Cruel Realism: How 'Realists' Lie to Themselves (and Everyone Else)

Dick Gariepy | Big Think Ouchey

Yes, I am fragile. I have been forced to survive things that should have broke me, but didn't. It would be concerning if I were not worse for wear after surviving what I have. My fragility is not a result of weakness, but rather evidence of my resolve to survive that which I had no right surviving.

There are people out there who like to think of themselves as the only grown-ups in the room, the gritty realists. They proudly declare they’ve got the guts to tell you that life is tough, nasty, and short, and if you’re having a rough time, well, it’s because you made some questionable life choices.

This perspective is quite tempting. It gives your ego a nice little boost and lets you off the hook for other people's troubles, because hey, it’s all their fault anyway. If only they were as responsible as you, they wouldn’t be poor, sick, or in a pickle. It’s a moral philosophy perfect for those who want to feel like saints without lifting a finger.

They market this view as realism, as intellectual bravery, and as a commitment to truth.

But here’s the truth they just can’t handle: this so-called "harsh realism" is not realism at all. It’s like a lazy couch potato of an ideology, a nifty way to dodge the messy realities of vulnerability, interconnectedness, and systemic injustice. It’s less about "facts don’t care about your feelings" and more about "I’d rather pretend your problems aren’t real." Yet, here’s a tougher pill they can’t swallow: we’re all vulnerable, and ignoring that doesn’t make it disappear, it just makes things worse.

They call cruelty realism because thinking is hard, and shortcuts are the lazy person's best friend.

The cruel 'realist' rhetoric is the master of this game. It turns moral slacking into a badge of intellectual honor. It claims that not caring is a sign of growing up. You're not heartless, just unsentimental. You're not indifferent, just rational. But if you dig a little, you'll see this "realism" is just self-preservation wearing a morality costume.

The principle is simple: If suffering is always your own fault, then you owe nobody anything. No need to change, sacrifice, or admit you might be part of the problem.

This isn't intellectual muscle. It's the easy road out. Mocking is a breeze compared to understanding. Judging is a cakewalk compared to examining. Blaming is a cinch compared to fixing. It's addictive because it gives you a moral high without any cost.

These "Realists" have a psychological stake in denying vulnerability. If you admit that other people's woes might be due to structural issues that they didn't pick their troubles and can't just walk away, you then have to face the fact that you, too, might be vulnerable. That you might be at the mercy of forces beyond your control. That your comfort isn't proof of your awesomeness but of your luck, your social perch, or your role in the system.

Stout (2019) makes it clear there's a big difference between empathy and sympathy. Sympathy is like being that friend who nods along and says, "Yeah, breakups suck!" when someone’s heart is in pieces. Empathy, on the other hand, is like putting on a pair of magical glasses that let you see the world from their angle. You're not becoming an emotional copycat; you're just being the Sherlock Holmes of feelings, understanding their perspective without diving into the emotional pool yourself. It's like saying, "Wow, that sounds like a bummer," while sipping your coffee and keeping your cool.

To pull this off, you have to juggle two perspectives at once, yours and theirs. Stout calls this a "balancing act" that knocks you off your ego-centered throne. You're channeling their view through your words, tone, or body language, even if it totally messes with your own beliefs. This creates what he dubs a "dialectical encounter": peering through someone else's eyes makes you question your own assumptions. Suddenly, your rock-solid worldview looks more like a wobbly Jenga tower, it's just one way of seeing things, not the way.

And that's where vulnerability sneaks in like a cat burglar. Adopting another's perspective highlights how contingent your own is, it's not some eternal truth carved in stone. Stout compares it to a Hegelian "moment of self-consciousness," where your identity gets put under the microscope. If your self-image hinges on being unbreakable and independent, this scrutiny feels like an existential threat. It's like Stout's lion-tamer analogy: sticking your head in the lion's mouth is fine if you're confident it won't bite. But if you're anxious about change? You skip the circus and stick to watching cat videos instead.

This isn't clinical anxiety, Stout is describing a psychological glitch. Empathy demands "compartmentalization": pausing your own views just for the interaction. But if you're already emotionally revved up (say, fuming about "lazy welfare queens"), your feelings bleed through, making real openness impossible. Stout puts it bluntly:

"If their perspective is threatening to you... adopting it may involve an impossible juggling act" (Stout, 2019, p. 354).

The result? Anxiety flares, and you shut down empathy to protect your mental fortress.

This hits the "realists" right in the gut. Their whole gig is about being the lone wolf: You're a one-person island, success is all about grit and choices, and if you fail, well, that's on you, buddy. No room for pesky things like inequality or bad luck, because that would mean you're vulnerable too. Empathy would blow that facade wide open like a piñata at a birthday party. Imagine feeling for someone buried under medical debt: You'd have to admit that healthcare isn't just about "personal responsibility." As Stout points out, this shakes up "rigid perspectives" that double as emotional armor. So, they dodge it, calling compassion a "weakness" because it pokes holes in their independence fairytale.

They choose cruelty not because it's gutsy, but because it's the path of least resistance. It's a defensive move, a way to duck complexity. Their cruelty isn't courageous. It's just cowardice with a fancy disguise.

Their ideology relies on a series of convenient myths that help maintain intellectual comfort.

The first myth is that of complete individual responsibility. In this narrative, every result stems solely from personal decisions. Context is dismissed, history is merely an afterthought, and social structure is seen as an excuse.

If you are poor, it's because you made poor choices. If you are homeless, it's because you didn't work hard enough. If you are sick and bankrupt, it's because you failed to plan properly.

Iris Marion Young (2011), in her chapter "Avoiding Responsibility," takes a humorous jab at how folks, especially those living the cushy life, manage to dodge accountability for the big bad world of structural injustices. She spills the beans on how everyday excuses let people pretend they're not part of the problem, pointing out these convenient blind spots that keep everything just as it is. Young cheekily notes that this evasion is baked into 'realist' ideology, where "individual freedom" is the perfect cover for group-level slacking off.

Young calls out some classic cop-outs like the "not my job" attitude and the denial of any connection to the problem. The "not my job" mantra is a favorite among those who think tackling injustice isn't in their job description, whether at home, work, or in society. People might nod along about issues like poverty but then pass the buck to governments or charities, claiming it's not their circus, not their monkeys. This mindset thrives in places where roles are as narrowly defined as a cat's walking path, letting people unwittingly add to the chaos without feeling the itch to change. Young likens this to noticing a house fire but insisting you're only there to water the plants. Classic!

Denial of connection is like saying, "I don't know them" at a family reunion, pretending you have no ties to anyone else. It's like buying cheap clothes and ignoring the fact that you're indirectly supporting sweatshop labor, as if your shopping habits end at your closet door. Young calls this the "liability model," where you only get blamed if you're caught red-handed. Structural harms are like a group project where nobody knows who did what, so there's no one to point fingers at. We all enjoy the perks (like bargain prices and stable markets) but act like we're not part of the problem because we're not the ones directly causing the mess.

Welcome to the 'realist' universe, where everyone is an island, and society is just a bunch of islands pretending not to be a continent. The cruel realist loves to shout about personal responsibility when things go south, conveniently ignoring the systemic benefits they enjoy. Young calls out this hypocrisy, likening it to the "Not my job" attitude that dismisses welfare taxes as pointless and denies global inequality by claiming to be a savvy shopper. This worldview lets people dodge guilt like a game of moral limbo, narrowing responsibility to a point where they can just step over it. Young points out that these attitudes are as common as they are ethically questionable, allowing harm to persist under the guise of "realism" (Young, 2011, p. 154).

Young's big reveal? These aren't just odd behaviors; they're the gears that keep the privilege machine running smoothly. In a world that loves the privileged, this avoidance is like oil for the status quo engine. The "I can do it myself" anthem, claim they're facing "harsh truths" but conveniently ignore the fact that we're all in this together. It's not bravery; it's blissful ignorance. True responsibility, Young argues, means teaming up to "transform the structures" (Young, 2011, p. 112). Anything less is just a game of dodgeball with accountability.

Iris Marion Young (2011), in "Avoiding Responsibility," outlines how people avoid accountability for structural injustices using tactics like "not my job" thinking and denial of connection. These rationalizations allow individuals to ignore harms they benefit from, aligning with individualism, which views society as isolated players.

"Not my job" is dismissing injustice fixes as outside personal roles, like work or family. Issues like poverty are seen as government problems, allowing individuals to contribute to harm (e.g., buying cheap goods from exploitative chains) without feeling responsible. Young links this to modern societies' narrow role definitions, where "citizenship" is limited to voting, not shared duty (Young, 2011, p. 166). Cruel realists use this to reject welfare taxes, ignoring collective responsibility.

Denial of connection involves ignoring links to others through economies or institutions. Young describes this as a "liability model" hangover, where blame requires a direct line. Structural issues are seen as too vague. For example, benefiting from affordable rent in a gentrifying area is detached from rising evictions. Young argues we're all interconnected (Young, 2011, pp. 158–159), but the 'realist' maintain isolation by denying this: "Global inequality? Not my doing; I just shop smart."

These are systemic enablers of injustice. Young asserts that evasion is common in rigged societies but ethically empty (Young, 2011, p. 154). It supports blaming individuals and absolving the system. The solution? Acknowledge connections and work collectively.

The second myth is that suffering is always proof of personal failure.

These "realists" often turn tragedy into a morality tale, viewing misfortune as evidence of moral deficiency. Poverty is seen as laziness, disability as a personal failing, and mental illness as weakness. This thinking implies suffering is deserved, allowing them to avoid caring or taking action. They can moralize others' pain without questioning systemic issues, conveniently patting themselves on the back for supposedly overcoming life's challenges through willpower.

But this is nonsense. Absolute, self-serving drivel.

Wendell (1996) challenges the myth of disability as merely bad luck, highlighting its social construction. She argues that suffering is often created and intensified by societal norms deemed "natural" and fair. Disability isn't just a biological issue but a result of environments unfriendly to differences. For instance, a wheelchair user is disadvantaged by a world with stairs and no ramps, not by personal failure. Workplaces prioritize productivity, neglecting those with chronic pain or fatigue, thus disabling them through a system that values constant output. Cultural norms further stigmatize deviations from the able-bodied ideal, labeling scars as "ugly" and neurodivergence as "weird," turning difference into perceived defects.

Barriers are deliberate choices social, architectural, economic, that exclude and punish. Poverty worsens the situation; without resources, minor impairments lead to isolation (Wendell, 1996) Mental illness is often intensified by stress from unstable jobs, lack of support, and societal pressure. While realists emphasize personal responsibility, Wendell highlights systemic failure. If suffering were "deserved," why do the privileged receive endless chances while the vulnerable are blamed for structural issues?

This isn't abstract, it's direct refutation of realist hypocrisy. Their blame-the-victim approach isn't realism; it's a way to avoid admitting that their "free market" and "individual liberty" often cause the hardships they ridicule. Wendell shows that by changing the system, adding ramps, flexible work, and destigmatizing difference, those labeled as "failures" become participants. However, this requires caring, which is seen as a weakness.

These people struggle to accept this because it challenges their entire moral framework. It means recognizing that suffering is not merely a personal issue, it’s political and structural. It involves all of us.

Thus, they prefer the comforting falsehood: if you’re suffering, it’s due to your own mistakes.

This is a convenient narrative for those who wish to feel morally upright while remaining inactive.

The third misconception is that empathy signifies weakness.

This is the belief they seem most proud of.

"Facts don’t care about your feelings" is a popular 'realist' slogan, often used to dismiss nuanced or emotional perspectives. Coined by Ben Shapiro, it suggests a preference for cold, hard facts over empathy or understanding of human experiences. However, this phrase is criticized for being a simplistic cop-out, ignoring the complex realities behind people's lives and reducing personal hardships to irrelevant emotions.

Elisa Magrì (2019) argues that empathy is essential to moral reasoning, not just an emotional add-on. She emphasizes "epistemic dignity," which values personal experiences and perspectives as valid and deserving of respect. This approach challenges the cruelty of the realist's stance, suggesting that dismissing empathy is a failure of moral imagination and a refusal to engage with the full picture of reality.

Magrì (2019) highlights that empathy involves respecting others' autonomy and acknowledging their subjective experiences. Without empathy, facts can be misused as weapons devoid of human context. Realists often reject empathy because it forces them to confront uncomfortable truths about systemic injustices and interconnectedness.

Critics argue that rejection of empathy stems from a desire to maintain a myth of invulnerability and self-reliance, avoiding the vulnerability that empathy exposes. This perspective is seen as a fragile illusion, ignoring the universal condition of vulnerability and the structural injustices that exacerbate suffering.

Ultimately, "facts don’t care about your feelings" is viewed as willful blindness. Feelings reveal the human costs that are often ignored, and acknowledging them is crucial for genuine understanding and change. Success does not indicate superiority but rather that one has not been targeted by systemic issues this time.

Individuals may reject this because it demands too much. It requires them to understand complexity, acknowledge connections, and relinquish the comfort of moral purity.

By refusing, they make themselves more vulnerable, as the system they defend so fervently can turn against them as well. They’re just one missed paycheck or illness away from realizing how unprepared they truly are.

Compassion is not optional.

It isn't about being soft or indulgent.

It's about being realistic.

Ignoring the suffering of others doesn't make it vanish; it exacerbates it and allows harm to grow and spread.

Lisa Blackman's (2015) work in "Affective Politics, Debility and Hearing Voices: Towards a Feminist Politics of Ordinary Suffering" is a game-changer for how we think about pain, vulnerability, and politics. She doesn't just tweak the edges of neoliberal narratives, she dynamites them. At its core, Blackman reinterprets suffering not as some isolated personal flaw or moral failing, but as a common, collective reaction to systemic oppression. In a world dominated by neoliberalism (which 'realist' cheerlead with gusto), suffering gets spun as individual weakness: You're depressed? Lazy. Broke? Bad choices. Hearing voices? Crazy. This framing pathologizes hardship, turning it into a "you" problem that justifies inaction, no need for societal fixes if it's all on the sufferer.

Blackman flips this on its head. Drawing from feminist, queer, and critical disability studies, she argues suffering is "ordinary, woven into the fabric of capitalist grind. It's not exceptional; it's the predictable fallout of systems that demand endless productivity, self-reliance, and invulnerability. Neoliberalism, with its 'realist' boosters, insists on this invulnerability myth: Pull yourself up, or perish. But Blackman exposes it as an "ideological trick" (Blackman, 2015, p. 26). By individualizing suffering, it rationalizes doing nothing while the world spirals, poverty, mental health crises, chronic illness all become "personal responsibilities," absolving the powerful of any role in creating them.

Take her focus on "debility": Blackman borrows from Jasbir Puar to describe how neoliberalism profits from wearing people down, slow death through exhaustion, precarity, and erosion of supports. But she pushes further, linking this to "affective politics," where feelings like despair or anxiety aren't private quirks but signals of shared oppression. Voice-hearing, for instance, isn't just psychosis to medicate away; it's often tied to trauma from abuse, racism, or institutional violence. Blackman spotlights the Hearing Voices Network, where survivors reframe hallucinations as meaningful responses to hidden histories, not brain glitches. This collective reframing turns suffering into a site of resistance: "Psychosis communicates" (Blackman, 2015, p. 28), demanding we listen to submerged stories of social harm.

This is where compassion enters as the only logical response to shared vulnerability. Blackman echoes Ann Cvetkovich's "public feelings" project: Feeling bad isn't weakness, it's a ground for transformation. Compassion recognizes no one's immune; your stability (a steady job, mental health) links to others' (fair wages, accessible care). It rejects cruelty, "suck it up", for solidarity: Collective solutions like policy reforms (universal healthcare), mutual aid (community networks), and safety nets that don't quiz your "worthiness" to survive.

Blackman's feminist twist? She critiques how women's "madness" (rage, silence, dissociation) gets medicalized under patriarchy and capitalism, echoing Valerie Walkerdine and Angela McRobbie. Suffering becomes a feminist archive, think Frances Farmer's lobotomy as icon of silenced protest. By politicizing "ordinary suffering," Blackman calls for "psychologies of survival" (Blackman, 2015, p. 26): Tools to expose neoliberal costs, foster resilience, and build futures beyond individualism.

In short, Blackman's not offering pity parties, she's arming us against systems that thrive on our isolation. Compassion isn't soft; it's strategic, turning vulnerability into collective power. Their inaction? That's the real weakness.

It's not utopian thinking; it's the only path forward that avoids descending into cruelty.

True autonomy isn't about isolation.

It's founded on shared responsibility.

Empathy isn't a weakness. It's the discipline of understanding someone else's reality and acknowledging its moral significance.

It's essential for justice.

The 'realist' may call this sentimental.

But in truth, it's the only intellectually honest stance.

It acknowledges: I am vulnerable. So are you. Our destinies are linked. We can pretend otherwise, but the universe is indifferent to our illusions.

The universe doesn't care.

That's why we must.

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Thick Thought Thumper -----> "Shadows Of Shared Fragility"

References

Blackman, L. (2015). Affective politics, debility, and hearing voices: Towards a feminist politics of ordinary suffering. Feminist Review, 111(1), 25–41. https://doi.org/10.1057/fr.2015.24

Magrì, E. (2019). Empathy, respect, and vulnerability. International Journal of Philosophical Studies, 27(2), 327–346. https://doi.org/10.1080/09672559.2019.1598657

Stout, R. (2019). Empathy, vulnerability, and anxiety. International Journal of Philosophical Studies, 27(2), 347–357. https://doi.org/10.1080/09672559.2019.1598658

Wendell, S. (1996). The rejected body: Feminist philosophical reflections on disability. Routledge.

Young, I. M. (2011). A social connection model of responsibility. In Responsibility for justice (pp. 95–122). Oxford University Press. https://doi.org/10.1093/acprof:oso/9780195392388.003.0004

Young, I. M. (2011). Avoiding responsibility. In Responsibility for justice (pp. 153–170). Oxford University Press. https://doi.org/10.1093/acprof:oso/9780195392388.003.0006

Cruel Realism