Kindness is Exhausting

In recent days, my posts and article in full-throated support of DEI have gone viral and drawn largely positive responses. But, as expected, there have been a few that were not. Like 90% of comments from MAGA people, they were not particularly original; full of cliches, passivity, and regurgitated talking points. What I call "Keurig Conversations"—a shitty replacement for the real thing. There was no real refuting or disputing. Just the standard MAGA trolling playbook. In most cases, I either ignored them or responded with an offer to have a real conversation. But I did have to restrain myself from going full Viking on them. I’ve used intellectual heft my entire life as a defense mechanism or as a way to behead someone. But I promised myself that I would keep my heart soft. So I mostly just monitored my reaction, then chose my words carefully.

There is one comment that stands out. A man essentially said that we SWAMs (straight, white, American men) need to stick together or else we will be "replaced"—a direct nod to Tucker Carlson’s dog whistle about the “Great Replacement." He then went on to claim that white male unemployment is "at an all-time high" because of DEI and made the correlation that white male suicide rates are a direct result of DEI policies.

Foolishness, yes. Easily refutable, yes. And so I felt that familiar hot blood rising in me. I felt my heart become cold and icy. And, being very transparent here, I had an awareness that I wanted to hurt this man because of his claims. Not physically, of course, but with the kind of intellectual brutality that would make him regret ever commenting in the first place.

But I didn’t. I chose kindness first. I expressed to him that I felt compassion for the pain he must be in to arrive at these conclusions. I gently refuted his claims, but then closed my comment with an offer to talk.

I share this not for any accolades or validation. I share it because kindness is fucking exhausting. It’s an internal war, my ego straining and snapping at the end of a leash gripped tightly by my heart—one side itching for battle, the other insisting on grace. It’s not just restraint; it’s the intentional effort to meet hostility with something deeper, something that costs me more than rage ever would.

Kindness is exhausting because it requires immense strength—strength that isn’t innate but cultivated over time through experience, discipline, and intentional practice. It’s the product of countless moments of restraint, of learning to sit with discomfort instead of reacting impulsively. It’s built through trial and error, through choosing patience even when anger feels justified; knowing that this strength will always be tested, that every interaction presents a choice to either revert to old instincts or lean into something harder, something more transformative. It demands not just managing my ego but actively being the employer of the warrior in me, not his employee. It requires patience—the kind that forces me to pause when every fiber of my being screams for battle. It means seeing beyond the noise, beyond the regurgitated rhetoric, and recognizing the humanity—even in someone spewing nonsense. That’s the hardest part for me. Seeing someone’s pain hidden behind their ignorance, their insecurity masked as certainty, their fear masquerading as aggression. Choosing to acknowledge that, rather than simply cut them down, is what makes kindness an imperative.

I know how to wage war with words. I know how to destroy a weak argument and make someone feel like an absolute fool for presenting it. That’s my nature. It’s in my DNA. Compassion, kindness, and mercy are never my first reaction in a crisis or a heated moment. Even with people I love and would die for, my first instinct is often calmness and logic—detached, surgical, calculated.

Roaring and raging is so much easier for me. I grew up learning that strength meant overpowering, that intelligence was a weapon, and that the sharpest wit won the argument. In heated moments, my instincts don’t tell me to listen or empathize; they tell me to dominate, to dismantle, to eviscerate. It’s been my default mode for years—whether in debate, conflict, or moments of perceived injustice. It feels natural, effortless, even exhilarating. But at what cost? I’ve won arguments only to lose relationships. I’ve proven people wrong only to push them further into their own trenches. And I’ve realized that winning a fight isn’t the same as making a difference.

Injustice, willful ignorance, and harm toward people are the greatest activators of this feeling. The idea that someone could be so deluded, so marinated in grievance and fear, that they’d blame DEI for white male suffering, is both laughable and enraging. It reveals a deeper sickness—a cultural conditioning that encourages victimhood among those who have long held unearned advantages. It’s a desperate grasp to maintain a crumbling status quo, a misguided fury channeled at the wrong target. And yet, I know that behind the absurdity is real pain, real fear—twisted, perhaps, but undeniably human. That is what makes it so infuriating. Because if they could see past their own blinders, past their manufactured outrage, they might realize that justice and equity aren’t the threats they imagine—they’re the cure to the very suffering they claim to endure.

“There’s more to being a warrior than killing. A true warrior — the best warrior — isn’t cruel or mean. He doesn’t claw an enemy who can’t fight back. Where’s the honor in that?”
― Erin Hunter

For me, Jesus is the model for the conscious warrior. He mastered the dance between fierce truth and deep compassion. He seemed to know how to blend moral clarity with the right response. He didn’t shy away from calling out hypocrisy, yet he also showed radical mercy. I find myself constantly wrestling with this duality—when to flip tables and when to turn the other cheek. There are moments when I know I should embody his patience, but my instinct is to strike with logic and force. And yet, I return to his example, trying to refine my own approach, learning when to hold my fire and when to let it burn. Sometimes calm, sometimes flipping tables. That’s the balance I strive for, but let’s be real—it’s not my default setting. It’s a practice, a discipline, a grind.

And so here I am, trying to embody something different. Something better. Not softer, but wiser. Because at the end of the day, what does victory look like? If I crush someone in an argument, does that change them? If I obliterate their logic, does that open their heart? Or does it just deepen the divide, reinforcing their defensiveness and solidifying their resentment?

True transformation doesn’t come from humiliation. It comes from an opening, a moment of connection where the walls of certainty crack just enough for something new to slip through. It requires patience, persistence, and a willingness to engage with people who may never give me the same grace in return. It’s an act of faith—not in them necessarily, but in the possibility of change, in the long arc of justice bending ever so slightly in the right direction.

Kindness is the first response, but it cannot be the only response. Injustice, cruelty, and cowardice must be confronted with unwavering resolve. Justice must have a backbone, a forcefulness that does not cower under the guise of politeness. But that force should never come at the expense of kindness. It should be a tool, wielded with intention and precision, not as a reflex of unchecked fury. In this case, I align with another person I admire: Theodore Roosevelt, who said, "speak softly and carry a big stick; you will go far." True strength lies in knowing when to speak gently and when to assert with unshakable conviction.

Some days, it’s too much. Some days, the leash slips, and the Viking inside me surges forward, ready to swing the axe. My words sharpen, my logic turns ruthless, and my patience evaporates. In those moments, I am not interested in connection or understanding—I want to destroy. I want to leave no room for rebuttal, to make my opponent feel the full weight of their ignorance. But winning like that is hollow. It leaves behind scorched earth, a temporary satisfaction that fades into regret. I’ve seen the cost of letting that side of me run unchecked, of choosing domination over dialogue. And so, I send him to his corner, take a deep breath, and try again.