I’ve been thinking a lot about judgment lately. Not just the kind we receive from others, but the kind we quietly place on ourselves—in coffee shops, while scrolling through Instagram, or just walking down the street. It seems to hang over everything, subtle but insistent, shaping how we move, speak, dress and think. It tells us how to behave and punishes us—socially, emotionally, even neurologically—when we step out of line of social normality.

As a therapist, and as someone who navigates this delicate space, I see how deeply judgment affects us. It’s both ancient and modern, both survival mechanism and cultural toxin. In evolutionary terms, judgment served as social glue—if you weren’t accepted by your tribe, your survival was at stake. Today, that biological wiring hasn’t changed much, even if our environments have. Our brains still light up in pain centers when we feel socially rejected.

Judgment now comes through algorithms and anonymous comment sections. It travels faster, strikes harder, and lingers longer. And it shows up clinically. I see it manifest in anxiety, perfectionism, burnout, loneliness. People are terrified of not being “enough” for standards that are rarely clear, rarely fair, and almost always in flux.

But judgment isn’t only external. We internalize it. It shapes how we perceive our bodies, our worth, our relationships, even our futures. And here’s the paradox: it is also a tool for social correction. Without it, norms wouldn’t exist. Norms keep societies cohesive. They tell us not to hurt others, to care, to contribute. In that way, judgment can be functional. But when norms become unanchored from shared values, judgment becomes more about conformity than morality.

This is where I believe things get dangerous.

We’re living in an era of moral dilution. As traditional frameworks—religion, extended family, community rites—decline, people are left navigating right and wrong through fragmented and often conflicting lenses. Multiculturalism, globalism, and pluralism have incredible strengths—they broaden our understanding of humanity. But they can also dilute a sense of rooted identity, especially when there’s no coherent value framework to replace what was lost.

Historically, cultures leaned on religion to define purpose, value, community. It wasn’t perfect, and it certainly came with exclusion and control, but it gave people a roadmap. Take that away, and what remains? Often, it’s a vacuum that gets filled with self-help jargon, social media ideals, or extreme ideologies.

That said, the decline of traditional religious structures has also opened doors for many who felt excluded by them. We now live in a time where personal autonomy and spiritual exploration are more accessible. But this freedom comes with a cost: a lack of shared moral language. And without that, judgment becomes reactive rather than reflective.

This fragmentation leads to something I’ve seen too often: the collapse of resilience.

Our grandparents lived through wars, rationing, political upheaval. They didn’t have therapy apps or wellness influencers. They had resilience, forged in discomfort and collective purpose. They knew the value of patience, of commitment, of enduring hardship for something larger than themselves. And they weren’t immune to suffering—it was everywhere. But they also celebrated wins that were hard-earned: the return of a loved one from war, the pride of building a family home, the dignity in keeping a community fed.

Today, many young people are more emotionally aware, which is beautiful and necessary, but often less equipped to endure stress, challenge, or slow growth. Emotional support is more available than ever, yet mental health crises are rising. Why?

Because resilience isn’t built in comfort. It’s built in resistance—in friction, in failing forward, in holding onto something meaningful during adversity. But it also needs support. We must not romanticize suffering or dismiss the need for care. The key is balance: struggle with support, challenge with connection.

Modern tribes in Papua New Guinea, the Amazon, and parts of Africa offer profound insights here. These communities often embrace a deep integration between the individual and the collective. Rites of passage are embedded into the culture, not as trauma, but as transformation. Connection to land, ancestors, and purpose are not abstract—they are daily, tangible, and embodied. Mental illness is often seen not as an individual pathology but as a communal imbalance that calls for re-alignment rather than isolation.

What’s striking is that these communities, while materially modest, often exhibit resilience, presence, and relational intelligence at levels that far exceed their more industrialized counterparts. That’s not to idealize them—they have their challenges—but it speaks volumes about the power of belonging, purpose, and rhythm.

Japanese culture too, provides valuable philosophical tools for mental resilience. Concepts like Shikata ga nai (“it cannot be helped”) teach acceptance in the face of the uncontrollable—a powerful counterbalance to Western culture’s obsession with control and optimization. Wabi-sabi, the appreciation of imperfection, encourages us to find beauty in the flawed and transient. Ikigai, or the reason for being, reminds individuals to live with purpose, no matter how small. These are not abstract ideals—they are embedded in Japanese daily life, rituals, and relationships. Integrating these into our own lives could offer a gentle but profound shift toward self-compassion and meaning.

Additional philosophies like Mottainai (a sense of regret concerning waste) and Gaman (enduring the seemingly unbearable with patience and dignity) also highlight the Japanese cultural focus on restraint, humility, and long-term perspective—values that, if embraced, could soothe the frenetic pace of Western consumer-driven life.

Now contrast that with modern Western life. Instant gratification is our currency. Social media is a dopamine slot machine. Likes, shares, and metrics masquerade as connection. It erodes patience, fuels comparison, and fosters a chronic dissatisfaction. People no longer sit with discomfort—they swipe past it. Or worse, they believe discomfort means something’s wrong.

This constant stimulation has real clinical impact. Studies show rising rates of anxiety, attention disorders, and depression—particularly in adolescents whose brains are still developing. The capacity for sustained focus, delayed reward, and internal validation is being lost. Skills once passed down—emotional regulation, conflict resolution, humility—are now outsourced or overlooked.

So how do we integrate these insights without appropriating or distorting them? How do we build mental strength without abandoning compassion?

One place to start is in education. Our current schooling model often enforces conformity, comparison, and overstimulation. What if schools prioritized emotional literacy, ethical philosophy, cultural identity, and life skills just as much as math and science? What if students were taught how to regulate their nervous systems, sit with failure, or disagree respectfully?

Scandinavian countries, especially Finland, offer compelling models for such an approach. Their education systems emphasize play in early years, de-emphasize standardized testing, and focus on holistic development rather than competition. Teachers are highly respected, well-trained, and trusted to adapt curricula to students’ needs. School days are shorter, homework is minimal, and students are encouraged to explore, collaborate, and rest. This creates not only happier students but resilient, well-rounded citizens who are better equipped to handle life’s complexities.

I believe it would change everything. But education reform must be culturally sensitive and inclusive. It should draw from diverse wisdom traditions and community needs, not just top-down policy shifts.

We also need to normalize struggle. Not performative vulnerability, but the slow, sometimes unsexy process of becoming whole. That means valuing tradition alongside technology, community alongside individuality, and resilience alongside rest.

Judgment isn’t going away. But maybe we can change the way we engage with it. We can learn to question where it comes from, whether it’s rooted in shared ethics or shallow aesthetics. We can decide if it builds character or just cages us in shame.

And maybe, most importantly, we can teach ourselves and each other that we don’t have to fear being seen. That worth isn’t about perfection, and belonging isn’t about sameness.

Maybe judgment, when met with curiosity and compassion, can be alchemized into something useful—a mirror not of what we lack, but of what we’re still learning to become.

Reflections of Wisdom

Looking across cultures, generations, and philosophies, a picture emerges—not one of despair, but of possibility. Yes, we’re in a mental health crisis, but we are also in a time of awakening. The challenge now is not to return to the past, but to remember it. To take the grit of our grandparents, the spiritual architecture of ancient cultures, the mindful slowness of Japan, the balanced education models of Scandinavia, and the communal ethos of tribal life—and let them inform a new path forward.

Modern tools are not inherently bad; they are only dangerous when untethered from meaning. Education, tradition, ritual, rest, and responsibility—these are the anchors that can stabilize the storm.

So let us not throw away judgment, nor worship it. Let us instead cultivate discernment. Let us teach resilience without cruelty. Let us value the old not for its nostalgia, but for its proven wisdom. And let us allow ourselves to be human: fallible, feeling, still becoming.

— ThriveAlly