that’s certainly not the case.
The truth is, I’m more than willing to have a conversation with someone who operates in honesty, even if we don’t agree. If a person can defend their position without lying or using double standards, I’ll listen. But that’s rarely what happens.
More often than not, the discussion collapses into whataboutisms, projections, and dishonesty. So what’s a man who values his mental peace supposed to do? The only logical conclusion is to walk away—to not engage with those people, and certainly not to break bread with them.
It always comes back to principles. Do we agree on the desired outcome? We can disagree on how to get there, and I’m willing to debate the “how,” but we must at least share the same North Star. Otherwise, what’s the point?
To be specific—because I know I’m speaking vaguely on purpose—if I believe in justice, due process, kindness, mercy, and values I hope most of humanity shares, why would I maintain a friendship with someone who thinks those concepts are irrelevant, or worse, stupid?
The day I found myself explaining why it was wrong to deport a child receiving life-saving cancer treatment was the day I realized I was speaking to someone whose heart I didn’t truly know. If you feel the need to tell me that the parents committed a crime, and therefore the child has to die, I don’t want to hear it. You and I are not the same. And sadly, we can’t be friends.
There’s an idea I find disgusting—the idea that laws are always right, that because the government holds a monopoly on violence, it also has the moral authority to decide what’s right and wrong. How is that something people accept?
It feels like there are two main schools of thought fighting for power. One believes in feeding every child, just in case some are going hungry. The other wants to take away free meals because some kids “don’t deserve them.”
I know which side I’m on. And if you’re on the other side, I can’t follow.
MenO