The Witness

There is a fundamental asymmetry in how we assign blame.

Imagine this scenario: A disease threatens 10 out of 10,000 children. A vaccine could prevent those deaths but will itself cause death in 5 children due to side effects. Would you vaccinate your child?

In 1994, researchers presented parents with the same question. Most refused the vaccine. They would rather risk 10 deaths by doing nothing than cause 5 deaths by acting. Twice the harm, half the guilt.

This is Omission Bias. Our tendency to see harm caused by inaction as less wrong than harm caused by action, even when the outcome is the same. A death caused by action feels like responsibility. A death allowed by inaction feels like fate.

Our minds are wired to see inaction differently than action. Action creates authorship. To act is to place our name beside the consequence. To do nothing is to fade into the margins, a witness to what was already unfolding.

The bias hides in polite silences, unanswered messages, and plans we let expire.

Studies across medical ethics show the same pattern. Doctors often find withdrawing life support psychologically harder than never starting it, even though ethically the decisions are equivalent.

But the bias weakens under one condition: duty. A 2006 study found that people who hesitate in personal decisions act decisively when placed in professional roles with clear responsibility.

A parent refuses to vaccinate their own child but, as a public health official, mandates vaccination policy. A doctor declines aggressive treatment for herself but prescribes it for her patients. The math stays the same. Only the moral framing changes.

We call it prudence, but it is comfort disguised as ethics. For ourselves, inaction feels like escape. In our roles, it becomes neglect. The bias does not vanish when we leave the office. It just waits for us to return to our personal lives, where no one else is watching.

There is a version of us that makes hard calls more clearly. We inhabit this version at work. When advising a colleague or creating policy, we assess the outcomes and act.

But the clarity we reserve for professional responsibility evaporates the moment personal comfort is at stake. We are kinder to strangers than to ourselves. This is a compassion problem.

We extend to others what we deny ourselves: the grace of difficult honesty.

We advise a friend to address a failing relationship. We encourage a family member to take control of their health. Yet we often grant ourselves permission to wait, to stay silent, to let things unfold.

Ask yourself this question. If I were advising a friend through my exact situation, what would I tell them to do?

The answer will arrive quickly. Because here is the truth you already know: you are always choosing. Waiting is a choice. Silence is a choice. Letting things unfold is a choice.

Every moment of inaction edits your character. The outcome does not care whether you feel like the author. You simply are.

When was the last time you let something end instead of ending it yourself?

Hit reply and tell me. What faded? How long did you watch it happen? What did you tell yourself while you waited?

I read every response. You are not the only one standing still. Next week, I will share one reflection here. Your story might be exactly what someone else needs to read.