Yes.
There were moments when I wanted to be cruel.
I will not pretend otherwise.
There were moments when I wanted those who hurt me to feel exactly what I had felt.
The same humiliation.
The same loneliness.
The same helplessness.
The same wound.
For a while, it seemed fair.
They had been cruel first.
They deserved it.
At least that is what anger whispered.
And anger can be very convincing when your heart is bleeding.
I wanted justice.
Or at least I thought I did.
But the longer I sat with that feeling, the more another question began to haunt me:
What exactly would I prove?
That I could hurt someone?
That I could become skilled at inflicting pain?
That I could turn myself into a mirror of the very thing that wounded me?
If I chose the same path, what would remain of the difference between us?
The truth is, we live in a world that often mistakes cruelty for strength.
We admire conquerors.
We celebrate winners.
We raise statues to those who conquered kingdoms, defeated enemies, and bent others to their will.
History remembers their names.
Cruelty builds monuments.
Monuments to power.
Monuments to victory.
Monuments to those who knew how to dominate.
But goodness rarely leaves monuments.
Goodness leaves people.
A child who was not abandoned.
A friend who stayed.
A hand that reached out when it would have been easier to walk away.
An animal that finally learned what safety feels like.
A wounded soul that did not give up on itself.
These things rarely appear in history books.
No statues are built for most acts of kindness.
No crowds gather to celebrate quiet compassion.
That is why goodness is harder to see.
Cruelty shouts.
Goodness speaks in whispers.
Cruelty demands attention.
Goodness simply remains.
And perhaps that is why so many people choose cruelty.
Because cruelty looks powerful.
For a moment, it makes us feel untouchable.
For a moment, it promises that we will never be hurt again.
But beneath cruelty, I often find the same thing:
Fear.
Fear of being weak.
Fear of being rejected.
Fear of being insignificant.
Fear of being wounded first.
The cruel person often appears powerful.
Yet so often cruelty is simply fear wearing armor.
I know this because I have felt that temptation myself.
I know what it is like to stand at the edge of a choice and think:
I could hurt them back.
And perhaps I could have.
Perhaps many times.
But every time, another thought stopped me.
Not because I am better than anyone.
Not because I am incapable of anger.
Not because I have mastered forgiveness.
I have not.
The thought was simpler.
If I do this, I may win the moment.
But I will lose something far more important.
I will lose a piece of myself.
And some victories are too expensive.
The greatest victory was never defeating those who hurt me.
The greatest victory was that their cruelty did not succeed in turning me into its reflection.
They wounded me.
But they did not define me.
They hurt me.
But they did not become my teacher.
They knocked on the door of my soul.
I simply chose not to invite them in.
And perhaps that is what strength truly is.
Not the power to destroy.
Not the power to dominate.
Not the power to make others suffer.
But the courage to remain yourself in a world that constantly tempts you to become something else.
Even when cruelty knocks.