In this blog, I dismantle the comforting illusion of relativism, exposing it not as kindness but as a corrosive idea that distorts clarity and weakens inner authority. I describe how the belief in subjective truth begins as humility but quickly devolves into confusion, dependence, and a loss of trust in one’s own knowing. I assert that Truth is not scattered among perspectives but is whole, silent, and directly accessible within. In this presence, argument and persuasion dissolve, replaced by a quiet confidence. I no longer seek agreement—I live in Truth, and that is enough.
I’ve heard it said many times—“We each have our own truth, don’t we?” It sounds kind. It sounds fair. Like the voice of someone who respects differences and wants to keep the peace. But that phrase is not harmless. It’s the first sign of infection.
Relativism—the belief that truth is subjective, that it changes from person to person, and that no one really sees the full picture—is not a path to wisdom. It’s a sign of disorientation. It starts as politeness. Then it becomes confusion. Then disempowerment. And before long, it turns every conversation into a fog where nothing can be known, and no one is sure about anything.
It usually begins with a well-meaning idea: “We only see from our limited perspective. Only God sees the whole.”
But that idea, too, is part of the sickness. Because once you believe that truth is out of reach—that it lives elsewhere, in someone else’s vision or God’s mysterious vault—you surrender your authority. You begin to rely on external sources to tell you what’s real. You become fragmented. Dependent. Vulnerable to stories, narratives, dogmas, conspiracies. Always looking out there, because you no longer trust what’s in here.
But I’ve come to know something different: the whole is not hidden. It is not divided up and scattered. The Truth is not something you need to assemble from the perspectives of others. It is whole. It is direct. And it is yours. Not yours in the sense of personal preference or interpretation. Yours in the sense of divine inheritance. Something that lives in stillness, in presence, in me, here, now.
Truth doesn’t compete. It doesn’t demand agreement. It doesn’t seek recognition or applause. Truth is silent.
It doesn’t advertise itself. It doesn’t argue. It simply is. And when you know it, you don’t need to talk about it. You certainly don’t need to convince anyone. You just live it. Peacefully. Confidently. With no compulsion to preach or convert. That’s how you know it’s real.
I’ve also noticed that people who know the Truth tend to find one another—not through persuasion, but through presence. There’s a stillness in them. A clarity. They don’t debate because there’s nothing to prove. They aren’t trying to fill in missing pieces, because nothing is missing. It’s not a community of shared belief—it’s a communion of shared knowing.
Relativism kills that. It splinters us. It turns us into seekers of partial truths when we were made to dwell in the whole. And once you accept the lie that you only see a piece, the search never ends. The noise never stops. The poison keeps circulating, disguised as openness.
But I don’t need to drink it anymore. I’ve stopped trying to gather fragments. I don’t say, “This is my truth.” And I don’t need you to tell me yours. Because the Truth I’ve found doesn’t change from person to person. It simply is. And once you know it, the need to fight, argue, or evangelize disappears. If I speak, it’s not to share the Truth. It’s only to confront the lies that try to pull others into confusion. Otherwise, I walk away.
Because the Truth doesn’t need to win. It has already won.
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