On Discernment, Conflict Resolution and Defining a Moral Compass Within Relationships and Community

Lately, I've been thinking a lot about what it means to stand up for what I believe in without losing my humanity in the process. And goodness do I hold many contradictions when it comes to finding common ground and drawing lines in the sand, and I feel like this is a skill we should all be familiar with. To me, it is not a fixed destination, but a fluctuating and oscillating practice.

I have often resonated with the underdog archetype and have always had a strong sense of justice. I’ve lived in (and had to move out of) many gentrified neighborhoods, traveled to places where economic inequality and environmental injustice are impossible to ignore, and witnessed the cruel systems, firsthand, that consistently prioritize profit over people. Those experiences, and many more, have profoundly shaped how I see the world. I've also been deeply inspired by the resilience, art, activism, and community I've encountered along the way. Some of the most compassionate, courageous, and generous people I've ever met have been those working to create a more just and beautiful world. They remind me of what is worth protecting.

And perhaps that is where some of my anger comes from: a deep love for what is possible and a grief for what continues to be harmed. When I see generally kind-hearted, working-class people throwing their support behind some of the most powerful, exploitative, destructive, hateful, and morally bankrupt forces on the planet—billionaires, corporate oligarchs, environmentally devastating industries, traffickers, predators, and authoritarian movements that thrive on fear, scapegoating, and dehumanization—I feel a deep sense of heartbreak and disbelief. Because these systems are not abstract. They have real consequences. They determine who gets protected and who gets discarded, whose labor is valued and whose suffering is ignored, whose communities are preserved and whose are sacrificed and obliterated. The stakes are fucking high, and I am tired of the nonchalance and complicity I keep witnessing at best, and the outright normalization of cruelty at worst.

On the one hand, I’m angry and, yeah, I’m loud about it. I’m angry that we're still watching racial terror reappear in new forms. I'm angry that women's autonomy continues to be bargained away. I'm angry that authoritarian movements wrapped in religious language are gaining horrifying legitimacy. I'm angry that incarceration, poverty, environmental destruction, and state-sanctioned violence continue to be treated as unfortunate side effects rather than deliberate policy choices. And I want to be clear to both my virtual and in person community: there are some things I am no longer interested in pretending are simply "differences of opinion." These are not abstract political debates or competing perspectives. They are questions of life, liberty, and human dignity. They are lived realities with bodies attached to them.

On the other hand, I try to align myself with models of restorative justice, knowing that punishment, exile, and disposability are often tools of the very systems I criticize and would love to see dismantled. And this is where I find myself wrestling with a question: How do we hold strong values without becoming ideological enforcers? How do we pursue justice without reproducing the same punitive dynamics we oppose?

While I understand that people are rarely drawn toward harmful ideologies because they wake up wanting to cause harm, and that they are drawn in because those ideologies offer something deeply human (belonging, identity, certainty, purpose), it does not mean I am obligated to tolerate hate, cruelty, bigotry, or complicity in harm. Compassion is not the same thing as permission and context is not the same thing as an excuse. I can understand the wounds, fears, and unmet needs that make certain ideologies attractive while still being unwilling to accept the damage those ideologies create. I can recognize the humanity of a person while being firmly opposed to the beliefs, behaviors, or systems they choose to uphold. There is a difference between extending compassion to someone's humanity and extending legitimacy to harmful ideas and behaviors.

The older I get, the more interested in discernment I become. I believe many things genuinely matter. I believe standing ten toes down on certain values is non-negotiable. I believe extreme harm exists and should be confronted head-on. I believe accountability and meaningful discourse are important, but I have no interest in endlessly debating whether entire groups of people deserve basic human rights.

And this is where discernment comes in.

To me, discernment is the practice of seeing clearly enough to hold complexity, distinguish between harm and difference, and choose a response that aligns with my values. It asks not only, "What do I believe?" but also, "What is true here? What is my responsibility? What response creates the most integrity?"

I do not believe every disagreement requires exile, nor do I believe every relationship can—or should—be preserved. I can disagree with your choices, find them harmful, and still recognize your humanity. I can understand the experiences that shaped you without agreeing with the conclusions you have drawn from them. I can also decide that our values are incompatible enough that I do not want a close relationship with you. That is not punishment, that is discernment.

Sometimes the healthiest and most compassionate choice is recognizing that a relationship is no longer healthy, and that continuing to pour energy into it is not creating repair, it is creating resentment.

I've become increasingly at peace with the fact that I don't need to be friends with—or even remotely liked by—every person I have ever met (I know, Libras and people pleasers can learn this one late.) I recently heard the adage, "A friend to everyone is a friend to no one," and it made so much sense to me. Not because I believe we should close ourselves off from people who are different from us, avoid difficult conversations, or only surround ourselves with people who think exactly like we do. But because our deepest relationships require shared values, trust, mutual care, and a willingness to evolve. We can honor someone's humanity without inviting them into our inner circle. We can respect someone's journey without making them part of ours. And we can recognize that the relationships we choose to nurture shape the communities and worlds we are capable of building.

In some ways, my circles have become much smaller but deeper. I have organically grown in different directions from some people and continue to do so, and I have also consciously severed community ties—not because I believe people are disposable, but because my energy is finite. I would rather spend my time and energy building the world I want to live in than endlessly trying to convince someone that other human beings deserve safety and dignity. Every hour I spend debating whether someone's humanity is negotiable is an hour I'm not spending teaching, organizing, creating, or protecting the people already doing the work. I'd rather be linking arms with revolutionary world-builders than endlessly defending realities we should have settled generations ago. And because of those shifts in where I place my energy, my capacity to create spaces where people feel represented, safe, supported, and stood up for has expanded exponentially. My sense of interconnectedness and community has grown—not because my circle became larger, but because it became more aligned.

All this to say: conflict resolution is not easy, but we should try our best. Relationships, understanding, and repair matter. But resolution is not always reconciliation. Sometimes the healthiest outcome is greater understanding. Sometimes it is stronger boundaries. Sometimes it is parting ways. Not everything is meant to be mended—and that is okay too.

My overall summary is this:
Justice without humanity becomes punishment.
Humanity without accountability becomes harm.
And discernment is the lifelong practice of knowing how to hold both.