I’d rather be "divisive" than complicit.

Writing in public is a privilege, even when it must be squeezed into the margins of a life dictated by occupational, familial, and social obligations. No matter the subject or platform, part of me always finds it amazing that people care enough to stop scrolling and digest what I’ve chosen to share.

But what does it mean to write in public when the world is burning?

As with any privilege, writing in public comes with obligations—moral ones and intellectual ones. In the same way that a keynote speaker is obligated to understand their audience, a writer is obligated to understand both themself and the language they’re using. We are called to do more than share our thoughts—we must interrogate them. And we must interrogate the words that shape them, especially when those words are being weaponized.

Words like “unity.” Words like “divisive.” Words like “peaceful.” These terms don’t exist in a vacuum. They’re deployed strategically, often by those with power, to frame certain conversations as acceptable and others as dangerous. When we fail to question the language being used around us, we risk adopting frameworks designed to keep us complicit.

So before I can write honestly about the world, I have to examine my own internal landscape—the contradictions, the discomfort, the competing impulses that shape what I believe. And I have to be honest about what makes that examination so difficult: what we think of as our mind (singular) is actually a collection of neural systems (plural) that evolved at different times, for different purposes. It’s no wonder they don’t always agree. We can “feel” one thing, “know” another, and “experience” something entirely different—each competing to shape our understanding of the world. Internal conflict is shaped by biology.

And biologically, we’re wired to resolve that conflict as quickly as possible. Dissonance is uncomfortable. Our brains crave coherence, consensus, unity. This is exactly what makes calls for “unity” so effective—and so dangerous. They exploit our natural impulse to avoid the discomfort of disagreement, to smooth over contradictions, to choose the path of least resistance. When someone tells us to “stay unified,” they’re not appealing to our principles—they’re appealing to our survival instincts.

I’m writing this knowing that part of me still craves that unity, still wants to smooth things over, still hears a voice whispering that maybe I’m being too harsh. That voice isn’t wrong to exist—it’s trying to protect me from isolation, from being cast out. I wish I could tell you I arrived at this understanding cleanly, that I woke up one day with perfect moral clarity. But the truth is messier. There are still moments when I second-guess myself, when I wonder if speaking up makes me self-righteous rather than principled, performative rather than genuine. I’ve been spineless before. I’ve chosen comfort over courage more times than I can count.

But I’ve learned to thank that protective voice for its concern and then ask: what am I protecting by staying quiet? And more importantly, who am I failing to protect?

Internal conflict isn’t enjoyable, but I can appreciate it as the precursor to traits I define as blessings—the creativity that leads me to new solutions, the resilience that prepares me for uncertainty, and the moral agency that brings me closer to choices that align with my values. The difference now is that I’ve learned to sit with that discomfort instead of using it as an excuse for silence.

In an ideal world, that internal conflict would lead to internal clarity—but we don’t live in an ideal world.

We live in an era where global conflict is tearing through communities, displacing millions, and exposing the violent machinery of oppression. My internal conflict isn’t diminishing—it’s intensifying alongside the suffering around us. When children are dying and families are being destroyed, the luxury of extended self-reflection becomes a moral question itself. How much time can we spend wrestling with our own contradictions before action becomes imperative?

This tension—between the internal work of understanding ourselves and the external urgency of responding to injustice—is where I’ve found my answer. Internal clarity doesn’t come from resolving every contradiction within myself. It comes from deciding what I’m willing to stand for when remaining silent would be easier. It comes from refusing to let powerful people define the terms of our global conversation.

Examining my own contradictions has taught me to spot contradictions in the rhetoric around me—especially when that rhetoric comes wrapped in words that sound virtuous but function as weapons.

So let me be direct about what I see.

These days, there’s an emphasis on surface-level “peacefulness” that serves the powerful at the expense of the oppressed, marginalized, and vulnerable. But this isn’t actually peace. It’s complicit silence—the kind of silence that allows people to turn a blind eye when the world is burning, so long as the heat never reaches their doorstep.

The “peacefulness” being pushed by those in power is a demand for those who are suffering to be quiet about their pain so that others don’t have to feel uncomfortable.

This is where “divisive” enters the conversation. Words like “divisive” are weaponized to blame people who speak uncomfortable truths—as if the truth-teller is responsible for creating the conditions they’re documenting. It’s a convenient rhetorical trick that shifts attention away from the actual problem and onto the person who dares to name it. The messenger becomes the villain, while the real villains operate freely in the shadows.

But being “divisive” isn’t an inherently bad thing—unless you believe that unconditional unity is more important than morality. Sometimes division is necessary. Sometimes we need to draw clear lines between right and wrong, between justice and injustice. There aren’t always “two sides.” Not everything deserves a middle ground or a compromise. And valuing “unity no matter what” primes you to tolerate—and even protect—harmful systems and behaviors in the name of keeping the peace.

The alternative to being “divisive” isn’t being principled. It’s being spineless.

This is where my internal wrestling crashes into the hard reality of this world: I would rather be labeled “divisive” than be complicit in systems that demand the protection of a “normal” world for the privileged while others wonder if their children will even have a world to inherit.

I would rather risk discomfort, pushback, and isolation than participate in the kind of shallow unity that requires me to look away from suffering orchestrated by global powers. The internal clarity I’ve been searching for doesn’t come from resolving every doubt—it comes from choosing integrity over approval. It comes from refusing to be spineless in the face of injustice simply because someone has convinced me that standing firm is “divisive.”

To write in public during an era of crisis is to accept that reflection will be uncomfortable, that truth-telling will be labeled as troublemaking, and that moral clarity will be mistaken for divisiveness. It means recognizing when language is being used to manipulate us into silence.

But here’s what I know: internal conflict taught me resilience, creativity, and moral agency. External conflict is now demanding that I use them. The privilege of writing in public carries the obligation to speak—not to perform unity where none should exist, but to interrogate the language being used to silence dissent, to name what’s happening, and to stand on the side of justice, even when it costs me something.

So let them call it divisive. I’d rather be divisive than spineless. I’d rather be divisive than complicit. I’d rather draw lines than erase them for the comfort of people who will never have to live on the wrong side of them.

In the words of Nina Simone, it is an artist’s duty to reflect the times. We are surviving a time when honest reflection itself has become an act of resistance—when the simple act of naming what we see is deemed dangerous by those who benefit from our blindness. This is the world that demanded I interrogate my own mind, to understand the competing voices within me, to recognize which ones were mine and which ones had been planted by systems designed to keep me quiet. And now, having done that work, I know which voice deserves the microphone.

I don’t know if I’m doing this perfectly. I don’t know if anyone can. There will be times when I get the tone wrong, when my anger clouds my judgment, when I mistake self-righteousness for righteousness. But I’d rather stumble forward imperfectly than stand still cleanly.

The journey from internal conflict to external clarity isn’t about achieving some pristine state of certainty. It’s about learning to distinguish between the discomfort of cognitive dissonance and the discomfort of moral compromise—and choosing to sit with one while refusing to tolerate the other. My internal systems may still compete, may still pull me in different directions, but I’ve learned to amplify the parts of myself that won’t mistake civility for morality, that won’t prioritize the comfort of the privileged over the survival of the oppressed.

So yes, I will continue to write in public. I will continue to name what I see. And I will accept whatever labels come with that choice, because the alternative is to betray the very thing that makes writing worthwhile: the possibility that words might illuminate what power tries to obscure, that truth might disturb what injustice requires us to accept, that one voice speaking might give permission to thousands more.

The world is burning. My obligation isn’t to pretend it isn’t. My obligation is to document the flames.

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