Ethics In Small Moments

Dear Younger Me: Ethics in the Coffee Spill

Dear younger me,

You’re so busy chasing grand philosophical systems, you don’t notice the ethics happening in your own kitchen. That Tuesday morning when you snapped at your wife over spilled coffee—that was the moment. Not the lecture you gave about Kant’s categorical imperative. The philosophers called this “virtue ethics,” but it’s simpler: character is built in the small moments you dismiss as insignificant.

I wish you’d known that the barista’s tired smile when you say “please” matters more than your perfect thesis on justice. You spent years debating abstract rights while ignoring how your impatience made your neighbor feel small when she asked for help with groceries. You thought ethics was for crises, not for the quiet choices: Do I pause to listen when someone’s voice cracks? Do I return the extra change I didn’t need?

Your biggest mistake wasn’t the grand error—it was the daily dismissal. You told yourself, “This isn’t important,” while ignoring the weight of a single act of kindness or cruelty. I’ve learned: the soul is shaped not by the earthquake, but by the thousand tiny tremors of daily life. That time you bought sour milk for your roommate because you were too embarrassed to admit you’d forgotten to check the date? That wasn’t a failure. It was a lesson in humility.

So here’s what I’d whisper to you, standing in that kitchen with the coffee cup in your hand: Your kindness to the barista, your patience with the slow checkout line, your willingness to say “I was wrong” after a snapped word—these are the bricks of a life well-lived. You don’t need to solve the world’s problems to be ethical. You just need to show up for the small moments with your whole heart.

The greatest wisdom isn’t in the books—it’s in the way you hold the door for someone, or how you choose to speak when you’re tired. You were already teaching ethics with every cup of coffee you made. You just didn’t know it.

— Ray Bates, still asking questions