In the cutthroat world of work, accountability can become a weapon, but not everyone wields it against the vulnerable. There will always be that specific kind of person— a few, yet more than enough — who turn on you when the stakes rise.
They don’t announce their intentions; instead, they shift imperceptibly. Their tone becomes measured, their gaze evasive, and their silence during critical moments deafening. These are not strangers, but colleagues you trusted, people who once shared the weight of the work alongside you.
It’s not always an immediate betrayal. It begins with small omissions, selective truths, and decisions framed as “what’s best for everyone.” What they really mean, of course, is what’s best for themselves. One moment, you're exchanging solidarity; the next, you're the sacrificial lamb. It’s devastating not just because it feels personal—it’s devastating because it’s calculated.
What’s hardest to swallow is the pseudo-justice they employ to mask their actions. They twist the narrative to suit their needs, packaging selfish choices in the language of fairness and balance.
Suddenly, their betrayal becomes a “necessary evil,” their convenient truth cloaked in moral reasoning. It’s not enough that they save themselves—they have to make it appear righteous.
And then there’s the question of fairness. Objectivity is a principle you’ve tried to hold onto, a line in the sand you’ve refused to cross. But not everyone shares your compass. The few who twist the truth for gain see fairness as a convenience, not a virtue. They’ll say you’re naive, clinging to ideals that don’t work in “the real world,” as though ruthlessness were a badge of honor.
Still, it’s not everyone, and that’s what makes it complicated. For every one who betrays, there are others trying to do right, caught in the crossfire of decisions they didn’t make.
It’s easy to become cynical, to cast a wide net and lose faith entirely, but that’s not the answer. What remains, however, is the loneliness that betrayal leaves behind—the feeling that your value was never intrinsic, only conditional on your usefulness.
Even so, you keep going. Not for them, not even for the ones who failed you, but for yourself. Objectivity may be thankless, fairness often unnoticed, but they’re not for sale. You hold onto them because they anchor you in a world that too easily drifts toward self-interest. Not everyone will see it, and not everyone will care, but you will know that, in the face of their betrayal, you never let them take away your sense of self.
In the end, justice isn’t in their judgment; it’s in your refusal to let them rewrite your story.
Comments
Post a Comment