The Quiet Violence of Merit

We like to believe in merit.

We say the word as if it were a clean equation: work hard, get results. Study longer, rise higher. Try again, succeed eventually. Merit promises fairness without sentimentality. It offers order. It tells us that outcomes are earned.

That promise is the system.

It is built into classrooms, job applications, scholarship forms, visa categories, performance reviews, and social media feeds. It is built into how we introduce ourselves: what do you do? It is built into how we measure children before they have even learned how to measure themselves.

Meritocracy does not announce itself as harsh. It presents as neutral. It claims to reward effort and discipline. It tells us that talent plus perseverance equals progress.

But something inside it feels misaligned.

The friction begins early. In school, children are arranged in rows and taught to compete politely. Gold stars and rankings appear. The praise is subtle but unmistakable: the fastest reader, the highest score, the quietest child, the most promising future. The system whispers, You are what you achieve.

For some children, this is a tailwind. They learn quickly. They memorize well. Their homes are stable. Their hunger is fed before it is tested. They rise naturally within the design of the structure.

For others, the system feels like running uphill with weights strapped to their ankles. Perhaps English is not their first language. Perhaps their parents are working two jobs. Perhaps the house is loud, or unstable, or grieving. The system does not factor these variables. It records the score and moves on.

The misalignment is not loud. It does not look like collapse. It looks like a child who decides she is “not smart” at eight years old.

Meritocracy does not ask who had time to rest. It does not ask who was translating the instructions at home. It does not ask who had a quiet desk and who had a crowded kitchen table.

It only asks: Did you perform?

As adults, the system grows more sophisticated. It changes language. Performance becomes productivity. Productivity becomes value. Value becomes worth.

We optimize ourselves. We track habits. We count steps. We brand our personalities. We measure success in followers, income brackets, titles, and visas stamped in passports. We learn to narrate our lives in bullet points.

Somewhere along the way, we internalize the idea that if we are struggling, it must be because we are not trying hard enough.

This is the quiet violence of merit. It individualizes what is often structural.

When wages stagnate but rent climbs, the system does not say the structure is misaligned. It says: learn a new skill. When a parent is exhausted from juggling care and career, the system does not say the expectations are unsustainable. It says: manage your time better. When an immigrant with multiple degrees cleans offices at night, the system does not say credentials do not travel equally across borders. It says: start again.

Meritocracy is persuasive because it contains truth. Effort does matter. Discipline can change trajectories. Skill opens doors.

But the system quietly exaggerates its fairness.

It assumes the starting line is the same for everyone. It assumes that opportunity is distributed evenly and that outcomes reflect only input. It assumes that if you follow the rules, the rules will reward you.

And when they do not, shame fills the gap.

Shame is very efficient. It keeps people working harder inside the same structure instead of questioning it. It keeps exhaustion private. It keeps comparison constant.

It also shapes relationships. We learn to evaluate ourselves and others through achievement. Conversations tilt toward accomplishment. Introductions become resumes. Even rest becomes strategic — self-care as fuel for greater output.

There is something fragile in this design. It leaves little room for slowness, for detours, for caregiving, for invisible labor. It leaves little room for grief.

If someone steps off the ladder to care for a child, to heal from illness, to sit with uncertainty - the system struggles to categorize them. The pause looks like failure. The gap on the résumé looks like a flaw.

But perhaps the flaw is in the lens.

Meritocracy struggles to measure what cannot be quantified. It cannot easily account for kindness, for community building, for emotional endurance, for resilience forged in silence. It cannot easily calculate the weight of discrimination or the cost of navigating systems not designed for you.

It claims neutrality while operating within cultures shaped by history — by race, class, gender, geography. It promises objectivity while inheriting old inequalities.

The misalignment becomes visible in small moments.

A brilliant student who burns out before graduation.

A talented worker who never advances because networking requires access she does not have.

A father who feels diminished because his worth has been tied entirely to income.

A woman who questions her value after stepping away from paid work to raise children.

None of these are collapses of the system. They are friction points. Quiet signals. Hairline cracks.

The system continues to function. Companies hire. Schools graduate. Economies grow. Awards are given.

But beneath the surface, a question lingers: what is being overlooked?

When worth is tightly coupled with measurable achievement, those who cannot constantly produce are rendered less visible. The elderly. The disabled. The chronically ill. The grieving. The undocumented. The ones rebuilding after loss.

Meritocracy does not know what to do with vulnerability.

It also struggles with luck. We do not like to admit how much of life is shaped by timing, geography, networks, and chance encounters. The system prefers narratives of grit. They are cleaner. They flatter the winners and discipline the rest.

Yet anyone who has lived long enough knows how unpredictable life can be. A single illness. A single economic downturn. A single policy change. The ladder can tilt without warning.

And still, we keep climbing.

Perhaps because the alternative - acknowledging that effort does not always equal outcome feels destabilizing. The promise of merit offers psychological comfort. It tells us the world is understandable.

But understanding is not the same as fairness.

Exhaustion comes with the constant struggle to prove oneself. A subtle narrowing of identity. If I am only as valuable as my output;

who am I when I am tired?

who am I when I fail?

who am I when I choose something slower?

The system does not collapse when these questions are asked. It simply does not have space for them.

Meritocracy promises order. It organizes behavior and distributes rewards. It offers predictability: do more, get more.

But life is not entirely predictable. Nor is it evenly weighted.

The friction is quiet, but it is everywhere. In classrooms. In offices. In immigration lines. In social media feeds. In the private thoughts of people who are doing their best and still feel behind.

The system continues to hum along, efficient and admired.

And inside it, many of us keep asking softly, almost apologetically;

is this really what worth was meant to feel like?

Really?

(this was initially intended for the challenge: "A System That Isn't Working" but I forgot to submit on time)

Thanks for reading!