When I was a child, I thought right and wrong were just multiple-choice questions. A was right, B was wrong. If you got it wrong, you just corrected it, and the teacher would only put a red cross on the paper; if you got it right, you got a big checkmark. The world was so simple back then, even morality had standard answers. It was only after I grew up that I realized life doesn't have A or B, let alone someone standing at the podium telling us, "Choose C for this question." Most of the time, I don't even know if this is a question at all.When I was a kid, I copied my deskmate's homework, and of course, I knew it was "wrong." But that kind of wrong was clear-cut and simple—if you got caught, you got scolded. After growing up, I found that even "copying" had become difficult. Others seemed to walk a smooth path, with clear goals and ready-made routes, but when I tried to follow the same path, I found I couldn't copy it at all. Someone else's choices never quite fit me. The rhythm didn't match, the abilities didn't match, even the desires in my heart didn't match...It turns out life isn't a standardized test paper. We are all different, with no uniform layout. No matter how beautifully others write their answers, they're not answering the same set of questions.I began to realize that the matter of right and wrong is far less clear than it was in childhood.We often have double standards. When a friend is late, I think: This person has a terrible sense of time. When I'm late, I explain: It was an unexpected situation (When someone else fails at a choice, I think they made a poor judgment; when I mess up myself, I find it excusable. If right and wrong were truly absolute, why would the standard change just because the subject changes?Sometimes, the "right" things end up costing me. I remember that time I was traveling in Hong Kong and followed a guide to a "must-eat restaurant." I waited in line for almost an hour. Shops in Hong Kong are usually very small, and I was shoulder to shoulder with strangers. At that moment, I told myself: Is this right? It seems everyone likes the taste of this place. But when I finally got a seat and actually ate the food, it just felt ordinary.Yeah, "right" is standard, but it has no surprise at all.Don't we often do this too? Take the "right" path, study the "right" major, say the "right" things, live the "right" life. Yet deep down, we've never felt satisfied with any of these "right" things.On the contrary, those "wrong" things sometimes bring momentary pleasure. Oversleeping the alarm gives you an extra half hour in bed. Knowing full well you should be on a diet, you secretly order takeout late at night. Putting off what you should do until tomorrow. When you should be rational and restrained, you just go ahead and act on impulse.Those wrongs are all real, but like stolen candy, the sweetness is so genuine.But the problem is, after the sweetness, we often pay a higher price, a greater cost. Regret is probably the most expensive cost of all. It hurts more than being scolded, weighs heavier than a single failure. Being scolded is just momentary pain, but regret replays itself over and over."If only I had..." That sentence looping in your mind cuts sharper than any blame.So I've slowly come to realize that maybe the problem isn't about what is absolutely right or absolutely wrong. The real difficulty is, at the moment of choice—am I willing to take responsibility for that choice?Right doesn't necessarily feel good; wrong doesn't have to be destructive. The key is, after you've made the choice, you don't comfort yourself with double standards.Abandon the pursuit of a perfect "correct answer," and instead pursue a kind of "owning it." Own your choice, own your judgment, own the pain that comes with the result. Don't blame the circumstances, don't blame others, don't soothe yourself with double standards—that's a thousand times better than agonizing over it.Perhaps right and wrong have never been objective options; they are just the weight we are unwilling to bear.When I was a child, I thought right meant being praised, and wrong meant being punished. Now I'd rather believe: Right is doing something and not regretting it; wrong is refusing to admit it after I've made a mistake.When we stop clinging to standard answers and learn to sign off on our own choices, maybe that's the moment we truly get close to "right."He who has a why to live can bear almost any how. — Nietzsche When we find our own "why," right and wrong are no longer just external judgments, but results we are willing to bear ourselves.
What Is Right, What Is Wrong
When I was a child, I thought right and wrong were just multiple-choice questions. A was right, B was wrong. If you got it wrong, you just corrected it, and the teacher would only put a red cross on the paper; if you got it right, you got a big checkmark. The world was so simple back then, even morality had standard answers. It was only after I grew up that I realized life doesn't have A or B, let alone someone standing at the podium telling us, "Choose C for this question." Most of the time, I don't even know if this is a question at all.
When I was a kid, I copied my deskmate's homework, and of course, I knew it was "wrong." But that kind of wrong was clear-cut and simple—if you got caught, you got scolded. After growing up, I found that even "copying" had become difficult. Others seemed to walk a smooth path, with clear goals and ready-made routes, but when I tried to follow the same path, I found I couldn't copy it at all. Someone else's choices never quite fit me. The rhythm didn't match, the abilities didn't match, even the desires in my heart didn't match...
It turns out life isn't a standardized test paper. We are all different, with no uniform layout. No matter how beautifully others write their answers, they're not answering the same set of questions.
I began to realize that the matter of right and wrong is far less clear than it was in childhood.
We often have double standards. When a friend is late, I think: This person has a terrible sense of time. When I'm late, I explain: It was an unexpected situation (
When someone else fails at a choice, I think they made a poor judgment; when I mess up myself, I find it excusable. If right and wrong were truly absolute, why would the standard change just because the subject changes?
Sometimes, the "right" things end up costing me. I remember that time I was traveling in Hong Kong and followed a guide to a "must-eat restaurant." I waited in line for almost an hour. Shops in Hong Kong are usually very small, and I was shoulder to shoulder with strangers. At that moment, I told myself: Is this right? It seems everyone likes the taste of this place. But when I finally got a seat and actually ate the food, it just felt ordinary.
Yeah, "right" is standard, but it has no surprise at all.
Don't we often do this too? Take the "right" path, study the "right" major, say the "right" things, live the "right" life. Yet deep down, we've never felt satisfied with any of these "right" things.
On the contrary, those "wrong" things sometimes bring momentary pleasure. Oversleeping the alarm gives you an extra half hour in bed. Knowing full well you should be on a diet, you secretly order takeout late at night. Putting off what you should do until tomorrow. When you should be rational and restrained, you just go ahead and act on impulse.
Those wrongs are all real, but like stolen candy, the sweetness is so genuine.
But the problem is, after the sweetness, we often pay a higher price, a greater cost. Regret is probably the most expensive cost of all. It hurts more than being scolded, weighs heavier than a single failure. Being scolded is just momentary pain, but regret replays itself over and over.
"If only I had..." That sentence looping in your mind cuts sharper than any blame.
So I've slowly come to realize that maybe the problem isn't about what is absolutely right or absolutely wrong. The real difficulty is, at the moment of choice—am I willing to take responsibility for that choice?
Right doesn't necessarily feel good; wrong doesn't have to be destructive. The key is, after you've made the choice, you don't comfort yourself with double standards.
Abandon the pursuit of a perfect "correct answer," and instead pursue a kind of "owning it." Own your choice, own your judgment, own the pain that comes with the result. Don't blame the circumstances, don't blame others, don't soothe yourself with double standards—that's a thousand times better than agonizing over it.
Perhaps right and wrong have never been objective options; they are just the weight we are unwilling to bear.
When I was a child, I thought right meant being praised, and wrong meant being punished. Now I'd rather believe: Right is doing something and not regretting it; wrong is refusing to admit it after I've made a mistake.
When we stop clinging to standard answers and learn to sign off on our own choices, maybe that's the moment we truly get close to "right."
When we find our own "why," right and wrong are no longer just external judgments, but results we are willing to bear ourselves.