We live in an age of heightened social sensitivity, and on the surface, this seems like moral progress. We police our language with meticulous care, agonizing over the perfect pronoun, the most respectful descriptor, the least offensive turn of phrase. A poorly chosen word can trigger a firestorm of condemnation, a career can be sidelined, and a reputation can be tarnished seemingly overnight. This vigilance, born from a genuine desire for a more inclusive world, has created a peculiar new anxiety. But in our collective flinch at the politically incorrect phrase, have we accidentally trained ourselves to fear the wrong thing? Have we become more mortified by linguistic stumbles than by legitimately mortifying actions?
There is a dissonance in watching a public figure be swiftly and thoroughly dismantled for an awkward, outdated term while, in another part of the news cycle, systemic injustices grind on with comparatively muted outrage. We wince at the verbal gaffe, the tone-deaf joke, the accidental microaggression. These moments feel clear, containable, and easily adjudicated. We can identify the culprit, dissect the syntax, and perform the corrective ritual of apology and education. It provides a sense of moral resolution, a concrete battle won in a confusing war. Meanwhile, the quiet, structural cruelty—the predatory lending, the willful neglect of public health, the slow violence of environmental racism—often fails to provoke the same visceral, collective shudder. These are complex, woven into the fabric of institutions, and lack a single, satisfying villain to cancel. They are mortifying in the true sense of the word: they should make our very souls cringe. Yet they rarely generate the same sharp, social media-ready gasp.
This imbalance creates a distorted ethical landscape. It privileges intention—or rather, the appearance of intention—over impact. A person can use all the right words, signal all the correct virtues in their bio, and still engage in behaviors that are profoundly harmful: exploiting workers, undermining democracy, or cultivating a toxic environment behind closed doors. Their language is armor, polished to a blinding shine, while their actions go unexamined. Conversely, someone with a clumsy vocabulary but a fundamentally generous and just character can be ritually sacrificed for a verbal misstep. We have become master detectives of problematic phrasing but sometimes mere tourists in the realm of problematic power.
The focus on lingo can, perversely, become a tool for the cynical. It allows performative wokeness to flourish as a substitute for substantive change. A corporation can change its branding language, host a mandatory sensitivity training, and issue statements dripping with the latest approved terminology, all while its business model continues to perpetuate inequality. The linguistic performance becomes a shield, deflecting scrutiny from the deeper, more mortifying realities. It is easier to change a word in a handbook than to redistribute power or profit.
This is not an argument for careless language. Words matter. They shape reality, reinforce stereotypes, and can cause deep personal harm. The careful, thoughtful evolution of our speech is a sign of a society trying to grow more empathetic. But when our fear of saying the wrong thing eclipses our fury at doing the wrong thing, our moral compass has gone astray. The true measure of our character, and of our society, is not found in a flawlessly sanitized vocabulary. It is found in what we are willing to tolerate, to ignore, or to actively enable through our silence and inaction. The most mortifying thing of all may be that we’ve learned to sweat the small stuff while sometimes sitting quietly in the presence of genuine, monumental evil. Let’s reclaim our capacity for shame, and aim it squarely where it belongs: not merely at the slip of the tongue, but at the cruelty of the deed.