Interrupting Harm, Imperfectly
Lessons from a poll on what stops (and starts) us in moments of harm.
A few weeks ago, I found myself in a familiar moment of hesitation. I witnessed someone say something potentially harmful in a group setting—it was a subtle moment, but it caught me—and for just a second, I froze. I could feel my heart rate quicken, my brain trying to race ahead to find the “right” thing to say, to weigh the consequences of speaking up or staying silent.
I did say something—and it wasn’t perfect. It never is. Still, it was enough to shift the energy, to make it clear that the comment wasn’t okay.
That moment stayed with me, and it made me wonder: how many of us feel ready to interrupt harm when we see it?
So I asked my Instagram audience (via a story poll):
Do you feel confident interrupting harm when it happens?
Only 12% of respondents said yes.
79% said sometimes, it depends.
And 10% said not really.
Those numbers didn’t surprise me. They moved me.
When I followed up and asked what makes it hard, the most common answers were fear and not knowing what to say.
And when I asked “what’s one thing you wish more people understood about interrupting harm,” wisdom poured in:
Temporary discomfort avoids long-term dysfunction.
It doesn’t have to be a big scene.
Even small, direct action can matter.
Stopping harm is more important than being embarrassed.
It can lead to deeper connection.
It’s better to say something imperfectly than to say nothing at all.
I’ve been sitting with these words.
So often we might think that speaking up means having the perfect language or the perfect “read” on a situation. We might worry about how it will land, if we will make it worse, if people will judge us, if we will embarrass ourselves. And those fears are real—they’re part of how many of us have been socialized, as if politeness matters more than human rights; as if comfort matters more than care.
The truth is, nothing changes without interruption.
As one response shared so beautifully, being uncomfortable isn’t the same thing as being unsafe—and sometimes our willingness to move into discomfort is exactly what keeps others safer.
We don’t need the perfect script.
We don’t have to turn it into a performance.
We don’t even need to get it “right.”
We “just” have to be willing to let our care speak louder than our fear.
That might look like:
Asking a clarifying question: “What did you mean by that?”
Naming what we see: “That comment felt off to me.”
Creating a distraction or redirecting attention.
Checking in privately with someone who’s targeted.
Following up after the fact if you froze in the moment.
There’s no one way to interrupt harm—there is always a way to practice turning toward it rather than away.
What struck me most from the poll was how many responses connected interrupting harm to love and belonging. That’s the truth. This isn’t about shaming, punishing, or humiliating someone else. It’s about creating a different kind of possibility—for ourselves, for the people around us, for the culture we’re part of making.
We cannot heal what we refuse to name.
We cannot change what we refuse to disrupt.
And we cannot wait until we feel “ready.”
So the next time you see harm happening—and you feel your heart beating fast and your brain stalling out—remember: you don’t have to be perfect. You just have to say something.
Even something small can make a difference.
Even something imperfect can open the door.
Even something uncomfortable can be an act of care.
We practice interrupting harm the way we practice anything: by doing it. Again and again.
And in the process, we become the kind of people—and the kind of community—that others can trust.
Your turn:
What helps you interrupt harm when it happens? What stops you? Feel free to respond and let me know—I’d love to hear what you’re reflecting on in this conversation if you’d like to share.