Truth in Tension: Why Complexity Matters in an Age of Absolutism

Nuance isn’t softness—it’s resistance.

Source: @deadvringer on X. Original tweet here.

Author’s note: This piece includes references to state violence, deportation, and ongoing geopolitical conflict.

I am so exhausted. Exhausted of living in a system that rewards absolute certainty and punishes reflection and nuance. Nuance isn’t indulgence—it’s survival. In today’s society, where we're experiencing intensifying cultural divisions, asserting that 'two things can be true at once' isn’t just contrarian—it’s practically heretical. But that's precisely why we need to talk about it.

Let’s start with a simple example: Me. As someone living with an invisible chronic illness, I routinely navigate rigid binaries: either visibly sick enough to deserve compassion and accommodation, or invisibly ill enough to trigger suspicion and skepticism. Doctors, employers, even friends find complexity uncomfortable; either I’m productive or I’m not, sick or healthy. There's little space for the nuanced reality I inhabit.

This binary pressure extends far beyond personal health. Across nearly every major issue we face today, we've constructed a culture demanding absolute allegiance to one narrative while rejecting opposing viewpoints entirely. The consequence is discourse that's not only intellectually dishonest but practically useless in addressing real, complex human problems.

Source: GIF from the CBS television series Ghosts, via Giphy

Part of why we're so susceptible to binary thinking lies in our evolutionary wiring. Our ancestors didn’t have the luxury of nuance when a rustle in the bushes could mean predator or prey—quick categorization meant survival. As psychologist Kevin Dutton writes in his book Black-and-White Thinking: The Burden of a Binary Brain, humans are “hardwired to discriminate and frame everything in binary black and white.” That instinct once kept us alive; now it keeps us from thinking clearly when modern problems demand precisely the nuance we’re wired to resist.

Psychologists call this discomfort “intolerance of uncertainty”—the tendency to prefer a certain negative outcome over an uncertain one. Management scholars Wendy Smith and Marianne Lewis describe how we often “deal with the uncertainty by asserting certainty.” In other words, we pick a side, craft a clear narrative, and cling to it with religious fervor (religious pun not intended, but yes, I see what I did there.)

Modern studies show we tend to impose artificial binaries even on continuous data or nuanced evidence. Simplifying complex spectra into two categories is cognitively easier and closely linked to confirmation bias. Once we've picked a side, we instinctively favor information that supports it and filter out evidence that challenges our stance. Over time, opposing evidence isn't just ignored—it feels threatening because it undermines the tidy narratives we've constructed.

Cognitive rigidity—the inability to adjust one’s thinking—correlates strongly with polarized beliefs. People who are uncomfortable with ambiguity often gravitate toward ideologies that offer clear, black-and-white answers. And when presented with conflicting information, they tend to double down rather than reconsider. The more invested we become in tidy narratives, the more we reject nuance—and the harder it becomes to solve anything together.

This polarization doesn't just stem from cognitive biases—it’s amplified by our deep-rooted need for group belonging. If you've ever hesitated to express a nuanced opinion for fear of 'breaking ranks' with your political tribe, you've felt this pressure firsthand.

Moral psychologist Jonathan Haidt argues in his book The Righteous Mind: Why Good People Are Divided by Politics and Religion that morality "binds and blinds." It binds us tightly into ideological teams united against a perceived foe yet blinds us to the validity of opposing viewpoints. When being a "good team member"—whether a Democrat, Republican, Christian, Jew, Muslim, feminist, tradwife, etc.—requires strict adherence to a single narrative, acknowledging the other side's validity feels like betrayal. At the extremes, our identity can fuse entirely with an ideology, making any critique feel personally threatening.

Identity Over Ideology

This dynamic sets the stage for a broader societal issue: in America, our identities increasingly dictate our intellectual and political positions, trapping us within rigid ideological boundaries. That polarization isn’t just psychological—it’s structural, baked into the systems shaping our discourse. Take our two-party political system: as Ezra Klein argues in his book Why We’re Polarized, American voters are funneled into two rigid belief packages. You’re either progressive—pro-peace, pro-gay, pro-tax, pro-regulation, pro-choice, anti-gun—or conservative—pro-military, anti-gay, anti-tax, pro-free market, pro-life, pro-gun. There’s little room to deviate.

Nuance doesn’t make headlines. It makes people scroll past, squint, or accuse you of fence-sitting in the comments.

The Republican Party’s shift from Reagan to Trump underscores just how little ideology matters. Reagan championed free trade and global alliances; Trump flirts with autocrats and isolationism. Yet 93% of voters who supported Reagan in 1984 and also voted in 2016 chose Trump, according to the Democracy Fund Voter Study Group.

Why? Because identity coherence beats ideological consistency. Republicans offer emotional clarity: a unified story, a sense of belonging, clear villains, and a culture to defend. Reagan’s “shining city on a hill” was more than policy—it was narrative. It even pulled in so-called “Reagan Democrats,” many of whom never left.

Democrats, by contrast, have breadth but no banner. They hold diverse values, but without cohesive storytelling, it all starts to sound like compromise. The result? Weak voter clarity. Messaging that feels like negotiation instead of belief.

And it’s not that voters reject complexity. They just don’t know what to do with it when no one helps them make meaning. Democrats aren’t punished for nuance. They’re punished for not giving it moral teeth.

That means holding multiple truths and making hard decisions in full view. But when a party tries to please everyone, it dilutes both its message and its meaning. The bitter irony is that simplification often wins. Republicans offer emotional clarity, even when the story contradicts itself. Democrats may present nuanced policies, but they struggle to weave these into a cohesive narrative that emotionally resonates across their diverse constituencies.

The result? A system that punishes honesty and rewards oversimplification.

Ultimately, the problem isn't nuance itself—it's structures that penalize complexity, pushing us into simplistic binaries that sabotage meaningful dialogue and practical solutions.

© 2025 Mildred Mae, LLC. Visual created by Elisabeth Bromberg.

The Binary Machine

Compounding these structural incentives, the modern media environment—especially social media—further entrenches our binary thinking. The danger of binary thinking stretches far beyond electoral strategy or political branding—it infiltrates our perceptions of truth, our rationalizations of power, and our capacity for moral discernment. Historian Timothy Snyder warns in his book On Tyranny that unwavering party loyalty, irrespective of a leader’s actions, is precisely how democracies slide into authoritarianism.

When individuals can no longer hold nuanced perspectives—such as “I’m conservative AND this specific action is wrong” or “Israel’s attacks on Palestinian civilians is wrong AND anti-Semitism is wrong—democratic and community safeguards begin to crumble.

Philosopher Hannah Arendt similarly identified the acceptance of obvious contradictions and abandonment of critical thinking as crucial enablers of totalitarianism. Many Germans who passively supported the Nazi regime weren't fanatical extremists; they simply found it easier to accept binary narratives than to grapple with moral complexity. This dynamic famously appears in George Orwell’s 1984, where "doublethink"—the Party’s insistence that citizens simultaneously hold contradictory beliefs—is a tool of authoritarian control. Orwell’s warning was clear: abandoning nuance is both intellectually dishonest AND politically dangerous.

Today, social media turbocharges these patterns. Meta whistleblowers have testified that its algorithms amplify divisive content—because outrage drives engagement. Online, emotionally charged takes dominate—while nuanced posts are ignored or attacked as cowardly “both-sides-ism.” The result is a digital public square ruled by extremes, echo chambers, and zero-sum logic.

The real-world stakes are profound and immediate: this online polarization directly fuels offline consequences, from escalating political violence and deepening social divisions to policy gridlock on issues urgently requiring collective action. By systemically rewarding simplistic, binary narratives, our media environment is actively undermining the very democratic institutions and nuanced dialogue critical to addressing the complex challenges of our time.

When the Narrative Becomes the Verdict

The consequences of binary thinking aren’t just theoretical. They show up in courtrooms, detention centers, and people’s daily lives.

Consider how binary thinking warps our moral reasoning around immigration. Kilmar Abrego Garcia—a Maryland father of three—was deported to El Salvador in March 2025, despite a standing U.S. court order protecting him from removal due to credible threats of gang violence. The Trump administration labeled him an MS-13 member without concrete evidence; Garcia has never been charged with a crime in the U.S. He was sent to El Salvador's notorious CECOT mega-prison, where he remains detained. The U.S. Supreme Court unanimously ruled his deportation illegal and ordered the government to facilitate his return. However, both the Trump administration and Salvadoran President Nayib Bukele have defied the order, with Bukele calling Garcia a "terrorist" and refusing to release him.​

This case exemplifies how partisan narratives can override legal norms and human rights. By framing Garcia as a dangerous criminal without due process, authorities sidestep constitutional protections and moral accountability.

Source: YouGov Survey on Policy Support, conducted March 28 – April 1, 2025, among 1,095 U.S. adult citizens.

And the partisan split in public opinion shows just how powerful those narratives are: a recent YouGov poll found that while 60% of Americans oppose deporting immigrants without criminal convictions to El Salvador without a chance to challenge their deportation in court, 52% of Republicans support the policy. The binary portrayal—citizen versus criminal, us versus them—doesn’t just distort legal outcomes; it shapes how we justify them. When fear and identity politics fuse, due process becomes negotiable.

Popular culture also captures how easily we rationalize moral descent. In Breaking Bad, we follow Walter White’s transformation from sympathetic cancer patient to murderous drug kingpin…not through one monstrous decision, but through dozens of justifications that feel “necessary.” He lets a girl die. He poisons a child. And he tells himself it’s all for his family.

Walter White's transformation from sympathetic high school teacher to ruthless drug kingpin illustrates how moral compromises accumulate gradually through self-justification and semantic manipulation—mirroring how societies can normalize previously unacceptable behaviors through linguistic reframing. [Source: Character and concept from Breaking Bad, AMC/Sony Pictures Television. Image via Screenrant.]

The brilliance of the show lies in how it implicates us: we cheer for Walt, even as his actions become indefensible. That’s the danger. When we’re emotionally invested in a story—or an identity—we’ll contort our ethics to stay loyal to the narrative.

We do this in real life, too. Terms like “collateral damage” sanitize civilian deaths. “Enhanced interrogation” rebrands torture. “Special military operation” obscures invasion. Language helps us preserve the illusion of righteousness—even when we’re complicit in what we claim to oppose.

No Easy Empathy

This kind of moral complexity—where individuals act within deeply flawed systems rather than out of pure personal malice—is starkly visible in one of our most polarized global issues: the Israel–Palestine conflict. In American discourse especially, the conversation often collapses into binary camps, demanding exclusive empathy for either Israelis or Palestinians, as if compassion were a finite resource. Both sides also tend to conflate individuals with institutions: all Jews are assumed to support Israel; all Israelis are assumed to support its government. All pro-Palestinian advocates are accused of backing Hamas; all Palestinians are treated as synonymous with it. These reductions don’t just deepen division—they breed fear and hatred. And as history makes painfully clear, fear and hatred rarely stop at words.

Acknowledging trauma on both sides isn’t pretending symmetry. Palestinian-American scholar and activist Fawwaz Malki Shoukfeh emphasizes this crucial nuance, arguing that genuine understanding requires holding dual truths simultaneously: “Hamas’s terrorism is reprehensible, and Israel’s occupation violates international law.” Israel’s disproportionate military and political power profoundly shapes Palestinian daily lives, even as historical Jewish trauma, culminating in the Holocaust, indelibly shapes Israeli identity and collective fears.

Expressing this dual empathy isn’t without social risk. As a half-Jewish woman deeply connected to my heritage, openly empathizing with Palestinian suffering has drawn accusations of betrayal from those close to me who fear it undermines Israel’s legitimacy and security. Conversely, recognizing Israeli fears and Jewish historical trauma risks charges of complicity in oppression from people in my circles who passionately advocate for Palestinian liberation. Even the labels—"pro-Israel" and "pro-Palestine"—flatten complex realities into oversimplified binaries, eroding the nuanced understanding necessary to break destructive cycles.

Yet real people consistently hold dual truths. Israeli peace activists vehemently oppose their government’s occupation while still experiencing genuine fear of Hamas rockets. Palestinian civilians deeply resent Hamas while simultaneously opposing the relentless brutality of Israeli military rule. Initiatives like the Parents Circle—a community of bereaved Israeli and Palestinian families—vividly demonstrate how mutual recognition of each other's pain isn't just possible but profoundly powerful. However, this nuanced recognition faces significant social resistance. Rabbi Bernie Steinberg, a prominent advocate for interfaith dialogue who passed away in January 2024, highlighted this tension, specifically cautioning against weaponizing accusations of antisemitism to suppress candid conversations about Israeli policies. Writing in The Harvard Crimson, he argues, 'we must stop using accusations of antisemitism to stifle honest discourse about the occupation, which ultimately harms both Jews and Palestinians.' Steinberg’s insight underscores the dangers of binary frameworks that silence the very nuanced conversations essential for genuine peace.

As conflict mediator John Paul Lederach reminds us, “building sustainable peace requires acknowledging profound pain on all sides without equating their actions or erasing their experiences.” Sustainable peace demands paradoxical empathy—the moral courage to hold your trauma alongside your adversary’s trauma simultaneously, without diminishing either. This nuanced, courageous stance isn’t weak; it’s revolutionary moral clarity in a culture desperately starved of it.

Conviction, Not Compromise

Nuance isn't about dilution or moderation—it's about engaging deeply, holding multiple truths, and making principled decisions in messy contexts. It’s not “splitting the difference.” That’s centrism: often a hollow midpoint masquerading as wisdom. Real nuance doesn’t hover politely between extremes. It examines, interrogates, and sometimes declares one side more right than the other—or proposes a third path entirely.

So why is nuance so often confused with moderation? Partly because we don’t have language for positions that don’t fall neatly on a left–right axis. If you’re not clearly “left” or “right,” you get dumped in “the center”—even if your views come from radically different worldviews.

And let’s be honest: nuance can be threatening. In a polarized world, acknowledging complexity can look like cowardice. Fence-sitting. Weakness. But often, it’s the most rigorous thinkers who refuse to flatten hard truths, which makes it impossible to join a “side.” Dismissing nuance as soft isn’t critique—it’s avoidance. And that refusal to engage complexity? It isn’t just frustrating. It’s a kind of cultural sabotage.

First, it distorts our grasp of reality. Most urgent issues involve competing truths and layered values. Boiling them down to binaries erases context we can’t afford to lose.

Second, it paralyzes progress. When every disagreement becomes a tribal war, compromise isn’t strategy—it’s betrayal. That mindset leaves us gridlocked on immigration, climate change, and nearly every issue that demands collective action.

Third, it damages us—individually and collectively. Black-and-white thinking is a known cognitive distortion, closely tied to anxiety and depression (I’ve lived this). Therapists try to dismantle it one-on-one. Our culture shouts it daily. No wonder we’re exhausted.

And finally, it kills problem-solving. As journalist Amanda Ripley writes, binary thinking fuels “high conflict”—the kind that locks people into moral combat and drowns nuance on purpose. The more we reduce disagreement to good vs. evil, the less we can hear, change, or build anything real.

Still, there’s reason for hope.

Cracks are forming in the binary scaffolding. People are tired—of purity tests, of teamthink, of pretending complexity doesn’t exist. They want honesty. They want depth. That’s where “two things can be true at once” stops sounding like a cop-out and starts sounding like a way forward.

It’s not moral squish. It’s intellectual stamina.

As F. Scott Fitzgerald once wrote, “the test of a first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposed ideas in mind and still retain the ability to function.” Niels Bohr echoed him: “The opposite of a great truth is also true.” Yet right now, that kind of wisdom feels perilously fragile—poised on the edge of systems too brittle to bend.

Because when moral polarization hardens, it rarely dissolves quietly. Sometimes systems snap before they shift. Sometimes truth only survives after the rupture.

So no—embracing complexity isn’t just an intellectual pose. It’s a radical commitment to reality.

Holding multiple truths doesn’t mean balancing harm and healing.

Let’s be clear: this isn’t moral relativism. Some things are binary.
Murder is wrong.
Terrorism is wrong.
Torture is wrong.
Sexual violence is wrong.
Slavery is wrong.
Racism is wrong.
Stealing land is wrong.
Destroying the planet for profit is wrong.
Targeting civilians is wrong.
Antisemitism is wrong.
Islamophobia is wrong.
Transphobia is wrong.
Homophobia is wrong.
Xenophobia is wrong.
Dehumanization is wrong.
Period.

These aren’t contradictions to wrestle with. They’re boundaries. They’re moral lines you don’t cross—no matter your politics, your pain, or your history. The challenge isn’t naming what’s wrong. It’s naming it when it’s your side doing it. When people you love excuse what they’d condemn in others. When the labels—pro-Israel, pro-Palestine, left, right, ally, traitor—start to mean more than lives. Holding multiple truths isn’t weakness. It’s integrity. It doesn’t mean balancing harm and healing, or cruelty and justice. It means seeing the whole terrain—and choosing your ground with intention.

The most courageous moral stance rejects both false binaries and false equivalence. You can have conviction and complexity. You can be principled and nuanced. That’s not weakness. That’s grown-ass discernment.

In a culture that rewards outrage and punishes reflection, nuance isn’t softness—it’s resistance. It’s a refusal to flatten the world just because it’s easier to shout than to think.

Maybe the real question isn’t which side you’re on. Not everything needs a flag. What if the truth refuses to pledge allegiance?

As always, these reflections represent my own evolving thoughts and struggles with complexity. I'd genuinely love to hear your agreements, disagreements, and perspectives—after all, embracing our nuanced differences is exactly the point.