What If You Are the Asshole?

 

No one wants to be the villain in their own story. We see ourselves as flawed, maybe, but ultimately good. Reasonable. Kind. On the right side of things. If there’s a disagreement, we’re confident that we’re standing on solid ground—and that the other person is missing something obvious, or being dishonest, or driven by a less noble motive. It’s comforting to believe that the problem is always out there. But what if it’s not?

What if the problem is you?

It’s an unsettling question. It challenges a core narrative that most of us build our lives around—the idea that we are, fundamentally, the good guys. It’s the foundation that justifies our anger, our frustration, and even our quiet sense of superiority. We want to believe that our side is the right side. That our opinions are based on truth and insight. That our values are rooted in empathy and justice. But what if some of those beliefs are just really clever ways to protect our ego?

There’s a quote by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn that I return to often: “The line separating good and evil passes not through states, nor between classes, nor between political parties—but right through every human heart—and through all human hearts.” It reminds me that evil—if we’re brave enough to use that word—is not a distant force. It’s not something that only exists in corrupt politicians or ruthless criminals or that group you dislike. It lives inside all of us. It lives in 'me'.

That’s not an easy thing to admit. We’ve been conditioned to think in binaries: good vs. bad, us vs. them, right vs. wrong. And most of the time, we put ourselves squarely in the good category. We may acknowledge our flaws, sure—but not in a way that deeply threatens our identity. It’s easier to criticize the world than to interrogate ourselves. It’s easier to call others out than to ask: 'Where am I being blind?'

Here’s the uncomfortable truth: 'evil people do not believe they are evil.' They believe everyone else is evil. That everyone else is wrong, immoral, misguided. That their actions—no matter how harmful—are justified by a higher cause. This is not unique to “monsters” in history. It’s a human phenomenon. We are astonishingly good at justifying ourselves. At reframing cruelty as passion, control as leadership, and judgment as moral clarity.

And that brings me to the most dangerous form of self-righteousness: the kind wrapped in a moral cause.

Think of a moral cause you believe in. One you care about deeply. Maybe it’s social justice, freedom of speech, gender equality, protecting the environment, religious values, mental health awareness—whatever it is, imagine how passionately you’ve argued for it. How certain you’ve felt. How disappointed you’ve been in people who just don’t get it. That moral cause gives you purpose. It helps you navigate the world. It makes you feel like you’re making a difference.

But here’s the thought experiment: 'What if that cause is actually making you a worse person?'

It’s hard to even entertain the idea, isn’t it? But let’s go there.

What if your cause, however noble, is feeding your ego more than your compassion? What if it's making you more reactive, more self-important, less tolerant of others? What if, in the name of justice, you’ve become a bully? What if, in fighting for what’s right, you’ve lost sight of the people you’re trying to convince—and started treating them like enemies?

When I think back on moments where I’ve stood for what I thought was right, I can now see that I wasn’t always driven by clarity or kindness. Sometimes I was driven by a desire to win. To be seen as the smart one, the evolved one, the person who had it figured out. I didn’t want dialogue—I wanted validation. I didn’t want to understand the other side—I wanted to dismantle it. In those moments, I wasn’t fighting for a cause. I was fighting for my identity.

That’s how good intentions become self-righteousness. It happens slowly, subtly, and almost always with a feeling of moral superiority. And the scariest part? You don’t notice when it’s happening. Because it 'feels' like you're doing the right thing. It feels like clarity. But what it often is… is control.

This is not to say that standing up for what you believe in is wrong. It’s not. We need courage. We need conviction. But we also need humility. We need the willingness to check in and ask: Am I still being guided by love, or am I being powered by resentment? Am I trying to create change, or just trying to feel right?

The difference between those two things—between genuine moral courage and self-righteous posturing—is everything.

Because here’s what I’ve realized: the more convinced I am of my own goodness, the more dangerous I become.

When I believe that I could never be the problem, I stop listening. I stop learning. I stop checking myself. I become defensive instead of curious. Harsh instead of honest. I forget that I, too, am capable of causing harm. That I, too, have blind spots. That I, too, might be projecting my pain onto others.

And that’s when I become the asshole.

Not the cartoon version, not the aggressive jerk screaming in traffic. But the quieter version—the one who uses intellect to shame others, who refuses to admit they’re wrong, who hides control behind concern, who weaponizes values to silence dissent.

That version of me doesn’t yell. That version is polite. Articulate. Maybe even charming. But underneath, there’s judgment. There’s rigidity. There’s a need to 'be right.' And it shows up in subtle ways: in the way I dismiss certain people, the way I interpret criticism, the way I over-identify with my beliefs.

We talk a lot about “calling out” toxic behavior. But what if the most important work is calling out our own?

That’s the real test of maturity: not how many causes you champion, but how often you examine your own motives. Not how many debates you win, but how often you ask yourself, 'What if I’m wrong? What if I’ve made this more about me than the message? What if I’ve stopped caring about the people I claim to be fighting for?'

When we’re caught up in the momentum of a cause, it’s easy to lose sight of the impact we’re having. It’s easy to justify cruelty by calling it necessary. To write people off as ignorant instead of trying to understand what shaped their views. To make villains out of anyone who disagrees. But that’s not activism. That’s tribalism. And it divides the world into two camps: good people who agree with me, and bad people who don’t.

The world isn’t that simple. People aren’t that simple. And neither are we.

There’s a kind of freedom that comes with asking, 'What if I’m the problem here?' Not because you always are—but because it opens the door to reflection. It interrupts the pattern of blame. It softens the ego just enough for real learning to take place.

It takes courage to admit you might have been harsh, or wrong, or unkind—even when your cause is valid. It takes wisdom to realize that truth without love becomes brutality, and justice without humility becomes tyranny. It takes maturity to realize that you can be right about an issue and still be acting like an asshole in the way you’re expressing it.

And that’s the heart of this essay.

Not to make you question your values, but to question the way you carry them.

Not to make you abandon your cause, but to abandon the belief that righteousness puts you above reflection.

Because real integrity doesn’t come from never being wrong. It comes from the willingness to be wrong, to grow, and to stay human in the process.

So, what if you are the asshole?

What if—despite your best intentions—you’ve become hardened, performative, or intolerant?

Would you want to know?

Would you stop? Or would you double down, convinced that the ends still justify the means?

That’s the choice we all face, over and over again. And it’s humbling.

But maybe humility is exactly what we need right now. In a world full of shouting, maybe the bravest thing you can do is whisper to yourself, 'I don’t know everything. I’m still learning. And I might be wrong.'

That doesn’t make you weak. It makes you trustworthy.

Because the people I admire most aren’t the loudest or the most certain. They’re the ones who have strong convictions and soft hearts. They stand firm, but they don’t steamroll. They fight for what matters, but they remember that how you fight matters just as much.

So I’ll keep asking the question.

Not to shame myself, but to stay honest. To stay grounded. To stay human.

What if I’m the asshole?

Sometimes, I am.

But I’d rather know—so I can stop being one.