Yesterday I deleted two things I’d written: a LinkedIn comment and a blog post. Both pointed out what should be obvious—the hypocrisy in how this country decides which lives are grievable.
Some deaths are held up as tragedies that demand national mourning. Others—especially those that expose the cost of our policies, our violence, our indifference—are brushed aside as acceptable casualties. That double standard isn’t subtle. It’s corrosive.
When I first wrote, I thought I was appealing to shared values. Empathy. Consistency. A basic belief that the vulnerable matter. But that was naïve. What I’ve been reminded of is that this isn’t about values at all—it’s about control.
You can lose your livelihood just for quoting the “wrong” person. Meanwhile, someone who built a career mocking compassion is suddenly treated as a martyr. The message couldn’t be clearer: cruelty is the coin of the realm, and honesty is punishable by ruin.
So yes, I deleted my words. Not because I disbelieve them, but because I can’t afford the cost of speaking them. I’m a husband. A father. The one holding up the financial roof. And the truth is, we now live in a system where speaking out against hypocrisy can be more dangerous than the hypocrisy itself.
That is the real sickness: a culture where silence is forced, lies are rewarded, and cowardice masquerades as civility. Where power doesn’t just kill empathy—it trains us to be afraid of even naming its absence.
And the longer we all swallow that, the more we teach our kids that fear is wisdom, silence is virtue, and cruelty is strength.
I hate that. I hate it more than I can say.
But it’s where we are. And if we don’t start naming it, deleting words will become the only kind of honesty left.
