I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve been called an “emotional fool.” The phrase follows me like an uninvited shadow — sometimes whispered in a tone that almost sounds like pity, sometimes spat out as an insult I am supposed to absorb quietly. “You trust too easily.” “You let people use you.” “You’re too soft for this world.” I have heard it from friends, from family, from people who think they know me well enough to diagnose me like a patient with an incurable flaw. The words sting not because they’re harsh, but because they come dressed as advice — as if the problem isn’t that people lie, manipulate, and betray, but that I dared to believe them. Somehow, my ability to see good in others, to give chances, to hold on to hope — is treated like a weakness that needs correction.
And I wonder — why is it always people like me who are told to change? Why are we the ones constantly advised to “be smarter,” “be colder,” “be tougher,” while those who exploit, deceive, and manipulate are excused, even admired, for being “clever”? Why does the world preach, “Don’t be too trusting,” instead of demanding, “Don’t betray someone’s trust”? Why is the solution always for me to grow thorns, instead of others being told to stop cutting into soft skin?
This question haunts me in the quietest hours. After yet another heartbreak, yet another disappointment, I find myself lying awake in the dark, scrolling through memories like evidence, replaying conversations word for word. I hunt for the moment I should have known better, the red flag I should have noticed, the warning I should have listened to. And in the stillness of those nights, when the silence feels heavier than the betrayal itself, I hear the accusations again — naïve, gullible, too eager to believe. And for a moment, I almost start to believe them.
But then something inside me resists. I ask myself: is it really foolish to believe in goodness? Is it foolish to give people a chance to be exactly who they said they were? Or is it the world that is foolish — a world that has normalized betrayal so much that trust is mocked, hope is ridiculed, and kindness is mistaken for weakness? Maybe the curse is not in being an “emotional fool” at all. Maybe the curse is living in a world that treats cruelty as intelligence and tenderness as stupidity.
THE WEIGHT OF THE LABEL
Being called an “emotional fool” is not just an insult. It is a sentence, a judgment passed on the way I exist in the world. It is being told that the very fabric of who I am — the way I listen, the way I empathize, the way I take people at their word — is somehow wrong. When people speak, I believe them. When they make promises, I hold on to them. When they cry, I feel their pain. And yet, instead of being called compassionate, I am called weak. Instead of being seen as kind, I am seen as foolish.
It feels like there’s an unspoken rulebook society follows: if you are cold, detached, and calculating, you are wise. If you are warm, trusting, and hopeful, you are foolish. The scales are rigged in favor of those who hide their hearts behind armor, who manipulate conversations to their advantage, who treat relationships like chess moves. People like me — the ones who wear their hearts visibly, who believe too earnestly, who care too loudly — are punished twice: first by heartbreak, and then by ridicule.
Every time I hear “you should be more selfish” or “you should stop caring so much,” it feels like someone is asking me to amputate a part of myself.
Caring isn’t something I can switch off. It isn’t a mask I wear. It is stitched into me, woven into the very way I breathe and move through the world.
When I care, I don’t measure or calculate. I don’t ask if it’s safe. I don’t count what I will get in return. And yet, the world keeps telling me that this way of living is dangerous, that I must tear it out if I want to survive.
The label of “emotional fool” is heavy because it isn’t just a word — it is a constant reminder that my natural instinct, my openness, my softness, is seen as a flaw. It makes me question myself. It makes me wonder if maybe they’re right, maybe I am too much, maybe I am naïve. And carrying that doubt — alongside the heartbreaks, the betrayals, the silences that followed promises — is sometimes heavier than the pain itself.
THE PARADOX OF KINDNESS
Here’s what I find most paradoxical: people admire kindness in theory but dismiss it in practice. Our feeds are flooded with quotes about empathy, love, forgiveness, compassion. “Be kind.” “Choose love.” “Spread positivity.” We repost them, like them, share them, as if we’re all collectively worshipping the idea of goodness. But when someone actually embodies it — when someone really does choose to trust, to care, to forgive — suddenly it’s no longer admirable. Suddenly it’s weakness.
It’s as though kindness is celebrated only as long as it stays abstract — as long as it’s a quote on a feed, not a practice in real life. The moment it becomes inconvenient, risky, or makes others uncomfortable, kindness turns from virtue to vice.
This hypocrisy eats at me. Why is the idea of kindness romanticized, but the act of kindness ridiculed? Why do we cheer for empathy in novels, in movies, in TV dramas, but shame it in our friends? Think about every K-drama or Bollywood film where the hero or heroine is loved because they “see the good in others.” We cry for them, root for them. But if someone did the same in real life — trusted too much, forgave too soon — we’d shake our heads and call them foolish.
It reminds me of that line by Anne Frank: “In spite of everything, I still believe that people are really good at heart.” We frame that quote on posters, we share it to look inspired, but if someone today dared to say the same after being wronged, they’d be laughed at. People would tell them, “Wake up. The world isn’t like that anymore.”
Isn’t it tragic that the exact words we admire from history are dismissed when spoken in our own lives?
I remember asking a friend once why she thought I always ended up getting hurt. She didn’t even pause before answering. “Because you trust people too easily. You need to stop giving them the benefit of the doubt.” She said it as if it were obvious, as if the solution was that simple. But I sat there, stunned. Why should the person who trusts be forced to distrust, instead of the person who lies being told not to lie? Why should the burden of fixing the world’s dishonesty fall on those of us who still dare to believe?
The hypocrisy is maddening. Society teaches children not to hurt, not to steal, not to betray. And yet, when those rules are broken, it is never the betrayer who is told to change. It is always the one who believed, who hoped, who trusted. Somehow the liar escapes with a shrug, while the believer is mocked for being “stupid.”
And the older I get, the more I realize: it isn’t actually kindness that people hate. It’s the discomfort it creates. Because kindness forces us to confront the ways we’ve grown cynical. It forces us to see that maybe we’ve stopped believing, stopped forgiving, stopped being open. So instead of honoring those who still carry that softness, we shame them — because their hope reminds us of what we’ve lost in ourselves.
WHY DO I KEEP BELIEVING?
If I’m honest, sometimes I ask myself this too. After all the lies, all the disappointments, all the heartbreaks that left me curled up in bed questioning everything — why do I still give people chances? Why do I still hold on to this fragile, stubborn hope that maybe this time will be different?
The answer is simple, yet impossibly complicated: because I don’t know how else to be.
I have tried to imagine it — walking through life with walls so high that no one can get in, meeting people with suspicion first instead of warmth, scanning every word and gesture for hidden motives. I’ve seen people like that, the ones who are always guarded, who live in survival mode. And I can’t do it. I don’t want to. Because that doesn’t feel like living. That feels like waiting for the world to prove you right about its darkness.
So yes, maybe I believe too easily. Maybe I see the best in people even when they’ve given me reasons not to. Maybe I forgive faster than I should. But deep down, I know trust is not just about them — it’s about me. Trust is a reflection of my heart, my values, my willingness to stay open in a world that keeps telling me to shut down. If I stop trusting, then haven’t I already let betrayal win? Haven’t I already handed over the most sacred part of myself to the very people who tried to break it?
THE CYCLE OF BETRAYAL
And yet, the betrayals come. They always do.
They arrive dressed in different forms: a friend who promises loyalty but disappears the moment I need them most, a partner who whispers “forever” while entertaining someone else behind my back, a colleague who smiles to my face while secretly pulling the ground out from under me. Betrayal wears many masks, but the feeling it leaves behind is always the same: the hollow ache of realizing that the reality I believed in was only an illusion.
Sometimes I wonder if I attract betrayal. If people sense my softness like blood in the water and know they can take advantage of it. Or maybe betrayal finds everyone, but I feel it more deeply because I believed more deeply.
I let people in too far, too close, and so when they leave, they take pieces of me with them.
I once read that betrayal hurts more than any other pain because it is rooted in trust. A stranger cannot betray you. Only someone you let close has the power to cut that deep. And maybe that’s why my wounds always feel endless — because I gave people the sharpest weapon of all: access to my trust. Maybe it’s not that I’m foolish, but that I am brave enough to let people close. And bravery, I am learning, often leaves scars.
The Quiet Strength of Empathy
But here’s what I am learning, slowly and painfully: empathy is not weakness.
Trust is not foolishness.
Listening is not a defect.
It takes courage — real, bone-deep courage — to keep your heart open in a world that has given you every reason to close it. It takes strength to continue believing in goodness after you’ve seen the worst of people. Cynicism masquerades as strength, but cynicism is easy. Anyone can shut themselves off and declare, “I trust no one.” That’s not wisdom, that’s fear dressed up as protection.
Real strength is softer, quieter, and harder. Real strength is saying: “I have been lied to, hurt, betrayed, and yet I still choose to see the good in people. I still choose to show up with an open heart.” That is not weakness. That is rebellion against the world’s cruelty.
The Exhaustion of Caring
I won’t lie: caring this much is exhausting. It’s not some romanticized, soft-focus version of empathy where you float through life like a saint. No, it’s bone-deep weariness — the kind that settles into your chest after too many sleepless nights spent replaying conversations, after too many times of giving everything and receiving silence in return.
People often think caring is easy. That it’s natural, automatic. But what they don’t understand is that caring is work. It’s holding space for people even when you’re empty. It’s remembering the details others forget, texting first, checking in, forgiving when you’re still hurting, choosing not to match their silence with silence. It’s energy. And when that energy isn’t reciprocated, the imbalance feels like slow suffocation. I can think of countless moments where my care turned into fatigue. Like the time I stayed up until 3 a.m. consoling a friend, only to have them vanish from my life when I needed the same in return. Or the times I’ve bent over backward to prove my loyalty, while the other person treated me as disposable.
Because the exhaustion doesn’t just come from heartbreak — it comes from the quiet, invisible labor of constantly showing up, even when others don’t. And then comes the self-doubt. Every betrayal makes me question not just the other person, but myself. Sometimes, I envy people who can switch it off. The ones who shrug and say, “Not my problem,” who can detach so easily, who protect their energy by never letting anyone get too close. Cynicism, I’ve realized, is tempting because it offers rest. It’s easier to stop caring, to wall yourself off, to decide no one is worth the effort. That kind of detachment masquerades as wisdom, when really, it’s just the privilege of not having to feel so much. But here’s the thing: I know myself too well. If I stop caring, I won’t just lose others — I’ll lose me. My empathy is not some accessory I can put down when it gets heavy. It is the core of who I am. To amputate it just to survive would be a betrayal of myself, worse than any betrayal another person could inflict. Still, I can’t deny it: caring hurts. It burns you out. It makes you question everything. It feels like running a marathon with no finish line. But at the same time, I think the exhaustion itself proves something: that I have loved deeply, that I have given myself fully, that my heart has been alive. And maybe that’s worth the ache.
The Radical Strength of Being “Foolish”
Maybe being an “emotional fool” isn’t a curse at all. Maybe it’s a radical act of defiance. Because in a world that glorifies cruelty and rewards detachment, to remain soft is a kind of rebellion. To keep trusting when you’ve been betrayed is not foolishness — it’s strength most people can’t even imagine.
I think often of Viktor Frankl, who wrote in Man’s Search for Meaning that “everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms — to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances.” That line has stayed with me, because it reframes softness as choice, not accident. It reminds me that being kind, being trusting, being open isn’t something that just happens to me — it’s something I choose, consciously, even when it hurts. And that choice is what makes it powerful.
History, too, is filled with examples of this so-called “foolishness” being the very thing that changed the world. Martin Luther King Jr. was told that love and forgiveness were weak responses to hate — yet those very responses moved mountains. Even in smaller, quieter ways, we remember the people who stayed kind, who stayed trusting, who stayed open — not the ones who built walls and called it wisdom.
So maybe being “too emotional” is not weakness but radical strength. Because every time I choose trust over suspicion, I push back against a culture that normalizes betrayal.
Every time I extend kindness instead of cruelty, I refuse to let the world turn me into something I despise.
Every time I forgive, I choose love over bitterness.
And yes, it will hurt. I will be scarred. I will be betrayed again. But I’d rather live with those scars than in a cage of mistrust. Because in the end, my softness is not a defect — it is my rebellion. It is my power. It is proof that no matter how much the world lies, cheats, or betrays, I refuse to let it harden me.
I am not an emotional fool. I am someone who has chosen — against all odds, against all betrayals, against all advice — to believe. And maybe that is the most radical strength of all.
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