No 4 – A Story of Judgement

We armor ourselves with certainty and judgment, thinking it keeps us safe. But what if letting go could bring connection instead of distance?

Dear reader,

Just yesterday, I caught myself making a stupid, judgmental joke.
An unconscious moment — words slipping past the gatekeeper of awareness, words that would have been better left unsaid.
They were carefully calibrated so the other person would understand between the lines that I didn’t approve.

It came from that subtle sense of moral superiority — a quick jab, a small sting meant to establish my moral highground. The arrow engraved with familiar words:
“The way you see things is wrong.”
“My way is obviously better.”
And hanging in the air, a faint, unpleasant scent of arrogance.

But then I was called out.
Challenged to look at my own self-importance.
And what can I say — it wasn’t my best day.

Suddenly in the spotlight, I felt the fire I had sent out returning home — singeing the very fabric of my own righteousness.
And I was right, wasn’t I? My arguments sharper, my reasoning sounder, my weapons perfectly polished.
I wasn’t ready to lay down my armor.

The Rider on the High Horse

There I sat — high above, in gleaming armor, the arrows of judgment ready in my quiver.
Each one tipped with the poison of certainty, fletched with the feathers of self-assurance.
From up there, it felt good to be right — to have the clear view, to know what others couldn’t see.

But righteousness is a lonely altitude.

High up on my horse I could barely see my fellow people and for a moment, I could feel my compassion retrace. Armoured up, true connection was impossible.

The unholy kingdom of judgment is a dangerous place.
Everyone is armed — eyes sharp, arrows drawn, hearts barricaded.
Each ready to shoot the next bolt of blame, to burn the flesh of a fellow citizen — anything to avoid the deeper pain of being wrong, being uncertain, being just as clueless as the rest.

The Red Carpet of Being Right

What does it even mean — to be right?
And is that concept, in any shape or form, truly useful for our coexistence?

Everyone wants to be right.
It’s the ultimate kick of approval.
As we ride the red carpet of moral high ground, the applause for our identity armour feels so flattering.
The engravement of our latest argument gleaming under the spotlight, reinforcing the structure of who we believe ourselves to be.

As long as we are surrounded by people with similar taste, all feels safe.
The validation flows, the ego purrs.
From that comfort, it even feels righteous to call others out.
After all, their armour — their worldview — is clearly less refined.

Someone has to say it, right?
We can’t just let them parade around in that monstrosity.

The Bias Beneath the Armor

But clothed in our own shining armor, we are always biased.
Our judgment is never just, our gaze never impartial, our words never neutral.
They are loaded — and, at best, well-meant only to a certain extent.

When I was called out on my judgment, what I felt most sharply was not guilt, but disconnection.
The fiery arrow I had so victoriously released had returned — and torn a hole in the bridge of connection.

Encased in my armor, I felt less and less safe.
Because with judgment comes distance.
Every word that tries to draw a line between right and wrong mostly draws a line between you and me — between my right and your wrong.

And within that circle of judgment echoes a deep, lonely silence.
Righteous and alone, I sat on my high horse for hours, not knowing how to dismount with dignity.
The truth is, there is no graceful way to step down from moral superiority — only a quiet, humbling walk of purification.

The Fire of Judgement

The loneliness suddenly felt worse than losing my ground.
And then curiosity — a well-known companion, an excellent guide through the fields of uncertainty — came to my help.

Humbly, I unmounted my horse and approached my hurt companion with curiosity.
How did this opinion come about?
How did they end up seeing the situation through this particular lens?

The attacks were still ongoing — the battlefields of righteousness, once ignited, cool only slowly.
But the arrow I had sent out with such confidence eventually found its way back — straight into my own heart.
The judgment turned inward.

Judgment is a fire that burns the judge more than the judged.
It sears through connection, leaving behind only the ashes of isolation.

How could I be this unfair, this unkind, this ignorant?
I felt the fire of my own judgemnet consuming my convictions.
What if my way isn’t superior at all — just one of many ways to see the world?
Who am I to assume I know better?

With the heat came remorse — but also clarity.

Judgment is like an alternate universe, one you enter with the first harsh word you utter.
And suddenly, all you see is attack.
Every glance feels like a weapon, every silence a threat.

The only ticket out is surrender — to lay down the armour, to let the fire do its purifying work.
And so I sat there, spent, exhausted, and scorched — letting the flames burn away my arrogance, my certainty, my need to be right.

When the fire finally calmed, what remained was not defeat,
but a small, fragile tenderness — the kind that can grow only in the ashes of self-righteousness.

• What pain or fear hides behind your judgment?
• How does needing to be “right” keep you apart from others?
• What if you loosened your grip on being right and just listened?

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