We like to believe we are principled people.
We say things like “I can’t miss work,” “I don’t break commitments,” or “My health comes first.” These statements sound responsible. Mature. Final.
They are none of those things.
Because the truth is simpler and far less flattering: our priorities are elastic. They stretch generously for power, money, and recognition—and contract sharply when the demand is emotional, inconvenient, or unrewarded.
Scene One: The “Unavoidable” Workday
A family situation has reached a breaking point.
Tension has been simmering for years.
Someone has finally travelled, taken time off, and created space—not for celebration, but for repair.
The request is modest: be present for a few days. Talk. Listen. Try to resolve something that will only rot if left unattended.
The response comes quickly and confidently:
“I can’t. Something important came up at work.”
No further explanation is offered. None is expected. Work, after all, is sacred.
But here’s the uncomfortable counterfactual:
If that same day had presented an invitation to meet someone powerful—someone whose attention could unlock money, status, or future advantage—would work still have been “important”?
We already know the answer.
This wasn’t an inability. It was a ranking decision.
Work wasn’t chosen because it was immovable. It was chosen because it was easier than sitting in discomfort, navigating emotion, and confronting history.
Scene Two: The Disappearing Commitment
A small group of colleagues plans a get-together. Nothing extravagant. No strategic agenda. Just time set aside to meet as people rather than roles.
On the morning of the meeting, a message appears:
“I’m dealing with a sore shoulder. Won’t be able to make it.”
The language is polite. The excuse is medically plausible. No one challenges it.
But again, the silent question lingers:
If a high-stakes opportunity had appeared instead—a meeting tied to visibility or reward—would the same shoulder suddenly feel manageable?
Of course it would.
The body, it turns out, is remarkably cooperative when the incentive is right.
What gets cancelled isn’t the meeting.
It’s the implicit agreement that everyone’s time matters equally.
Scene Three: The Convenient Illness
Illness is one of our most socially protected reasons for withdrawal—and rightly so.
But it also happens to be one of the most selectively applied.
A person feels unwell enough to skip a commitment that requires emotional presence, yet well enough to reschedule everything else without guilt. The message is never explicit, but it lands clearly:
“This wasn’t worth pushing through for.”
And the person on the receiving end understands something important—not about health, but about where they fall in the hierarchy of effort.
What These Scenes Reveal
None of these situations involve villains. No one is malicious. No one is intentionally cruel.
But they all reveal the same pattern:
- We overcome inconvenience for gain
- We avoid inconvenience for responsibility
- We call the first “ambition”
- We disguise the second as “circumstance”
This is not poor time management. It is selective integrity.
The Cost We Pretend Not to See
The damage here is subtle but cumulative.
The sibling who rearranged their life stops trying to mediate.
The colleague stops initiating plans.
The relationship doesn’t explode—it simply becomes shallower, quieter, and eventually transactional.
Trust doesn’t break loudly. It erodes silently.
And the irony is this: many of us would be deeply offended if we were treated with the same casual deprioritisation we routinely extend to others.
The Real Question We Avoid
We often ask, “Was this reasonable?”
That’s the wrong question.
The better one is:
“Would I have made the same choice if the reward were higher?”
If the answer is no, then let’s stop pretending the original choice was forced.
It was chosen.
Owning the Choice Changes Everything
Being human means making trade-offs. That’s inevitable.
But maturity lies in owning those trade-offs honestly, without hiding behind respectable excuses.
If we choose work over family, say so plainly.
If we choose comfort over confrontation, admit it.
If we choose benefit over obligation, acknowledge the cost.
Because the moment we stop pretending our priorities are absolute, we gain something rare: moral clarity.
And in a world overflowing with plausible excuses, that clarity is not just refreshing—it is quietly radical.
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