In the run-up to public demonstrations or moments of collective expression, it’s common to see leaders, politicians, and media rushing to apply labels. Before a single banner is raised, the story is already framed: one side dismissed as extremist, the other portrayed as the sole voice of reason.

But labels aren’t neutral descriptions. They are frames — ways of telling the public how to see someone before they’ve even spoken.

The Harm of Political Labels

When figures are branded as far right or far left, it rarely reflects the whole picture. These labels don’t invite conversation; they shut it down. They strip away nuance, dismiss complexity, and encourage the public to view people through the narrowest possible lens.

From a trauma-informed perspective, this is deeply harmful. Every human being has a past — and most of us, if judged only on our younger, more naïve selves, would look very different to who we are today. Growth is part of the human journey. Yet in political discourse, past affiliations or mistakes are often pinned to people forever, as though change were impossible.

What’s striking is the double standard: governments call for trauma-informed rehabilitation for prisoners — recognising the possibility of growth and second chances — while simultaneously denying that same grace to those in public life. We cannot have it both ways. Either we believe people can change, or we don’t.

Too often, people don’t look beyond the label. They parrot what they’ve read in headlines or heard repeated by authority figures, rarely stopping to ask whether it’s fair or accurate. This isn’t because people are thoughtless — it’s because belonging feels safe. It can feel easier to echo the loudest voice than to question it. But if we want real change, we need to be willing to look beyond the ready-made story. We need to ask, what’s underneath the label? What’s the full human story? Only then do we create the possibility of genuine understanding and transformation.

Pathologising Language in Everyday Life

This habit of labelling extends far beyond politics. In everyday conversations, especially around mental health, we often hear pathologising words thrown out casually: narcissist, psychopath, slut. These are not neutral descriptors; they are weapons, used to silence or condemn.

Such words often come from pain, betrayal, or fear. Instead of saying, “I was hurt,” it can feel easier to declare, “They’re a narcissist.” Instead of sitting with discomfort, we reach for a label that ends the conversation.

But these terms serve another purpose too: they divide. They separate us from them. They let us dismiss whole people instead of listening to the point they are trying to make.

The Unequal Weight of Words

What troubles me most is how society treats some labels as unacceptable while others are tolerated. Rightly, many discriminatory slurs are challenged. Yet when people in positions of power fling words like narcissist or extremist, it’s often excused.

Why is one form of dehumanisation condemned while another is normalised? Why do we allow leaders, politicians, and media to use labels as weapons, when in any other context we would call it bullying?

Shouldn’t those with the greatest influence be held to the highest standard of compassion and fairness, not the lowest?

Another subtle harm in labelling is the way it gets reported. We often hear phrases like “self-professed” this or that — as though the person has chosen the label for themselves. In reality, many people have simply been given that label by others. What often happens is reframing: “If this label means I stand for honesty, or fairness, or protecting children, then I’ll wear it.” But that is not the same as self-identification. It is resistance to an imposed name, not genuine ownership of it. Pretending otherwise distorts the truth and keeps the cycle of name-calling alive.

Rupture and Repair vs. Division and Dismissal

In trauma-informed practice, we talk about rupture and repair. Disagreements happen. Misattunements happen. But healing comes in the repair — in the return to empathy, in the willingness to listen, in the rebuilding of trust.

Contrast this with public discourse. Instead of repair, we see rupture upon rupture. Leaders slur those they disagree with. Media caricature complex movements or individuals. Opposing perspectives are written off before they’ve been heard.

This isn’t leadership. It’s childishness dressed up as authority.

Too often in public debate, we don’t really listen. We pause only long enough to prepare our counter-argument, waiting for our turn to speak. That isn’t listening — it’s a form of self-defence. It’s a knee-jerk reaction, rooted in survival mode, where the nervous system prioritises winning or protecting rather than understanding. When we listen only to reply, not to understand, we remain stuck in conflict. Real dialogue begins when we listen with the intent to hear, not the intent to fight back.

Towards Rational Debate and Empathic Understanding

Every perspective — whether we agree with it or not — comes from somewhere. People gather in public because they care, because they want to be heard. They come from different backgrounds, colours, and experiences, often standing together around a shared value. To dismiss all of that with a single political label is misleading at best, and divisive at worst.

A trauma-informed society would do better. It would hold space for rational debate, recognising that disagreement doesn’t have to mean disrespect. It would place empathy at the heart of dialogue, especially towards those we oppose. Because compassion isn’t just for the people we like — it is tested most in how we treat those we don’t.

A Call for Something Higher

We are all more than the worst label ever applied to us. To pin people forever to their pasts, or to weaponise diagnoses and slurs as insults, is both unfair and deeply damaging.

If we want a society that heals, we need leaders, media, and communities willing to rise above name-calling. We need dialogue that is rational, not reactionary. We need empathy that stretches beyond our own tribe.

Because the true measure of compassion is not how we treat those who agree with us — it’s how we treat those who don’t.