Why We Never Get Insecure About Being Terrible People

How we shame ourselves for bad hair but never for bad behavior

Photo by Ladislav Stercell on Unsplash

I spent twenty minutes yesterday morning agonizing over a small stain on my shirt. Twenty minutes debating whether anyone would notice, whether I should change, whether this tiny imperfection would make people think less of me.

Yesterday, I interrupted someone three times in a conversation because I was too excited about my own stories to let them finish theirs.

Guess which one kept me up at night?

The stain.

We’ve somehow created a world where visible flaws trigger immediate insecurity, but invisible character defects get a free pass. I’ll panic over a bad haircut for weeks, but being impatient, judgmental, or self-centered? That’s just “having a personality.”

Here’s what’s bizarre: if someone tells me I have food in my teeth, I’m mortified for hours. If someone tells me I was rude to a waiter, I’m defensive for minutes.

Same feedback. Different worlds of response.

I started noticing this everywhere once I saw it. A colleague spent an entire lunch break complaining about gaining two pounds. Then, without any self-awareness, he complained about how his wife “nags” him about helping with housework.

He had character insecurity about his weight. Zero character insecurity about being a lazy partner.

Or the guy at the gym who checks his abs in every reflective surface—mirrors, windows, his phone screen. But he never checks whether he returned the weights he borrowed. Whether he hogged the bench press. Whether he made anyone feel uncomfortable with his staring.

Physical insecurity: Olympic level. Character insecurity: non-existent.

We’ve built an entire industry around appearance insecurity. Skincare routines, personal trainers, fashion consultants—all thriving because we’re terrified of looking imperfect.

But character consultants? That’s not a thing. Nobody’s hiring a coach to make them less selfish.

And maybe there should be.

Because the uncomfortable truth is, most of us are walking around with character flaws we’d never tolerate as physical flaws. We’d never leave the house with a visible rip in our pants, but we’ll leave the house as someone who talks over people, doesn’t listen, and makes everything about ourselves.

I realized this during a work meeting last month. A senior colleague showed up twenty minutes late. No apology, just waltzed in and took over the conversation.

He interrupted three people mid-sentence. Dismissed ideas without really listening. Checked his phone twice while others were presenting.

But before the meeting? I’d seen him spend ten minutes in the bathroom fixing his hair and adjusting his tie in every reflective surface.

He’d spent zero seconds being insecure about his behavior. But his appearance? That clearly got his full attention.

What if we got insecure about character the way we get insecure about looks?

What if being selfish made us as uncomfortable as having a pimple? What if being unreliable haunted us the way a bad photo haunts us? What if we obsessed over being kind the way we obsess over being attractive?

Imagine looking in a mirror and seeing your character flaws as clearly as you see your physical ones. “Oh god, I’m being so dismissive today. Did anyone notice? I need to fix this immediately.”

The discomfort would actually be useful. It would drive change.

I tested this last week. Every time I caught myself being appearance-insecure, I asked: “Am I being character-insecure enough?”

Day one: I worried about looking tired in a meeting. But I didn’t worry about whether I was actually listening.

Day five: I finally felt it. That flush of shame when I realized I’d been impatient with someone asking for help. The same shame I’d feel if someone pointed out toilet paper on my shoe.

That shame was productive. I apologized. I slowed down. I changed.

The thing about appearance insecurity is that it’s enforced externally. People can see when you look bad. But character flaws are invisible—until it’s too late.

We need internal character insecurity to compensate. A personal alarm that goes off when we’re being less than we should be.

Not crippling insecurity. Not self-hatred. But enough discomfort to drive improvement. The way a stain on your shirt drives you to change it.

Because right now, we’re walking around with character stains we can’t even see. And everyone else can.

I still care about stains on my shirt. But now I care more about stains on my character.

And honestly? That discomfort feels like the first honest thing I’ve felt in weeks.

Maybe being a little insecure about who we are isn’t a weakness. Maybe it’s the only thing that makes us better.

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