I sit quietly with this thought, not as an accusation, but as a recognition.

We judge because it is comfortable.

Not because we are cruel. Not because we lack empathy. But because judging gives shape to a world that would otherwise feel too wide, too unfinished, too demanding.

A judgment closes a door. It ends a question. It creates a place to stand.

Without judgment, everything remains open — and openness requires energy.

Judging is efficient. It sorts, labels, protects. It allows us to move through complexity without touching it too deeply. It spares us from lingering, from listening longer than planned, from feeling what might unsettle us.

Sometimes judgment is not superiority. Sometimes it is exhaustion.

We say: this is wrong, and suddenly the conversation ends. We say: this is who they are, and the story becomes manageable.

Judgment creates distance — clean, quiet, controlled.

It is also how we recognize each other. Shared judgments form alliances faster than shared understanding. Agreement on what to reject often precedes any real connection.

Who we are is frequently defined by what we are not.

And even the refusal to judge becomes a judgment of its own.

This is not a call to stop judging. That would be unrealistic.

It is an invitation to notice when judgment becomes a resting place — a place where curiosity ends, where movement stops, where complexity is laid down because it feels heavy.

Perhaps the question is not whether we judge, but how quickly we seek comfort in it.

And what we might discover if, just for a moment longer, we remain without a conclusion.