Between Sips and Should-Nots
We Write Our Own Moral Stories
"Morality is not the doctrine of how we may make ourselves happy, but of how we may make ourselves worthy of happiness." — Immanuel Kant
So I'm at the new Starbucks around the corner, laptop open but mostly people-watching when I overhear something that gets me thinking about how we all draw different moral lines.
Two coworkers are having an intense discussion. One tells the other about discovering their mutual friend's partner on a dating app. They wrestle with whether to "save" their friend by telling them. The whole scene has me fighting the urge to turn around and say, "Hey, maybe consider that relationships aren't one-size-fits-all."
Because who are we to assume we know the inner workings of other people's relationships? They may have an agreement, or they may be exploring. Perhaps their lives aren't easy in ways we can’t begin to understand. The point is that it's their life to navigate.
I watch these two people, so confident in their moral righteousness about "doing the right thing," and it strikes me how we often confuse our moral frameworks with universal truth. The coffee shop buzzes around us, dozens of people, each carrying unique values, relationship structures, and life choices.
As adults, we're all writing our stories—sometimes messy, sometimes unconventional, but always ours to write. The urge to step in, to "fix" or "save" others based on our moral compass? That's more about us than them.
This gets me thinking about how we each construct our moral frameworks. Mine includes a heavy dose of "mind your own business" regarding relationships, born from the understanding that human connections come in all shapes and sizes. Others might have different values, different lines they won't cross. And you know what? That's precisely my point.
Remember when you first realized your parents weren't always right?
For me, it hit one time when my mom was talking about what "good people" do, and suddenly I thought, "Says who?"
I'm stirring my coffee (still at Starbucks, still people-watching), thinking about how we absorb morality like osmosis at first. It's wild. We inherit these ready-made ethical packages – maybe from religion, culture, or whatever shows our parents let us watch. It's like being handed a pre-programmed moral GPS.
At some point, that GPS starts giving directions that don't match the road we're on. Maybe you're raised thinking success means a corner office, but you find more meaning in teaching kindergarten. Or you're told relationships look one way, but your heart pulls you toward something different. That moment of disconnect? That's the crack where your morality starts seeping through.
I'm watching this kid, maybe sixteen, at a table, engaged in what looks like a heated text debate with his parents. His face keeps cycling through frustration, doubt, and this flash of something else—independence, maybe? Resolution? It's that moment of pushing back against inherited truths. I want to tell him it's ok and that questioning is how we build something authentic.
These handed-down morals are like the clothes your aunt keeps buying—well-intentioned but not a great fit. We start with them because they're there, but eventually, we must decide what fits us in our ethical wardrobe.
You know that moment when you realize you're the only one who can navigate your moral compass? For some, it's gentle – like morning light gradually replacing darkness. For others, it's a sudden crash, a crisis that forces you to question everything. For some, it never happens -that’s the saddest one.
I'm thinking about the values I was handed versus the ones I chose and how realizing the universe doesn't have some cosmic rulebook was terrifying and liberating. If there's no universal script, then we're all making this up as we go along—and that's what makes our choices matter. There's something beautifully human about both the clinging and the letting go.
What was your first break from handed-down morality? That moment when you realized you could question the "because I said so" of ethical inheritance?
Recently, I stretched out on a balcony with a glass of wine to watch the stars, thinking about how indifferent they are to our moral wrestling matches. It's hilarious when you think about it – here we are, debating right and wrong. At the same time, the cosmos just keeps doing its thing, not giving a damn about what we do or don't do.
Look around this Starbucks for a second with me. Everyone here is the main character in their story, carrying around their moral universe like a backpack full of "shoulds" and "shouldn'ts." That guy in the corner stress-eating a muffin? He's probably wrestling with some ethical dilemma that feels earth-shattering to him. Meanwhile, the Earth keeps spinning, completely unbothered.
But here's the wild part—the universe's indifference is liberating. If there's no cosmic scorekeeper, no universal moral referee keeping tabs, then our choices' weight becomes lighter and heavier.
It's lighter because we're not disappointing some grand universal plan if we decide to live differently than we are supposed to. The stars won't fall if we choose an "unconventional" path. But it's heavier because we're fully responsible for our moral framework. No passing the buck to divine plans or universal laws.
I used to find this terrifying—genuinely unsettling. If the universe doesn't care, what's the point? But then I realized we created the point. Our morality matters because we decide it matters. It's like throwing a party in an empty universe and deciding our rules make it meaningful.
The couple at the table next to me is having a serious conversation. She's gesturing intensely, and he's nodding, and I think they are both convinced their perspective is the "right" one. Meanwhile, the cosmos continues its expansion, neither knowing nor caring about their debate over whatever they're debating.
But you know what? Their debate still matters.
It matters because they've decided it matters. Just like how my choices matter because I've decided they do. We're not the center of the universe but the center of our experience. And that's something!
Remember your feeling when you first realized how small we are in the grand scheme? That vertigo-inducing moment of cosmic insignificance? I'm starting to think that's not a bug in the system—it's a feature. It's what gives us the freedom to write our stories.
The more I embrace the universe's indifference, the more meaningful my choices feel. Because they're mine, they are not handed down from above, not dictated by cosmic law, but mine.
It makes you wonder – if you knew there was no universal moral scorekeeper, would it change how you live? Or have you already made peace with being the author of your story?
I'm still at Starbucks, and I just watched someone put their tip in the jar after their card was declined twice. They barely had enough for their coffee, but they still tipped. We build our moral frameworks, piece by piece, choice by choice.
Think about your moral architecture for a second. It's like a house you've been building your whole life, but instead of lumber and nails, you use experiences and choices. That time you lied and couldn't sleep for days? The moment you stood up for someone and felt that rush of rightness? That's now part of your foundation.
I'm fascinated by how we process these experiences. For example, I had a friend who grew up with strict parents who emphasized honesty above all else. Plot twist—she's now the most skilled white liar I know. She says it's because she learned that sometimes kindness matters more than truth. Meanwhile, I grew up in a "mind your own business" household, and look at me now, writing about how we should all mind our own business. Or am I?
Even when not paying attention, we make tiny daily moral decisions that reinforce or reshape our ethical framework. Should I pretend to be on a call to avoid my neighbor? Should I share that gossip? Should I stay silent when someone says something problematic? Each choice is another brick in our moral foundation.
This guy just walked in wearing a shirt that says "Be Kind" while being rude to the barista. The irony makes me think about how we often have these stated values that don't always match our actions. There's this gap between the moral architecture we claim to have and the one we live in.
I used to think morality, like height or eye color, just happened to us. But watching people navigate their daily choices, it's clear we're all active architects. Sometimes, we build thoughtfully, make rushed additions, and make significant renovations when our old framework no longer serves us.
Here's what gets me, though – the moment you realize you can question and rebuild any part of your moral framework is terrifying and liberating. It's discovering you can move the walls in your house. Sure, some shifts might make the whole structure unstable, but others might create space for something better.
Want to try something? Think about a moral position you hold firmly. Now, trace it back. Was it inherited? Chosen? Did it come from a specific experience? Understanding how we built our moral framework is the first step to being intentional about how we continue to develop it.
Because that's the thing about personal morality—it's never really finished. We're all ongoing construction projects, trying to build something that feels true to who we are. Sometimes, that means adding new rooms, and sometimes, it means tearing down old walls.
What part of your moral house are you renovating these days?
Two people just fought over someone "stealing" a mobile order that had been sitting there for 20 minutes. One says, "If it's not yours, don't touch it, period." The other argues about food waste and arbitrary rules. Both are convinced they're right, but they navigate completely different moral maps.
We're all driving different cars with different GPS systems, but somehow, we must share the same roads. That's where things get spicy.
Take my view on relationships. I've built a moral framework on autonomy and personal responsibility. But drop that perspective into a room full of people with more traditional views, and suddenly, I'm speaking a different language. The same action – say, having multiple consensual relationships – reads as "honest" through my moral lens and "wrong" through someone else's.
What's wild is how we navigate these collisions every day. The vegan and the hunter can work in the same office. The minimalist and the maximalist can be best friends. The person who believes in radical honesty and values social harmony can share a meal – though not secrets.
I watch this play out between two people. One lets people cut in line if they're in a hurry, while the other believes in the fairness of first-come-first-served. Neither is wrong; they operate from different moral blueprints.
The trick isn't finding out who's right. That's the trap we fall into. We want a universal answer, a moral Rosetta Stone that will translate all our languages into one accurate version. But the real skill is learning to navigate intersections without causing pile-ups.
Sometimes, these collisions strengthen our moral frameworks. For example, meeting someone with a completely different view can make you question and adjust your position or help you understand more deeply why you believe what you believe.
I believe that the most interesting things happen in these moral collision zones. It's easy to feel righteous in our bubble. Maintaining our ethical framework while acknowledging that others might have built something different but equally valid for them is more challenging and valuable.
What if we treated different moral frameworks like cuisines? You don't have to prefer sushi over tacos to acknowledge that both can be good, right?
I'm about to finish my third coffee of the morning (judge me, I dare you), and I'm thinking about how owning your moral choices is like being the DJ of your own life. Sure, it's easier to let someone else make the playlist – to follow the pre-written rules and nod to whatever ethical greatest hits your culture's playing. But there's something powerful about choosing your tracks.
Remember that moment in The Matrix when Neo sees the code for what it is? That's what it feels like when you know your morality is yours to shape. It's not about being unique or "enlightened" – actually, it’s more about being absolutely, terrifyingly normal. Just another human trying to figure out their path.
I'm watching this barista handle a rude customer. She's choosing patience, while he's choosing to be a jerk. Whether they realize it or not, they're making active choices about how to behave and be. Every interaction is a chance to reinforce or revise our ethical code.
The beauty of self-determined ethics is not that they are better than inherited ones. It's that they are authentic.
When you consciously choose your values rather than operating on autopilot, you're more likely to live by them. It's the difference between wearing clothes someone picked for you and wearing what feels right.
Take my stance on avoiding other people's relationship dynamics. It wasn't handed to me—I built it through experience, questioning, and understanding the complexity of human connections. It's mine. I own it. And because I chose it, I can defend it.
Once you accept that you're the author of your moral story, you stop needing everyone else to read from the same book. That guy giving me the side-eye for having three coffees? He's writing his own story about moderation. Cool. We can coexist. My ethical choices don't need his approval any more than his needs mine.
It makes us more understanding of others, not less. When you realize how much went into building your ethical framework, you start appreciating others, even if they arrived at different conclusions.
How do we live together if we're all writing our moral stories? Maybe that's where the value of self-determined ethics shows up – in the humility of knowing your truth isn't THE truth. It's your truth. And that's enough.
You know what? I've been sitting in this Starbucks all morning, watching people make a thousand tiny moral choices without even realizing it. The businesswoman who held the door, the student who pretended not to see someone wave, the guy who's been nursing one coffee for three hours while taking up a four-person table during rush hour (ok, that last one was me – we all contain multitudes, right?).
Morality isn't some fancy philosophical concept floating in the clouds. It's right here in the mess of every day. It's in how we treat the barista, how we handle someone cutting in line, and whether we wipe down the table when we're done. Each choice is a brick in the house we're building, a note in our ethical symphony.
Accepting that we each craft our moral framework frees us from the desperate need to be "right" in some universal sense. My non-interference policy with relationships might not be your thing, and that's fine. Your commitment to veganism might make me uncomfortable, and that's fine, too. We're all just trying to build something that feels true to who we are.
But this doesn't mean moral relativism, where anything goes. It means something more challenging: being conscious and intentional about our choices. It means owning our decisions instead of hiding behind "that's just how things are done" or "everyone else does it."
Remember how I started this conversation? About the universe not having any vested interest in our behavior? That's not a get-out-of-jail-free card. It's a call to be more thoughtful about our choices. Because if we're not following some cosmic rulebook, we'd better have good reasons for what we do.
Looking around this coffee shop one last time (seriously, I should go home), I see all these people navigating their moral mazes.
The mirror of morality doesn't show us some universal truth—it reflects our choices, values, and carefully constructed ethical frameworks. And maybe that's enough—perhaps that's everything.
So, what's your reflection showing you today? What kind of moral architect are you becoming?
We're all still under construction. And that's not a bug in the system. That's the whole damn point.
For further exploration…
If you're intrigued by how humans construct meaning and morality, read David Graeber and David Wengrow's The Dawn of Everything. Unlike traditional histories that present moral development as a straight line of progress, this book shatters our assumptions about how societies organize themselves. Through archaeological evidence and sharp anthropological insights, the authors reveal how different cultures have consciously experimented with various ways of living and building ethical frameworks.