You know that feeling when you catch yourself mid-judgment, that split second where your brain has already categorized someone or something before you’ve even taken a full breath? Yeah, I’m intimately familiar with that moment. At 40, I’ve spent enough years wrestling with my own tendency to jump to conclusions to know how seductive and dangerous contempt can be.

It wasn’t until my late thirties that I really started understanding how deeply contempt prior to investigation had shaped my worldview. Growing up, I’d learned to armor myself with quick assessments, sharp observations, and what I mistakenly believed was “intuition.” In reality, it was just a protective mechanism—a way to feel in control by quickly sorting the world into neat, manageable boxes labeled “good” and “bad.”

Take work environments, for instance. I remember how swiftly I’d size up new colleagues. That guy who always wore wrinkled shirts? Clearly disorganized and unprofessional. The woman who spoke softly in meetings? Obviously lacking confidence. These snap judgments said far more about my own insecurities than about the actual people around me.

The turning point came during a professional workshop where we discussed unconscious bias. The facilitator challenged us to pause—truly pause—before forming an opinion. It sounds simple, right? But for someone who’d built entire career strategies around quick assessments, this was revolutionary. What if, instead of immediately categorizing, I got curious? What if I asked a question instead of constructing a narrative?

This shift wasn’t just professional. It permeated every aspect of my life. I started noticing how quickly I’d form opinions about everything: restaurants, neighborhoods, political movements, parenting styles. Each judgment was a wall, preventing genuine understanding.

Learning to suspend contempt doesn’t mean becoming naive or losing critical thinking. It’s about creating space—breathing room between observation and conclusion. It’s recognizing that every person, every situation, carries complexity far beyond our initial impression.

I’ve learned that contempt is often a shield. It protects us from vulnerability, from the uncomfortable work of truly understanding. When we look down on something or someone, we don’t have to engage, to empathize, to acknowledge our own limitations.

These days, I try to catch myself. When that familiar surge of judgment rises, I take a breath. I ask myself: What am I not seeing? What story might be underneath this surface-level observation? Sometimes the answer surprises me, revealing layers of humanity I would have missed in my previous, more dismissive approach.

This journey isn’t about perfection. It’s about practice. Some days, I’m more successful than others. But each moment of caught judgment is a small victory—a reminder that life is infinitely more interesting when we approach it with curiosity instead of contempt.