the curse of having a functioning moral compass

doing the right thing is ruining my life, actually.

The Burden of Being Good

It’s not noble. It’s not glamorous. It’s just exhausting.

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Lately, having a strong moral compass has felt less like a virtue and more like a chronic condition. A curse I never asked for but somehow ended up tied to—like I got stuck with some outdated operating system that runs on guilt, overthinking, and an exhausting sense of duty.

It’s like being handed x-ray vision as a superpower but with no off switch. You see through people, through situations, through your own impulses—and most of the time, you just wish you couldn’t.

It’s not noble. It’s not glamorous.

It’s draining.

I’m tired of always knowing better. I’m tired of that voice in my head that cuts in before I’ve even finished a thought—offering the “right” thing to do like some built-in pop-up ad I never agreed to.

And once you know better, you can’t un-know. You can’t un-feel the weight of what you’re supposed to do. You just carry it around like an extra layer of skin that makes the world feel too sharp, too loud, too morally dissonant to ever fully relax in.

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The Social Tax of Having Standards

My friends can ghost someone and move on by brunch. They lie on job applications without flinching. They skip class, sneak into clubs, flirt to get free drinks, laugh it off when someone gets hurt. They cut corners, cheat a little—harmless things, they say—and they’re not wrong. Nothing explodes. The world doesn’t end. They sleep like nothing happened.

Meanwhile, I’m over here apologizing for answering a text late. I’m still haunted by a time I almost shoplifted lip gloss in seventh grade and put it back. I think about the cashier who gave me too much change last month. I think about the silence that stretched too long when my friend cried on the phone and I didn’t know what to say. I think about every time I could’ve done better, even when better wasn’t asked of me.

I don’t want to be the person who always texts back. Who notices when someone’s left out. Who fixes the group dynamic. Who cleans up the dishes no one else offers to wash. Who gently tells the truth. Who thinks before speaking. Who notices everything—and tries to do something about it.

But I can’t not. There’s this referee in my head—blowing the whistle on the tiniest infractions.
“That wasn’t fair.”
“That was selfish.”
“You should’ve said something.”

And this imaginary official? They’re strict. No leniency. No breaks. No exceptions for being tired, sad, angry, or just human.

And once you’re known as “the good one,” you stop being a person. You become a utility. The default designated driver. The go-to for advice. The peacemaker. The moral sounding board.

Everyone else gets to be messy, contradictory, impulsive—
and you get to be solid.

So you start doing the right thing even when you don’t want to.

Even when it burns you out.
Even when no one thanks you.

And you can’t even complain about it without sounding like a humble-bragging martyr.
“Oh, woe is me, I’m too ethical.”

Great. Now I’m annoying and self-righteous.

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When Good Judgment Feels Like a Prison

Sometimes I watch people make reckless, selfish, even stupid decisions—and I feel envy that sits in my chest like hot coals. Not because I admire the choices, but because I admire the freedom—to not overthink, to not care, to not spiral in shame afterward.

To just do something impulsive and let it be what it is.

I remember last semester—my roommate skipped her midterm to day-drink on a Tuesday, blasting music, dancing around in our common room like her only job was to feel good. And I just stood there, book in hand, already having done next week’s reading, debating whether sneaking into a club underage would permanently damage my moral record.

(I didn’t go.)

I watched her make mistake after mistake, and somehow it made her more likable—like people admired how unbothered she was, how unapologetically chaotic.

I was admired, too—but for being “grounded,” “mature,” “responsible.” Which is a polite way of saying boring. The one who always has an emergency hair tie, band-aid, ibuprofen. The one who always knows what to say. The one who never needs saving.

The high road is beautiful, sure—but it’s lonely as fuck.

And no one ever really thanks you for taking it. They just expect it.

While everyone else is making messy, dramatic memories they’ll laugh about later, you’re sitting with the weight of every avoided mistake—every moral choice that helped someone else and cost you something. Time. Energy. Fun. Friends.

And there’s a part of me that wants to burn it all down.
I want to be petty.
I want to hold grudges without guilt.
I want to say “no” and not explain it.
I want to tell someone off and not lie awake wondering if I went too far.
I want to say, “That’s not my problem,” and mean it.

I want to act out of desire, not duty.

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The Plot Twist

And here’s where it gets complicated…

Because regardless of all my resentment, I know I wouldn’t actually trade places with the people who don’t care.

I’ve watched what happens when someone loses their inner compass. It’s less freedom, and more erosion. They don’t become more alive. They just get more numb.

And they may laugh louder and act more impulsive, but I can sense the dullness behind their eyes. You can tell by the way they never stop moving—like if they ever stood still, the emptiness might catch up to them.

Freedom shouldn’t seem so… desperate.

So I stay here.

With my conscience that doesn’t shut up.
With the guilt that shows up before I’ve even done anything wrong.
With the invisible weight of always trying to do the right thing, even when no one would notice if I didn’t.

I hate it sometimes—how much it costs.
How tired it makes me.
How often it isolates me.

But I don’t want to lose it. Because at the end of the day, it’s the part of me that still knows how to feel deeply, how to love responsibly, how to leave the world just a little less broken than I found it.

There’s no applause, no gold star ;(.

But I can look in the mirror and feel okay about myself.
I can sleep at night.
And that counts for something.

It helps me to know that if the world inevitably goes to hell while I’m still alive, I wasn’t part of the problem.

Even if I was too tired from being part of the solution to properly enjoy the ride.
Even if I had to write this whole thing just to remind myself of it.