“Inappropriate”: The Mysterious Force That Governs Our Behaviour (Until It Doesn’t)

Ah, yes, inappropriate—the red buzzer of our collective social game show. The word that gets tossed around like verbal pepper spray in boardrooms, HR departments, family WhatsApp chats, and, of course, the sacred modern temple of judgement: the internet comment section. Nobody really knows what it definitely means, but it’s wielded with great conviction. Like a toddler with a stick, it’s not about precision—it’s about the feeling of control. And it feels important. Saying something is “inappropriate” doesn’t require explanation. It doesn’t need philosophical justification or ethical coherence. It’s a way of saying, “Stop that—because I’m uncomfortable, and I don’t know how to say that out loud without sounding insecure.”

It’s a bit like a social smoke alarm. It goes off not necessarily when there’s a fire, but when someone thinks there might be. Someone says something honest—alarm. Someone acts differently—alarm. Someone questions a sacred cow—alarm. And God forbid someone actually thinks independently in a world glued together by conformity and fragile group norms.

But let’s get serious-ish for a moment. Where do these mysterious standards actually come from? Who decides what’s appropriate and what’s not? Is there a secret committee of ancient philosophers meeting in a mahogany-panelled bunker beneath Geneva, sipping port and debating whether it’s morally acceptable to wear Crocs to a funeral? Unlikely. But the way we behave, you’d think so. We talk about “professional conduct,” “common decency,” “respectful language,” and “community standards” as if these things were handed down from Mount Sinai, carved in stone, rather than evolving haphazardly through culture, religion, power dynamics, media narratives, and trauma-laced social conditioning.

Most people don’t stop to consider that what they call “inappropriate” is often just whatever threatens the fragile web of expectations they’ve built around their identity. It’s rarely about ethics in any meaningful sense. It’s about obedience. It’s about social comfort. It’s about not rocking the boat—even when the boat is headed toward a cliff.

So, let’s pop the hood and have a look at what’s really going on down there. Be warned: it’s not neat. It’s not consistent. And it sure as hell isn’t objective. But understanding this messy engine room is the first step toward freeing ourselves from the tyranny of performative virtue and learning how to live, lead, and love with actual integrity.

The Ethical Olympics: Deontology vs. Consequentialism

First up, we have Deontology, the tidy, uptight offspring of Immanuel Kant. It’s the “rules are rules” camp. The vibe is very German Enlightenment: neat, rational, and blissfully uninterested in nuance. According to this view, you do what’s right based on some universally valid principle, regardless of whether it leads to catastrophe, social chaos, or your friend getting murdered by a regime. Picture this: you’re hiding an innocent person in your attic, and a murderous tyrant knocks on your door and asks, “Are they in there?” If you’re a proper deontologist, you take a deep breath, straighten your spine, and say, “Yes, sir, right this way!” Because lying is wrong. Even if the outcome is... well... regrettable. But at least your conscience is clean and Kant is smiling from his grave.

This whole framework hinges on what Kant called the Categorical Imperative—a sort of moral master rule, as if the universe came with a printed instruction manual: act only according to that principle which you could want to become a universal law. Now consider“ What if everyone did that?” Which, sure, works wonderfully when we’re talking about things like not stealing someone’s lunch. But when life gets messy, grey, and emotional—which it inevitably does—this moral system can come off like a malfunctioning robot trying to parent a teenager. It lacks something very human: context.

And then there’s the variant of deontology where something is deemed inappropriate because, well, “God says so.” That’s it. Case closed. Do not pass God. Now, even if we entertain the possibility that God—or some divine source of moral truth—has, in fact, spoken, what gives anyone the sheer confidence, or dare we say arrogance, to assume they’ve received that message in its unfiltered, uncorrupted, and purest form? As if the divine transmission just skipped past centuries of cultural interpretation, political repackaging, theological ego wars, and landed directly into your inbox as a clean PDF titled “Absolute Truth, Final Version.”

Now, this isn’t to scoff at revelation or moral tradition. Not at all. It’s not about throwing it all away or resigning into nihilism. It’s about acknowledging, openly and vulnerably, that much of what we call “moral law” has passed through layers—metacontent layers, to be precise. That includes holy books, academic papers, state laws, family codes, Instagram reels, and whatever your third-grade teacher thought was “good behaviour.” Just because we don’t have unmediated access to truth doesn’t mean we’re condemned to moral chaos. It means we have a responsibility to discern—to reflect, to evaluate, to question, and to own how we relate to moral claims, regardless of whether they wear a priest’s robe or a peer-reviewed badge.

And here’s where your natural autonomy comes in. You don’t have to obey a rule just because it’s old, loud, or written in serif font. You also don’t have to rebel against it for the sake of ego. You get to look at these principles, not as compulsory programming, but as claims—claims that you, as a sentient, meaning-seeking human being, are allowed to assess. That’s not heresy. That’s called being human.

Ethics, Morality, Virtue, Values, and Axiology Walk Into a Bar...

And nobody knows who’s picking up the tab.

Let’s break this down properly, because collectively we have spent far too long using these terms interchangeably—like toddlers playing with power tools. We toss around ethics, morality, virtue, values, and axiology as if they’re all just fancy ways of saying “be nice.” But they’re not. And misusing them is not just sloppy—it leads to shallow decision-making, performative behaviour, and a whole lot of confusion about what actually matters. And it could already be costing you.

Let’s start with ethics. Ethics is the externalised, systemised code of what’s considered right or wrong in a given context. It’s what shows up in professional codes of conduct, workplace handbooks, academic integrity policies, and the ever-shifting sands of what HR says this month. Think of it as the GPS—guiding your behaviour through terrain you didn’t design. The question is: who programmed it? And more importantly, does it still work when the roads change?

Then there’s morality. A little more personal. This is your inner sense of right and wrong. The voice in your head that says, “Don’t do that,” or “You should really help her,” or “This doesn’t feel right.” Often inherited from your culture, religion, family, or that strangely wise TikTok creator who speaks in slow motion with lo-fi jazz in the background. Your morality is your internal compass that you’re likely compelled to follow—even if it’s spinning in circles or was installed for you by people who never updated the firmware.

Virtue, now this is where things get interesting—and misunderstood. People reduce it to traits: “She’s so virtuous,” meaning polite, restrained, or painfully agreeable. But real virtue isn’t about being well-behaved—it’s about being aligned with the good. Not in a moralistic, checkbox kind of way, but in an ontological way. The Greeks—who, let’s be honest, thought far more deeply than your corporate compliance officer—understood virtue as the cultivation of excellence of character in alignment with the essence of goodness itself. It’s not about who you think you are—it’s about how closely your Being reflects something more profound, nobler, even timeless. Courage, patience, temperance, wisdom—these aren’t just social skills. They’re portals into the very nature of what’s worth becoming. Virtue is less about what you do and more about how you exist in relation to what truly matters.

Values, on the other hand, are preferences—on steroids. You value honesty, beauty, freedom, efficiency, connection, or just a decent cup of coffee. These aren’t automatically good or bad. They’re not universal. But they matter. They shape what you prioritise, what you’re drawn to, and what you sacrifice for. The catch? Values are only meaningful when they manifest—when they actually show up in your behaviour and decisions. Until then, they’re just decorative stickers on your social media bio. The world isn’t short on values or seemingly 'good' ideas—it’s short on the ability to actualise them and bring them to life.

And then there’s axiology—the philosopher’s best-kept secret and society’s most neglected lens. This is the big daddy of the lot. Axiology is the study of value itself. Not just what you value, but why you value it. It doesn’t just catalogue your preferences—it interrogates them. It asks: “What is goodness? What makes something worth pursuing? What lies at the root of value in the first place?” Axiology doesn’t settle for inherited answers—it demands you participate in meaning-making at the deepest level.

Mixing these up is like confusing a map with the terrain, or an outfit with fashion, or reading the menu and thinking you’ve eaten. No wonder society can’t agree on whether pineapple on pizza is a crime. These terms aren’t the same, and using them like they are only guarantees that we’ll keep reacting instead of discerning, conforming instead of transforming, is adding to a massive tab that's costing our integrity.

In short:

• Ethics is the externalised, systemised code of right and wrong—think HR policies, professional guidelines, or legal fine print. Ethics is the GPS… but who programmed it, and why does it keep rerouting?
  

• Morality is internal—your personal compass of right and wrong, usually inherited from culture, religion, or the last viral video that told you how to be a good person. Helpful, but sometimes wildly off-course.
  

• Virtue is your alignment with the good itself. Not just what you do, but how you exist in relation to timeless principles like courage, truth, and integrity. Less about performance, more about posture.
  

• Values are preferences on steroids. They influence what you prioritise—freedom, honesty, status, beauty—but don’t mean much until they show up in action. Until then, they’re just wishful thinking with a nice font.
  

• Axiology is the big daddy—the philosophical study of value itself. It doesn’t just ask what you value, but why anything is valuable at all. It’s the layer beneath the layers—and most people haven’t met it yet.
  

The Source of “Inappropriate”

So when someone exclaims, “That’s inappropriate!”—with the indignation of a playground monitor who’s just seen a kid use a red crayon on the “blue only” zone—what are they actually saying?

Because let’s be honest, “inappropriate” has become the all-purpose Swiss Army knife of moral objection. It sounds principled, but often functions more like a polite way of saying, “I’m uncomfortable, and I haven’t really thought about why.”

Let’s decode the subtext. Are they referring to a deontological rule? As in, “That’s against the code of conduct.” You’ve violated a sacred checkbox somewhere—like making a joke without submitting it for prior HR approval. This is the rule-bound, black-and-white interpretation where the content doesn’t matter as much as whether it breached protocol.

Or is it a consequentialist concern? “Someone might get offended.” Not me, of course. But someone. Somewhere. Maybe. It's not even about whether harm was caused—it’s the possibility that it might be, theoretically, hypothetically, in the worst-case scenario imagined by a committee trained in PR risk management.

Could it be cultural morality at play? “That’s not how we do things here.” Ah, yes, the sacred customs of the tribe, often unspoken, consistently enforced. Whether it’s a family, an office, a religious circle, or a hip co-working space, the norms are clear: we don’t question authority, we don’t mention sex, and we definitely don’t eat sushi with our hands (unless it’s on a minimalist bamboo plate).

Maybe it’s a personal values clash: “I just don’t like it.” Which would be fine if they said it that way. At least that would be honest. But instead, they summon the full moral weight of society to defend their subjective dislike, as if their taste were divine law. (Spoiler: it’s not.)

Or—let’s be bold—it could just be pure discomfort, raw and unprocessed. No language. No clarity. Just a vague inner squirm that says, “Make it stop.” The thing is, discomfort is often the doorway to growth… if only people could sit with it long enough to hear what it’s really saying.

Without a shared framework—like the Being Framework and Metacontent—most of these reactions are just flashes of shadow, dressed up as righteousness. We’re not engaging with reality—we’re reacting to our projections. We’re not navigating from clarity—we’re bumping into each other in a moral fog, pointing fingers at shadows and calling it justice.

So next time someone says “That’s inappropriate,” it might be worth gently asking, “According to which framework or doctrine?” And be ready for the look that says: “Framework or doctrine? What’s that?”

Why It Matters in Real Life (and in Your Leadership)

Here’s the thing: in the real world—where people make decisions, lead teams, raise families, negotiate contracts, and occasionally throw existential tantrums—these distinctions aren’t just intellectual fluff. They shape everything. Because, as I often say (and will keep saying until it properly lands): Being precedes Doing.

Your ethical framework—whether it leans on Kant, faith-based, consequences, cultural customs, or whatever’s trending on LinkedIn—is only as sound as the Being it’s rooted in. If the person making the decision is driven by fear, ego, resentment, or the need to be liked, no rulebook in the world can save the outcome. You can follow every policy, tick every compliance box, recite every corporate value from memory—and still be a tyrant in a tailored suit. You can optimise for outcomes, maximise utility, save the company millions—and still destroy trust, culture, and dignity in the process.

This is where most leadership goes off the rails. Because without clarity on who is doing the deciding, why they’re deciding, and how they’re valuing—ethics becomes nothing more than performance art. It's theatre. A pantomime of virtue curated for optics, designed to avoid blame and preserve appearances, rather than to engage with the messy, beautiful, uncomfortable truth of being human.

That’s why we need structured sense-making. Not just reacting to events, but intentionally interpreting them. Not just scanning for rules, but understanding context. Not just seeking outcomes, but grounding them in purpose and meaning. This is why axiology, virtue, and meaning-making must be brought back into the centre of our decision-making—not as philosophical ornaments or buzzwords used in inspirational slide decks, but as essential navigational instruments in the thick moral fog we call modern life.

If you're a leader—or even just a functional adult trying to move through life with some dignity—this matters. Because without these tools, you'll be making critical decisions with a broken compass, hoping for direction from a rulebook that never accounted for your actual situation. But with them, you begin to relate to decisions, people, and life itself from a deeper, more grounded place. That’s not just better ethics—it’s better leadership. And, dare we say, better Being.

What’s Worse Than “Inappropriate”?

Let’s talk about the flipside. The darling of social expectations. The gold standard of group acceptance. The word that sounds so clean, so civilised, so unthreatening: “Appropriate.”

But here’s the uncomfortable truth: “Appropriate” is often just a socially sanctioned disguise for cowardice, convenience, or compliance. It gives you cover. It lets you nod, smile, stay quiet, go along. Not because you’ve engaged in any real discernment, but because it’s safer to perform acceptability than to risk being real.

In a world where appearances are everything, we’ve turned politeness into a moral virtue. As if being agreeable were the same thing as being good. But there’s a chasm between the two—and it’s a chasm filled with unspoken truth, untaken action, and the bitter residue of inauthenticity.

Let’s stop worshipping politeness and start cultivating discernment. Let’s stop measuring integrity by tone and instead measure it by alignment with what truly matters. Let’s ask ourselves—honestly, nakedly: Are we being ethical, or are we just afraid of being disliked? Are we grounded in what we know to be right, or are we scanning the room for approval before we open our mouths?

Because here’s the irony that most don’t want to face: true virtue isn’t always nice. It doesn’t always blend in. It doesn’t always say things gently, at the right time, in the right tone. It’s often disruptive. Often uncomfortable. It confronts when confrontation is needed. It says the thing everyone’s avoiding. It protects what’s sacred even when it costs popularity.

And sometimes, in its most raw and powerful form, virtue shows up as something gloriously, radically, unapologetically… inappropriate.

Want Change? Try Being Inappropriate (No, Really)

Here’s the cosmic joke: most of what you say you want in life—the joy, the intimacy, the mastery, the meaning, the results, the body, the business, the inner peace—is sitting on the other side of what you’re too afraid to become. And yes, it’s probably something utterly inappropriate. You want growth, but you don’t want discomfort. You want results, but not at the cost of violating the internal HR policy that’s been running through your mind for years. You want transformation, but without challenging the version of you that’s producing your current outcomes. That version, by the way, is entrenched in your Existing Constructed Metacontent—that is, the pre-loaded mental software of meaning, rules, interpretations, assumptions and ‘shoulds’ that define your current state of Being and your relationship to life itself. And if you want to shift your outcomes, you’ll need to challenge not only the abstractions in your head but their embodiment in action. Yes, action. No more thinking, journaling, or planning. I mean, actually doing something you usually wouldn’t do because it clashes with who you’ve been up until now.

It might begin subtly—with a new perception, a whisper of insight, a gentle suspicion that maybe your current approach isn’t working. You reflect, compare, and analyse. You notice a gap between your values and your outcomes. Perhaps a new possibility begins to form. You don’t just “know” something—you begin to comprehend it, to understand its relevance to your life, your intentions, your meaning-making. But let’s not confuse awareness with transformation. All that perception is necessary, but insufficient. The leap happens when you shift from the realm of awareness into the realm of application. That’s where things get real. That’s where you dare to act upon your new way of relating to something. You start small. You fail awkwardly. You try again. You enter a feedback loop of execution and refinement. Slowly, across rounds, you become slightly more competent and slightly more effective. Whether it’s martial arts, playing an instrument, intimacy, connection, business-building, or public speaking, it’s always the same arc.

And in the beginning, you will feel like a fool. That’s the price of entry. You’ll be raw, unsure, and vulnerable. You’ll break the social code. You’ll be “inappropriate”—not in the moral sense, but according to your old standards, inherited limitations, imposed boundaries, and outdated values. The real secret? Growth lives exactly there. It demands you risk being foolish before you ever gain mastery. It demands that you stretch into the very edge of discomfort—the place you resist most. The place you want to pull back, avoid, postpone, or rationalise away. And yet, that’s where the momentum lives.

It’s like when you’ve done your ten reps at the gym, legs burning, and your coach looks you in the eye and says, “Three more.” You’re certain you can’t. Everything in you says stop. But then, something bigger kicks in—not your body, but your Being. You do one more. And then another. You drop a tear. You break a limit. Those last three reps don’t just shape your body—they reshape your relationship to what’s possible. That is the max-edge of transformation. That’s where it actually happens. And the most inappropriate thing you did? You stopped listening to the inner voice that told you to stay safe, and you stepped forward anyway.

The Inauthenticities Chain: The Quiet Tyranny of Shadows

Let’s now talk about something even more sinister than “appropriate.” Let’s talk about the Inauthenticities Chain—a sinister, slippery sequence of distortions and shadows that latches onto your consciousness, wraps itself around your intentions and slowly chokes your capacity to engage with reality.

It often starts innocently. You believe something. You receive it—maybe through school, culture, your parents, trends, media, religion. You didn’t scrutinise it too hard. You accepted it. You gave it a pass. You never asked whether it was valid—just whether it was normal. That was your Reception Phase, where information enters not through conscious evaluation but through passive inheritance. And there, the chain begins.

Then maybe you know something. You’ve encountered some perception, built some understanding. You call it knowledge. But even here, in the Perception Phase, inauthenticities sneak in. You hear what fits your existing identity. You filter what threatens your worldview. You confuse external validation and familiarity with truth. You call something “objective” when it’s just widely repeated. This isn’t knowledge—it’s domesticated certainty.

Now perhaps you grow more sophisticated. You build conception—you engage multiple perspectives, entertain diverse paradigms, decode narratives from beneath the noise. You begin to synthesise. This is the Conception Phase, where wisdom could emerge. But it’s also where the chain doubles down. Here, inauthenticities show up as selective curiosity, narrative control, overidentification with a particular lens or dismissing what doesn’t serve your ego’s agenda. Your conception may appear robust but it’s often just polished bias with better vocabulary.

And finally—if you dare—you reach the Application Phase. The actual moment where transformation must be embodied. Where awareness must become action. Where Being must move. This is the battleground. And this is where the Inauthenticities Chain goes full beast mode.

You encounter resistance. Not from the world, but from within. You find reasons not to move. What-ifs arise, drenched in anxiety and masquerading as logic. You negotiate with shadows. You tell yourself stories. You delay, retreat, deflect, resign. You even know it’s all bullshit—but still, you can’t move. The chain has you.

This chain manifests as:

• Inaccuracy: falsehoods clinging to your perception
  

• Fear: projections of failure that haven’t occurred and might never occur
  

• Anxiety: vague but paralysing anticipation of judgement or consequence
  

• Resentment: toward those who move while you stay frozen
  

• Resistance: subtle or loud refusal to step into alignment
  

• Defiance: active rejection of truths you already recognise
  

• Avoidance: sophisticated procrastination disguised as reflection
  

• Neglect: quiet dismissal of what you know matters
  

• Withdrawal: energetic collapse dressed up as “being overwhelmed”
  

• Self-deception: pretending you don’t know what you actually do
  

• Performance: keeping the act alive while you erode inside
  
  

The Inauthenticities Chain isn’t a neat, linear sequence that unfolds slowly over months of self-reflection. It’s not some textbook ladder you climb one stage at a time. It’s a living, breathing mental model, an active internal dynamic that operates in real time—sometimes within seconds, sometimes across years. It unfolds in loops, in nested cycles, in micro-moments of meaning-making that ripple through your life whether you’re aware of them or not.

This chain is constantly forming, dissolving, and reforming. Every time you sit across from someone in a negotiation, make a hiring decision, come to closure on an intimate relationship or even just speak up in a meeting—you are running live cycles of this process. You’re receiving, perceiving, conceiving, deciding, executing... and all along the way, each node in the chain can be laced with distortions, fears, projections, half-truths, beliefs you inherited without consent and subtle acts of self-betrayal. Each inauthenticity becomes a shadow node, subtly corrupting the integrity of the outcome.

This isn’t an abstract philosophical process—it’s happening right now, in real time, within seconds of your thoughts, interactions and decisions. The same cognitive and ontological mechanisms that shape your worldview are shaping the outcome of a sales call, a conversation with your partner, your ability to make decisions in high-stakes environments or to stand for what matters when the pressure’s on.

You don’t need a crisis to trigger it. The chain is always forming. The question is whether you’re aware of it.

And the worst part? It spreads. Like toxic air, it doesn’t need your permission. Once it infects one part of your Being, it cascades. It accelerates. One tiny inauthenticity feeds another. The collapse isn’t always loud—it can happen silently, like slow rot beneath a polished surface. The result? Disconnection. A growing inability to engage with reality, people, intimacy, prosperity—even your own intentions. You don’t just stall—you disintegrate.

At this point, three outcomes are possible:

1. You transcend. You confront the edge. You let it burn. You move anyway. And that’s where real transformation occurs, not in theory but in a tear-streaked, gut-wrenching act of defiance against your own paralysis.
   

2. You break down. The confrontation overwhelms your structure. You spiral. You collapse. Sometimes this looks like rage. Sometimes apathy. Sometimes numbness with a smile.
   

3. You freeze. You hover at the edge, aware but inert. You become the museum of who you could have been. If you stare at it long enough, you preserve the problem in amber, hoping it won’t sting anymore.
   
   

This is the Inauthenticities Chain. It is not a metaphor—it is a lived phenomenon. It is what stands between who you are now and the life you say you want. And it is built—brick by brick—by every lie you let pass through unchallenged, every feeling you avoid and every moment you look away from what’s most real.

Break the chain—or be dragged by it. That’s the choice.

Final Talk

So here you are. Still reading. Still nodding. Still silently congratulating yourself for “resonating.” You’ve understood the message, maybe even highlighted a few lines like some ethical tourist collecting souvenirs. But let’s not kid ourselves: you’re not here for information—you’re here because some part of you knows you’ve been stalling.

You know what needs to be done. You’ve known. Maybe for weeks. Maybe for years. You’ve had the conversations in your head, written the messages you never sent, and imagined the moves you didn’t make. And still—you haven’t done it. You haven’t spoken. Haven’t shifted. Haven’t dared.

And don’t you dare dress that up as wisdom. It’s not prudence. It’s not timing. It’s fear, dressed in velvet. It’s cowardice with a calendar. You’re not reflecting—you’re rehearsing your own avoidance. You’re polishing your paralysis and calling it planning. You think tomorrow will be better, that the moment will somehow “ripen,” that the universe will finally give you the all-clear to be who you were always meant to be.

You might already be preparing your mental rebuttal: ‘But there are lines we shouldn't cross.’ Good. That means your boundaries are twitching. This isn’t a call to reckless chaos—it’s a call to courageous clarity. And if your first reflex is to ask ‘But what if someone gets offended?’—ask instead: ‘What if I keep betraying myself for the illusion of politeness?

Let me be clear: it won’t. Because this moment is the test. Right now. Not tomorrow. Not when you feel ready. Not when your image is perfectly curated, or your ducks are in a row, or your comfort zone finally stretches to accommodate your conscience. Now—when it’s messy, unprepared, imperfect, inconvenient. That’s the doorway. That’s the razor’s edge.

You can keep pretending that understanding is enough. That agreement is transformation. That insight is action. But the truth is, you’re only as real as what you’re doing. The rest is decoration. Intellectual perfume.

So here’s your choice, and don’t pretend you didn’t hear it: act now, or continue betraying yourself in slow motion. Keep deferring. Keep rationalising. Keep shrinking while calling it humility. And then lie to yourself one more time with the deadliest phrase of all: “I’ll do it later.”

No. You won’t. Not unless you disrupt this exact moment. Not unless you risk being “inappropriate,” unpolished, rejected, misunderstood. Not unless you step through the discomfort that’s been guarding your next level like a rabid dog in front of a temple gate.

You don’t need more time. You need more truth. You don’t need another book, another insight, another inner circle to validate your intention. You need to bleed forward. To break your own spell. To burn the version of you that clings to appropriateness like a child holding a security blanket soaked in shame.

Move. Speak. Interrupt the pattern. Pick the fight worth having. Quit the thing that’s eating you alive. Start the thing that terrifies you. Become the version of yourself that costs you the comfort you’re so addicted to.

And if that shakes you, offends you, rattles the fragile scaffolding of your cultivated image—good. That’s your Being waking up from the coma of compliance.

So stop reading.
Get up.
Go do it.
Now.
Or be honest enough to admit you never meant to.