Projection as self-protection: The limits people place on you to justify their own

Posted on by ZAC

People don’t measure you by who you are.

They measure you by who they’d have to be to do what you’re doing.

And if your actions don’t fit their mold—

They don’t change the mold.

They rewrite you.

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What This Blog Is Really About:

Not everyone will do what you do.

That’s fine.

That’s human.

But when people can’t imagine doing it—

they stop trying to understand you…

and start explaining you away.

They assume your path must be easier.

Your building must be cleaner.

Your morning must be longer.

Your pain must be missing.

Because if it’s not—

Then what excuse do they have?

This isn’t about action. It’s about projection.

Not the Freudian kind—

The self-preserving kind.

And the lengths we’ll go to protect our limits.

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The Hallway Must Be Cleaner

I remember once, I was cleaning the hallway in my building. A friend called while I was sweeping. I told her I’d call her back. Forty-five minutes later, she called again.

“You’re still cleaning?” she said.

I told her yes, I was just finishing up. And she laughed.

“Oh, I couldn’t do that. The people in my building are too dirty.”

It didn’t sound like judgment. But it was.

That line stuck with me.

Because what she was really saying was:

There must be something different about your building.

Otherwise, you wouldn’t clean it. Because if your hallway was like mine, you’d give up too. Like I did.

She couldn’t imagine someone choosing to clean something messy unless it was already halfway clean.

Because she wouldn’t.

So I wouldn’t either. Right?

Wrong.

When I told her, “No—it’s not that my neighbors are cleaner. I just prefer a clean space,”

she doubled down on her projection.

“Oh,” she said, “then you’re just nicer than me.”

And when I clarified—

it’s not about being nice, or that people in my building are any better than hers,

I just don’t like living in a dirty building—

she inverted the script.

“Wow… What are you saying— that I want to live in a dirty building?”

First, if I was cleaning, the hallway must be cleaner.

Then, if the hallway wasn’t cleaner, I must be nicer.

And when it wasn’t that either, she decided to invert the concept and use my standard to judge herself.

She couldn’t fathom a world where I simply held myself to a different standard.

Not better. Not worse. Just different.

As if those were the only two possible realities:

  • Either she had to project her standard onto me
  • Or she had to project my standard onto her

No room for the third, simpler truth:

We just have different standards.

And that kind of difference—unthreatening, unprovoked, uncompetitive—doesn’t compute for most people.

Because if you’re not better, and I’m not worse…

Then what am I even supposed to feel?

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The Mornings Must Be Longer

Another time, someone asked when I wake up.

“Five a.m.”

“Must be nice,” they said. “I wish I had that kind of free time.”

But I don’t have free time. I make it.

They weren’t responding to what I do.

They were responding to what they wouldn’t.

Because if I’m not different—and I’m still doing it—

then what does that say about them?

It’s easier to believe I have some hidden advantage:

More time. More privilege. Less stress.

Because the alternative would require confronting their own choices.

They confuse the absence of their resistance for the absence of any resistance.

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The Pain Must Be Missing

While I was incarcerated, a young kid was housed in the cell next to mine. His mother had just died. He cried—loud, broken, alone.

He asked to use the phone.

The other inmates weren’t letting him.

I asked the guy who controlled the phones to let him through. Told him the kid’s mom had passed.

The guy said he’d “see what he could do.”

I was furious.

So I fought him.

I got patched up in the infirmary.

The next day, I took the phone and handed it to the kid.

Later, we talked. I tried to give him advice. Told him to be tough. Not to let people step on him.

And he said something that cut deeper than the fight ever could:

“I can’t be tough. I’m scared. I’m not a beast like you.”

He couldn’t imagine doing what I did unless I was wired differently. Born violent. Born fearless.

Because if I wasn’t…

If I was scared too…

If I just did it anyway…

Then maybe he could’ve done something too.

And that was too much to face.

So he rewrote me.

Not out of malice—but out of self-preservation.

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The Laziness Must Be Missing

There’s a moment David Goggins describes on Joe Rogan’s podcast.

He talks about waking up every day, looking at his running shoes, and inventing a thousand excuses not to lace them.

He doesn’t want to go. He never wants to go.

But he does.

And when people ask him, “How do you do it?”

They assume he’s different. Built for it. Immune to laziness.

He’s not.

He’s just someone who goes anyway.

And that’s what they can’t accept.

Because if he’s not built different…

If he hates it too…

If he wakes up like they do and jogs anyway…

Then what’s their excuse?

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The Disgust Must Be Shared

I hate cleaning toilets.

But I’ll wash my dog’s ass without flinching.

Someone else might clean ten toilets and never touch a dog.

That’s normal. That’s human.

But some people don’t stop at “we’re just different.”

They go further:

“If I wouldn’t do that, you must not mind it.”

As if your tolerance only exists where theirs would.

As if discomfort only counts when they feel it.

They confuse their internal limits with universal logic.

And when your actions don’t make sense to them,

they assume they don’t make sense at all.

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The Think & Grow Rich Section

In Think and Grow Rich, Napoleon Hill puts it this way:

“What a man believes about himself, he quietly demands of the world—and quietly assumes of others.”

And later:

“We measure others by the yardstick we built for ourselves—and blame them for not fitting.”

That’s the spine of this entire blog.

Most people don’t realize they’re doing it.

But they are.

They don’t see you—

They see who they’d have to be in order to do what you’re doing.

And if it doesn’t compute, they assume your conditions must be different.

Because otherwise, their story crumbles.

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The Offense Wasn’t Yours

It’s not always malicious.

Most of the time, it’s invisible—even to them.

But it’s there.

And it shows up like this:

  • They hear what you do… and assume you must not feel what they would.
  • They imagine what it would take for them to do it… and if your reasons don’t match, they dismiss yours.
  • They can’t make your actions make sense—so they decide your conditions must be different. Cleaner. Easier. Safer. Less painful.

Because if you’re not different…

Then maybe they didn’t give up because it was too hard.

Maybe they gave up too soon.

So they rewrite your motives to preserve their mirror.

Not out of malice.

But out of mercy—for themselves.

Because if your standards are higher—

then maybe theirs are just excuses.

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Final Charge

Next time you can’t understand someone’s choice—

pause before assuming it’s because they’re lucky.

It might just be because they’re willing.

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Published by ZAC

The collapse never begins with monsters. It starts with men who mean well— who sip their coffee, nod gravely, and call their paralysis “perspective.” We’ve made inaction look noble. Now cowards quote philosophers— but only the ones that validate inaction. They worship nuance like it’s a virtue, use “moral complexity” as a hall pass for doing nothing, and confuse commentary with courage. They aren’t in the arena. They’re the ones who footnote the blood— smug in their clean clothes, critiquing the man covered in dust, sweat, and consequence. Roosevelt said it best: “It is not the critic who counts… The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena…” Even Marx—yes, Marx—saw it coming: “Philosophers have only interpreted the world. The point, however, is to change it.” But that kind of philosophy requires a spine. And these days? Interpretation is safer. We’ve mistaken neutrality for wisdom, and politeness for principle. As Einstein warned: “The world is a dangerous place to live; not because of the people who are evil, but because of the people who don’t do anything about it.” And as Plato put it, without apology: “The price good men pay for indifference to public affairs is to be ruled by evil men.” Desmond Tutu didn’t flinch either: “If you are neutral in situations of injustice, you have chosen the side of the oppressor.” Now—what do these old quotes mean in the big picture? It means the burden of change doesn’t belong to some abstract “they.” It means every shrug, every silence, every clever dodge of responsibility is not neutral—it’s directional. The world doesn’t unravel by accident. It unravels by consent. This isn’t a sermon. It’s a refusal. A refusal to smile at delusion. A refusal to delegate moral weight to the abstract collective we call “they.” A refusal to be anesthetized by civility while the world hemorrhages meaning. You won’t find five-step clarity here. No wellness jargon. No spiritual PR. This is a way of life. A discipline of discernment. A refusal to let language decay without a fight. I write to make the gray smaller— to drag blurred lines back into focus, to expose the rot hiding behind ambiguity, and to remind people that clarity is not cruelty— it’s compassion with standards. These aren’t just thoughts. They’re attempts at repair. Attempts to reclaim meaning in a culture that barters it for comfort. Through stories and scenarios we’ve all seen—across cultures, families, and nations— I trace the patterns we pretend not to notice. Not because they’re rare, but because they’re familiar. This is not cultural commentary. This is moral resistance. Not a brand. Not a blog. But a blueprint for those who still believe that words—real words—can build or burn civilizations. I’m not claiming to have the answers—because I don’t. But I do know what doesn’t work. And maybe that’s a start. Not a perfect blueprint for how to fix the world— but a flawless archive of what keeps breaking it. This is not safe reading. It’s not supposed to be.