One of the great confusions of adulthood is that we mistake fairness for symmetry.

We expect the world to distribute outcomes evenly: the same risks, the same rewards, the same lessons, the same limits. But reality doesn’t work that way, and it never has. What it offers instead is feedback—precise, local, and sometimes painful.

That which doesn’t kill you does not make you stronger.

It reveals a boundary.

“Ouch. Hot. No touch.”

This is not childish thinking. It is the most compressed form of wisdom available to embodied beings. Pain, when it is non-lethal and listened to early, is not cruelty. It is calibration. It marks the edge of viability for a particular identity in a particular moment within a particular field.

The critical insight—the one that dissolves resentment if it’s allowed to land—is this:

a boundary revealed to one identity is not necessarily a boundary for another.

The same fire that burns one hand may warm another.

The same pressure that breaks one system may organize a different one.

The same risk that destroys one life may open possibility in another.

This is where the instinct for comparison goes wrong.

“I burned my hand and that other guy got a pony. No fair.”

And then—if we’re lucky enough to pause instead of calcify—

“Oh. Wait. Yes it is.”

Because fairness is not sameness.

Fairness is fidelity to reality.

You were not punished.

You were informed.

He was not rewarded.

He was given what his structure could metabolize without collapse.

Drift, in this sense, is not the enemy. Drift is how systems learn where they stop. It is how identity discovers its shape. It is how we learn from experience. The danger is not drifting—it is ignoring drift, overriding it, or universalizing it into law.

This is how monstrosity forms in both directions:

Some people survive fire and conclude that everyone should.

Others are burned and conclude that no one must ever approach heat again.

Both are violations of sovereignty.

A humane ethic does not enforce identical limits.

It protects the right of each identity to encounter boundaries early enough to survive them.

Wisdom, then, is not shouting warnings from a distance or distributing ponies to balance the ledger. It is standing nearby, present, attentive, and unalarmed—ready to say, quietly:

“Pay attention.

Your hand will tell you.”

That is not weakness.

That is alignment.

And when we finally stop arguing with the feedback—when we laugh, withdraw our hand, and let the lesson land—we discover something unexpected:

We were not punished, but discovered where we belong.