When Silence Harms: On Dignity, Recognition, and the Meaning of Support

A sad clown sits alone on a park bench, holding a balloon that reads "I'm fine," surrounded by overcast skies and a few curious pigeons.

I want to begin by affirming something simple but crucial: Vulnerability is not weakness. It is, in fact, the wellspring of human resilience. We arrive in this world fragile, entirely dependent on others for survival. From the moment we take our first breath, we are enveloped in a cocoon of care, nurturing, and support. This initial state of dependence shapes our very existence, teaching us that we are not solitary beings but rather part of a larger tapestry of humanity. This interconnectedness is profound; it is the foundation upon which our relationships are built. And yet, that very dependence is what binds us together in ways that allow us to endure what we could never withstand alone. It is through our vulnerabilities that we find strength in unity, as we lean on one another during times of hardship and uncertainty, forging bonds that become the bedrock of our collective resilience.

Hardships—those grim, often unspeakable trials—are not stains on our worth. They are the conditions under which we form the deepest, most life-sustaining connections. When we face adversity, we often discover a well of empathy within ourselves and others that can only be tapped into through shared experiences of struggle. These difficult moments serve as catalysts for growth, pushing us to confront our fears and insecurities, ultimately leading us to a richer understanding of ourselves and those around us. Our value is not earned or negotiated; it exists unconditionally. It is inherent and immutable, much like the fundamental rights we hold dear. The things that sustain us—care, exercise, nourishment, meaningfulness—remain inherently good whether or not the world ever validates them. They are the cornerstones of a life well-lived, offering us solace and strength even in the absence of external approval.

This includes people we may struggle to respect. Even someone as polarizing as Trudeau—if anyone cared about him—would benefit from basic, life-affirming choices. It is essential to recognize that every individual, regardless of their public persona or the opinions held about them, possesses intrinsic worth. That’s because well-being isn’t contingent on popularity. It transcends the fleeting nature of public opinion and the capriciousness of social media. Intrinsic worth can’t be voted out of existence; it is a fundamental aspect of our humanity that remains intact despite the judgments and criticisms we may face. The world’s refusal to acknowledge someone’s humanity doesn’t negate it. Instead, it highlights the need for compassion and understanding, reminding us that everyone is navigating their own struggles, often hidden beneath the surface. In this way, fostering a culture of empathy and acceptance becomes not just a moral imperative but a pathway to healing and connection for all.

(Shameless plug for my song “The Goodwill,” which explores this idea of categorical good: Listen Here)

Dignity Denied

The heart of my anguish lies in this: I firmly believe in the unshakable worth of every person, a conviction that stems from a deep understanding of our shared humanity and the intrinsic value that each individual holds. Yet, in a world that often prioritizes superficial measures of worth, I have watched with growing despair as the world has systematically denied my own worth, dismissing it as if it were inconsequential. This experience has been nothing short of heartbreaking. When you genuinely believe that something is valuable, you instinctively feel a powerful urge to protect it, to nurture it, and to ensure that it is safeguarded against harm. It becomes an obligation, a duty to uphold the dignity and respect that every person deserves. To be left unprotected, especially during moments of profound need—when vulnerability is at its peak and support is crucial—transcends mere emotional pain. It morphs into a profound sense of betrayal and isolation. The absence of protection in these critical times is not simply a personal loss; it is a moral transgression, a violation of the ethical responsibility we share as members of a society that ought to champion the value of every individual. This neglect can lead to feelings of worthlessness, as if one's existence is being overlooked or deemed insignificant. Such experiences can shatter one's self-esteem and erode the very foundation of trust in human relationships. It is a stark reminder of the fragility of our collective humanity and the dire consequences that arise when we fail to honor and protect one another's inherent worth.

I’ve been denied what philosophers call antecedent recognition: that instinctive, almost reflexive acknowledgment of another human as someone who feels, desires, and thinks. This primal recognition forms the basis of empathy, trust, and language itself, acting as the cornerstone of our interactions and relationships. It is through this recognition that we come to understand one another, to share in each other's joys and sorrows, and to build connections that transcend mere existence. When individuals fail to extend this fundamental acknowledgment—when they treat you like a mere shadow instead of a vibrant, complex person—the injury is immense and deeply felt. The absence of this recognition can lead to feelings of isolation and alienation, creating a chasm between individuals that is difficult to bridge. It not only affects the individual who is denied this recognition but also frays the communal fabric that holds us together, weakening the bonds of society and eroding the trust that is essential for cooperation and mutual understanding. In a world where this recognition is absent, we risk descending into a state of disconnection, where people are seen not as fellow travelers on the journey of life but as mere objects, devoid of the rich inner lives that make each person unique. This denial can manifest in various forms, from subtle social slights to overt discrimination, each instance contributing to a broader culture of dehumanization that undermines our shared humanity.

In my life, I have encountered a multitude of individuals who chose the path of silence when confronted with the turmoil that surrounded me. This pervasive silence was not merely a momentary lapse in communication; rather, it represented a profound refusal to intervene in the face of Ann's (my mother) increasingly destructive behavior. Her actions, which oscillated between being cloaked in a facade of kindness and surfacing as overtly malicious attacks, created a seismic shift in my world, leaving me reeling and disoriented. Each interaction with her was a reminder of the precariousness of my situation, as her manipulations and betrayals chipped away at my sense of self and safety. However, what cut deeper than Ann’s betrayal was the chilling indifference displayed by those around me—friends who I had once believed would stand by my side, neighbors who turned their backs, and institutions that had a duty to protect but instead chose to remain passive observers. Their collective silence spoke volumes; it sent a clear message that my suffering was not significant enough to warrant their attention or intervention. This silence was not just complicity; it felt like a tacit permission for Ann to continue her harmful behavior without consequence, emboldening her actions and leaving me feeling utterly isolated.

The impact of this indifference was profound. It told me that I was not worth defending, that my experiences and pain were somehow less important than the discomfort that might arise from confronting Ann or addressing the situation. This pervasive silence rendered my suffering un-grievable, as if it was an experience that could be dismissed or overlooked. My pain, which was very real and deeply felt, became invisible to those around me, leaving me in a state of emotional limbo. I was trapped in a cycle of hurt, where the lack of acknowledgment from my community compounded my distress, making it difficult to process my feelings of betrayal and isolation. The absence of support transformed my struggles into a solitary battle, one that I had to face without the understanding or compassion that I so desperately needed.

To be treated as expendable isn’t just cruel—it is unjust. The concept of expendability implies a stark disregard for the intrinsic value of an individual, reducing a person to mere utility, and this reduction is deeply dehumanizing. Dignity does not require approval; it exists inherently within every person, regardless of their circumstances or societal status. It simply is, a fundamental aspect of our humanity that should be acknowledged and respected. However, when this dignity is overlooked—when acts of violence are met with indifference or apathy—it tears through the very possibility of community, eroding the bonds that hold us together and fostering an environment of isolation and fear. In a society where individuals are treated as expendable, the implications extend far beyond the individual level; they permeate the fabric of the community itself.

Such treatment fosters an atmosphere of mistrust and alienation, where people feel they must fend for themselves rather than rely on collective support. True support is not mere friendliness or superficial gestures; it is rooted in a profound understanding of one another's struggles and an unwavering commitment to uplift one another. It is solidarity, a powerful stance that goes beyond passive acknowledgment of another’s existence. It actively engages with the realities faced by others, saying, “I see you. You matter.” This recognition is essential for cultivating a sense of belonging and interconnectedness. When individuals feel seen and valued, they are more likely to contribute positively to their communities, fostering an environment where everyone can thrive. Solidarity requires action and advocacy; it demands that we challenge the systems that perpetuate injustice and expendability. It calls us to stand alongside those who are marginalized, to amplify their voices, and to fight against the indifference that allows violence and oppression to flourish unchecked. In doing so, we not only affirm the dignity of others but also enrich our own humanity, creating a more just and compassionate society for all.

The Loneliness of Being Ignored

For me, the issue hasn’t been my own honesty. I’ve been painfully transparent, laying bare my thoughts and feelings with an openness that often feels like a double-edged sword. My struggle, however, lies not in my willingness to share the truth of my experiences, but rather in the world’s stubborn refusal to bear witness to those truths. It’s disheartening to realize that I don’t lack people; I lack justice. That’s what real loneliness is—a profound sense of isolation that comes from shouting into a void where even your rawest truths are met with silence, indifference, or worse, dismissal. It’s as if I am standing in a crowded room, surrounded by faces, yet feeling utterly invisible, my cries unheard and unacknowledged.

I believe in my worth, deeply and unequivocally. I never doubted my right to dignity, a fundamental aspect of being human that should be universally recognized and respected. Yet, I suffer its denial every single day, faced with the stark reality that my experiences and my pain often go unvalidated. And while I want to reach out for connection and support, I can’t ignore the painful memories of times when support has vanished just when I needed it most, leaving me feeling abandoned and betrayed. How can I trust help that disappears the moment I muster the courage to speak my truth? When harm goes unrecognized, when justice is avoided or swept under the rug, how can I ever feel safe in a world that seems unwilling to confront its own failings?

Rebuilding a broken world cannot and should not fall solely on one person’s shoulders. That monumental task is inherently collective, messy, and morally complex, requiring the engagement of many voices and perspectives. We are not just victims or perpetrators in this narrative—we are lawyers, judges, bystanders, thinkers, friends, and neighbors. Each one of us is implicated in the fabric of society and its injustices. And until we collectively accept that responsibility, the concept of “safety” remains just a fantasy, a distant ideal. Real recovery demands that we address not only the harm inflicted upon individuals but also our own complicity in systems that perpetuate that harm. We must engage in uncomfortable conversations, confront our own biases, and strive to create a community where every voice is heard, every truth acknowledged, and every individual is treated with the dignity they deserve.

Betrayal in the Name of Love

This brings me to the story I need to tell. I haven’t seen or spoken to my family since Christmas 2021. From the outside, it may look like pride, or stubbornness. But the truth is so much heavier than that.

That Christmas, I was coaxed into returning to the family farm. I agreed only because I was promised a quick return to Calgary if things went badly. But when my mental health spiraled, that promise was broken. I had a panic attack so intense that I could barely move—and instead of care, I was brought back to the farm against my will. On Christmas Eve, I was finally driven home. But the psychological damage was done.

In February, we were supposed to vacation together. I asked them not to do the usual “let him come to us” thing that always made me feel excluded. They ignored that. I ended up alone in an Airbnb, abandoned emotionally. When I eventually went no contact, it wasn’t revenge. It was self-preservation.

Months later, in the middle of deep financial hardship, my mother chose control over care. I told her I was under the guidance of mental health professionals. I asked her not to interfere. I even cited the Rosenhan study to explain the danger of psychiatric labeling. She ignored me.

Instead, she lied under oath to obtain a court order under the Mental Health Act. On July 7, 2022—just days before my birthday—four armed officers arrived at my door in the middle of a live lecture. I was arrested, examined, and released—because there was no acute illness. But the damage was irreversible. My academic life was shattered by stigma.

Her affidavit included misrepresentations: altering legal forms to increase perceived threat, quoting me out of context, and ignoring the truth that I was already receiving care. It was an act of control disguised as love.

The Deepest Wound

Being stripped of your autonomy—especially by those who claim to love you—is a trauma few understand. It breaks something deep within you, leaving scars that may never fully heal. This violation of personal freedom and agency can lead to a profound sense of disconnection from oneself and from others. Even once released from such oppressive circumstances, the haunting fear remains: “Will I be allowed to act in my own best interest again?” This question lingers like a shadow, shaping every future choice, relationship, and act of trust. It becomes a lens through which you view the world, causing you to second-guess your instincts and decisions. Each interaction is colored by the anxiety of potential betrayal, making it increasingly difficult to navigate the complexities of human connection.

I tried—repeatedly—to repair things, to bridge the chasm that had formed between us. I asked for family therapy, believing that structured, professional guidance could help us untangle the web of misunderstandings and hurt. I offered it as the one condition for reestablishing contact, hoping that my family would recognize the necessity of healing through open dialogue. My mother never accepted this proposition, dismissing the very idea of therapy as unnecessary. Even the week before I was arrested, I summoned the courage to ask once more, desperately seeking a path to reconciliation. My boundary was clear: “Don’t contact me again unless it’s about family therapy.” Yet, she chose courtrooms over healing, prioritizing legal battles and public disputes over the intimate work of mending our fractured relationships.

This is why I’m no longer in touch with my family. It’s not about pride; it’s about survival. I’ve bent until breaking under the weight of their expectations and demands. In return for my compliance, I was lied about, humiliated, and disrespected in ways that cut to the core of my being. My family isn’t just complicated; they’re dangerous to me—bureaucratically, psychologically, and institutionally. Their actions have created an environment where trust is impossible, and safety is a distant memory. The emotional toll of such a relationship can be overwhelming, and I have come to realize that my well-being must take precedence over familial obligations that are fraught with toxicity.

They want to love me on their terms: no accountability, all control. Their version of love is conditional, wrapped in expectations that I cannot meet without sacrificing my own identity and autonomy. But I’ve chosen a different path, one where my safety and mental health come first. I refuse to be a pawn in their game of power dynamics. Reconciliation, if it ever happens, will not be born from coercion or manipulation; it will start in a therapist’s office—not a courtroom. It will require mutual respect, understanding, and a genuine willingness to confront the past with honesty and compassion, something that has been sorely lacking in our interactions. Until then, I must prioritize my journey toward healing and self-discovery, even if it means walking away from those I once called family.

On Forgiveness and Moral Reckoning

Forgiveness, as Holocaust survivor Jean Améry poignantly reminds us, is not inevitable. It is not a simple or automatic process that unfolds merely with the passage of time. Time alone doesn’t heal; it merely allows us to exist with our wounds, often deepening our understanding of them. That kind of forgetting, which some might consider a form of healing, is not moral—it’s amoral. True forgiveness requires a profound reckoning with the past, a willingness to confront the pain and suffering that has been inflicted, and above all, it necessitates accountability. It demands a commitment to change, both personally and collectively, in order to ensure that the wrongs committed are acknowledged and addressed in a meaningful way.

In my case, however, none of that has transpired. There has been no remorse expressed, no responsibility taken for the actions that have caused such deep hurt. There has been no structural shift in the dynamics that perpetuate this cycle of pain. To “forgive” under these bleak conditions would be nothing less than an act of self-erasure. It would signal to the world, and to myself, that what happened was tolerable, acceptable, or even justifiable. But it wasn’t. It was a violation of trust and love that cannot be overlooked or minimized.

This isn’t bitterness that drives my refusal to forgive; it’s a commitment to honesty and integrity. I refuse to allow my suffering to be whitewashed for someone else’s comfort or convenience. My love for my family runs deep, and the absence of their presence in my life is a wound that breaks my heart daily—especially the ache of missing out on the lives of my nieces and nephews, who grow and change in ways I can no longer witness. Yet, I cannot expose myself to further harm simply to maintain a façade of peace. Such peace would be built on the ruins of my own well-being and dignity.

It is essential to recognize that love isn’t always a force for good. Love can wound deeply; it can be toxic and damaging in ways that are often concealed beneath layers of affection and familial obligation. We don’t choose who we love, and that lack of choice is precisely why love can be tragic. It can lead us into relationships that hurt us, bind us to people whose actions contradict the very essence of love—compassion, respect, and empathy. Thus, navigating the complexities of love requires not just an understanding of its beauty but also a recognition of its potential for harm. It is this duality that complicates our relationships and our ability to forgive.

Final Thoughts

If I knew you from my life before its collapse please know - I wrote this not to push anyone away or to point fingers. But it is important to acknowledge that support, if it is to hold any real meaning or value, must endure even when the truth we share is difficult to hear and challenging to process. I will not reach out not with superficial pleasantries or empty niceties, but with raw, unfiltered honesty. I needed someone to bear witness to the truth I’ve carried within me for far too long, a truth that has often felt too heavy to bear alone. It is a burden that has shaped my experiences and influenced my thoughts, and I sought a connection that could help alleviate that weight, even if just for a moment.

Solidarity begins when we collectively refuse to turn away from the difficult conversations and uncomfortable realities that life often presents us with. I’m not asking for perfect answers or solutions that will magically resolve my struggles—just presence. Just a moment where my words don’t vanish into silence, where they are heard, acknowledged, and valued. In that space, I hope for understanding and empathy, a shared humanity that allows us to connect on a deeper level. It is in these moments of genuine connection that we can find the strength to face our truths together, fostering a sense of belonging and support that is so desperately needed in times of vulnerability.