We all live as protagonists in our own narrative. We are the heroes (or at times the anti-heroes) of the story we tell ourselves: our values, our pains, our triumphs. We often imagine ourselves to be good and moral people, and we often believe that the lens through which we view others is more objective than the one they hold of us. But what happens when that self-narrative doesn’t quite align with how others see us? When we are the scapegoat, the odd one out, the one who doesn’t fit the social mould?
Socrates famously said, “the unexamined life is not worth living”. Yet the truth is, few of us live fully examined lives. It is far easier to preserve the comforting story that we are good than to ask: What does goodness actually mean? And who gets to decide?
Goodness, Scapegoats, and the Hidden Narratives
The notion of the scapegoat in families or social groups resonates powerfully within this theme. Sometimes the one who “doesn’t fit” becomes symbolic, the container for what the group disowns: fault, shame, dissent, difference. In doing so, the group preserves an image of itself as cohesive, functional, even righteous.
This raises a troubling question: Could the protagonist in one’s own narrative (the inner sense of “I am good”) also be the group’s scapegoat? Paradoxical as it sounds, yes. If the individual refuses to conform to unexamined norms, if they question implicit moral or cultural assumptions, they may be judged, marginalised, or even scapegoated under the guise of “disloyalty” or “being difficult.” Yet in their internal narrative, they remain, or believe themselves to be, the moral centre, the one trying to hold the group to higher ideals.
Goodness, then, isn’t simple. It is deeply entangled with belief systems, self-justification, and identity. As Dostoevsky once wrote in The Brothers Karamazov, “everyone is guilty before everyone for everything.” The suggestion is not that we are irredeemably bad, but that goodness and blame are rarely clean lines; they blur, intertwine, and depend on perspective.
Humility: What Does It Mean, and What Is Goodness Without It?
What does humility really mean? Philosophically and psychologically, humility is not self-deprecation, nor is it false modesty. Instead, it’s often defined as:
- having a realistic awareness of one’s strengths and limitations;
- being open to learning;
- recognising that one’s beliefs might be flawed;
- not cent oneself unduly in narratives of morality.
Recent academic literature describes humility as an accurate view of one’s strengths and limitations. Humble individuals are less invested in self-enhancement and more willing to revise their beliefs when confronted with evidence. Intellectual humility, in particular, asks us to acknowledge uncertainty and the possibility that we may be wrong (Porter & Schumann, 2018).
But what is goodness without humility? A brittle, perhaps authoritarian self-image. If we believe we are good absolutely, we may stop questioning what “good” means, or whose “good” we are serving. We risk becoming blind to the harm we cause, clinging to “goodness” as a shield against self-doubt rather than a practice of self-accountability.
Altruism and Its Shadows
In Altruism, Matthieu Ricard offers a metaphor:
“Altruism is like rings in the water when you toss a pebble. At first they are very small, then they get larger, and finally they embrace the entire surface of the ocean.”
Ricard’s point is that altruism need not always be heroic; even small acts ripple outward. He also reminds us that altruism is not a sacrifice of self so much as an orientation toward the flourishing of others. Yet altruism has shadows. In Pathological Altruism (Oakley et al., 2011), the authors warn that altruism can harm when unexamined, when driven by guilt, identity, or blind obligation rather than reflection. Here, good intentions are not enough; outcomes matter.
Ricard describes altruism as being like tossing a pebble into a still pond. The first ripple is small, contained, barely moving the surface. This is the personal dimension of altruism, the choices you make in your immediate life: kindness to a neighbour, patience with a child, care for yourself. These ripples begin close to you.
As the rings widen, they touch the lives of others, family, friends, and community. A single compassionate act can soften relationships, inspire reciprocity, and shift the emotional climate around you.
As the rings spread further still, they reach the social and even global level. Altruism at scale is how movements for justice, environmental stewardship, or humanitarian aid begin. Small acts ripple outward, intersecting with the ripples of others, eventually shaping whole cultures and systems.
For Ricard, the metaphor conveys two key ideas:
- Interconnectedness – Our actions never stop with us. They always move outward, whether we realise it or not.
- Cumulative impact – No act of altruism is “too small.” Just as many pebbles thrown into the same pond can set the whole surface in motion, countless small compassionate acts can eventually shift society itself.
Ricard contrasts this with ego-driven action, which is more like hurling a rock for the splash; it creates noise and spectacle, but the ripples do not carry far, and the pond soon stills again. True altruism, by contrast, is subtle yet enduring, extending outward in ways we cannot always predict or measure.
History shows us that even large-scale efforts to “do good” can backfire when humility and listening are absent. This is where the saviour complex emerges: the unexamined belief that one knows what is best for others, often silencing the very voices of those one seeks to help. The danger is that the act of “being good” becomes more about preserving one’s self-image or power than about genuine care or effective change.
This tension is echoed in Emmanuel Levinas’ philosophy: for Levinas, true ethics begins with responsibility for the Other, but such responsibility is always infinite, and can overwhelm. To live altruistically requires both compassion and discernment; otherwise, “goodness” itself becomes destructive.
Belief Systems and the Johari Window
Psychology reveals that much of what we believe about our own goodness is tied to our belief systems and self-image. The Johari Window provides a useful metaphor:
- Arena: what is known to self and known to others
- Blind spot: what others see that we don’t
- Façade: what we know but others don’t
- Unknown: what neither we nor others see
Our “goodness” often resides in the blind spot or façade. Others may see through our moral posturing, or we may keep secret the parts of ourselves that contradict our self-image.
Used in self-help, the Johari Window becomes a tool of reflection: What am I hiding? What might others see that I can’t? How might feedback, journaling, or honest conversation shrink my blind spot?
In therapy, it can be even more powerful. A therapist can help a client explore the façade (what is withheld out of shame or fear) and gently illuminate the blind spot (what others perceive but the client doesn’t). Over time, as trust deepens, the arena expands, the known self becomes more authentic, transparent, whole. This is the examined life in practice: shrinking illusion, enlarging awareness.
Popular Culture and the Self-Justified Protagonist
Fictional characters often embody this tension. Darth Vader believed he was restoring order. Walter White, the chemistry teacher turned methamphetamine kingpin in Breaking Bad, convinced himself his descent into crime was “for his family.” At first, he claims necessity, paying for cancer treatment, but over time, the truth emerges: his choices are driven by pride, ego, and power. To himself, he remains the protagonist, the one holding the narrative together.
In real life, too, people who harm often sincerely believe they are serving a greater good, protecting themselves, or acting out of necessity. This gap between intent, impact, and self-image is wide, and it is where humility is most urgently needed.
Mean People, Perspective, and Curiosity
I recently saw a social media post claiming, “Mean people are unhappy people.” At first glance, it feels true: unhappiness can breed cruelty. But is it that simple? Surely meanness has more to do with perspective, belief, and context.
To say “no” to someone may cast you as the “mean” person in their story. Yet that “no” may be an act of self-care, a refusal to perpetuate harm, or remain in toxic environments. Without context, empathy, and curiosity, we cannot truly understand another’s choice.
The examined life requires precisely this kind of curiosity: the humility to admit we don’t know the whole picture, the willingness to imagine another’s perspective, and the courage to examine our own biases when we label someone “mean” or “good.” Too often, we judge quickly, without reflection. What if goodness begins not with certainty, but with curiosity?
As Rilke wrote in his Letters to a Young Poet: “Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves.”
What Is “Good,” Anyway?
When we ask what it means to be good, we stumble on the paradox that what one person sees as “good” may be another’s “bad.” Cultural norms, family systems, and belief structures all carry their own moral compasses. In some contexts, goodness is characterised by obedience and loyalty; in others, it is defined by honesty and accountability.
So, is authenticity – living in alignment with one’s inner truth – what we should be aiming for? Authenticity can be costly. To be authentic may mean refusing to play the role of dutiful child, quiet partner, or convenient scapegoat. It may mean breaking from the script others assign us.
This raises the painful question of estrangement. Is the one who walks away, who sets boundaries, who refuses to collude in silence, truly “bad”? Or is the refusal to acknowledge harm, the stance of a parent or authority who believes themselves above reproach, an abdication of goodness, a form of emotional immaturity, even narcissism? Estrangement disrupts the family’s shared narrative of goodness, and often the one who leaves is cast as the villain. Yet sometimes walking away is the only act of integrity left. Perhaps the admittance of mistakes, using honesty, integrity and self-compassion. Everyone makes a ripple. Accepting this and working with the effect of the ripples rather than avoiding them is key.
Here, Carl Jung’s concept of the shadow self becomes relevant. The shadow represents the parts of ourselves that we repress or deny, including anger, envy, shame, greed, and fear. Left unexamined, the shadow leaks out unconsciously, projected onto others, scapegoated, or lived out in destructive patterns. To live an examined life is to confront this shadow, to admit we are not purely good or purely bad, but complex, capable of both compassion and cruelty, and in doing so, we lessen the ripple effect.
So perhaps goodness is not about purity or righteousness. It is about self-accountability, the courage to face one’s shadow, to acknowledge harm, to stay open to feedback and growth. Without humility, “being good” risks becoming little more than performance, a shield against shame, a denial of responsibility.
Authenticity, then, may not always look good from the outside; it may involve rupture, estrangement, and difficult truths. Yet it may be closer to a deeper form of goodness: one grounded in honesty, humility, and the willingness to examine both the light and the dark within us.
Growth Through Adversity
Adversity is often framed as an enemy to overcome, something that stands between us and the life we wish to live. Yet many thinkers and researchers remind us that hardship is not only an obstacle, but also a teacher. The Stoic philosopher Epictetus argued that difficulty is what trains the soul: “Difficulties are things that show a person what they are.” Without testing, there is no resilience; without loss, no appreciation of presence.
Modern psychology echoes this ancient wisdom. Research on post-traumatic growth (Tedeschi & Calhoun, 2004) shows that people who experience profound struggles, illness, loss, estrangement, or crisis often emerge with a deeper appreciation for life, strengthened relationships, a sharper sense of personal strength, or a reorientation toward meaning. This doesn’t romanticise suffering, nor does it deny the real pain adversity brings. Rather, it acknowledges that growth and grief can coexist, that one does not cancel out the other.
In Man’s Search for Meaning, Viktor Frankl (1946) described how, even in the despair of concentration camps, individuals could still choose their stance toward suffering and, in that choice, reclaim a form of freedom. Adversity, then, becomes a crucible: not one we would ever wish for, but one in which depth, humility, and compassion are forged. As Karl Dawson (2010) states, we cannot change what happened to us, but we can change how we feel about it.
Growth through adversity is not linear, nor is it guaranteed. However, when met with curiosity, reflection, and a willingness to engage with the shadow self, adversity can become the soil from which unexpected strength and authenticity grow.
Excerpts from Philosophy and Literature
- Socrates: “The unexamined life is not worth living.”
- Jung: “One does not become enlightened by imagining figures of light, but by making the darkness conscious.”
- Dostoevsky: “Everyone is guilty before everyone for everything.”
- Rilke: “Try to love the questions themselves.”
- Ricard: “Altruism is like rings in the water… finally they embrace the entire surface of the ocean.”
References
Dawson, K. (2010) Matrix reimprinting using EFT. Carlsbad, CA: Hay House.
Dostoevsky, F. (1990) The brothers Karamazov. Translated by R. Pevear and L. Volokhonsky. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux. (Original work published 1880).
Epictetus (1995) The handbook (The Enchiridion). Translated by N.P. White. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing. (Original work published ca. 125 CE).
Frankl, V.E. (2006) Man’s search for meaning. Translated by I. Lasch. Boston: Beacon Press. (Original work published 1946).
Jung, C.G. (1959) Aion: Researches into the phenomenology of the self. Translated by R.F.C. Hull. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.
Levinas, E. (1969) Totality and infinity: An essay on exteriority. Translated by A. Lingis. Pittsburgh: Duquesne University Press.
Oakley, B., Knafo, A., Madhavan, G. and Wilson, D.S. (eds.) (2011) Pathological altruism. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Porter, T. and Schumann, K. (2018) ‘Intellectual humility and openness to the opposing view’, Journal of Positive Psychology, 13(5), pp. 509–519. doi:10.1080/17439760.2017.1388435.
Ricard, M. (2015) Altruism: The power of compassion to change yourself and the world. London: Atlantic Books.
Rilke, R.M. (2001) Letters to a young poet. Translated by S. Mitchell. New York: Random House.
Socrates (1997) ‘Apology’. Translated by G.M.A. Grube. In: Cooper, J.M. and Hutchinson, D.S. (eds.) Plato: Complete works. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing, pp. 17–36.
