When Right and Wrong Blur: What I Wish You Knew[edit]
Let’s clear the air. I’ve heard it a thousand times: “You just do the right thing.” As if morality is a clear line on a map. It’s not. Especially when you’re in the middle of chaos, holding a life in your hands while the world burns.
Common misconception: If you’re a first responder, you should never feel uncertain. That you know the right choice, always. That doubt means weakness.
Reality: I’ve seen medics choose who lives in a triage line while bullets fly. I’ve seen cops make split-second calls that haunt them for years. The line blurs because the situation is blurred. You’re not broken for feeling the weight of that choice. You’re human.
Why this matters: When we pretend moral clarity is the norm, we set people up to drown in shame. That guilt? It’s not about the choice you made. It’s about the unspoken expectation that you should have known better. That’s moral injury. It’s the gut-punch of carrying a choice you didn’t want to make, believing it was wrong when it was simply necessary.
Courage isn’t what you think. It’s not about never faltering. It’s about naming the blur when it happens. It’s saying, “I did what I could with what I had, and I’m still here.” That’s the real strength.
Here’s what works: When the line blurs, don’t bury it. Name it. Say it out loud to someone who gets it: “I chose X, and I’m still wrestling with it.” That’s not weakness—it’s the first step to not carrying it alone. It’s how you stop the shame from becoming a prison.
You don’t need to have the answer. You just need to know you’re not alone in the question. That’s how we heal. That’s how we keep serving.
— Lois Brown, still serving