Offence is Taken, Not Given

Nobody can make us fall in love, force us to laugh, or compel us to feel sad. Our emotional lives are personal and voluntary, guided by how we interpret and respond to the world around us. Yet when it comes to feeling offended, many of us abandon that sense of personal responsibility. We act as though someone else has the power to reach inside us and pull the emotional strings. But if we accept responsibility for our happiness or sorrow, how can we deny responsibility for taking offence?

Context and tone shape meaning in Australian culture. Being called a “bastard”, for instance, can range from a deep insult to an affectionate tease. It might even be used as a compliment among mates, yet someone else might take grave offence. The difference lies not in the word itself, nor even in the intent of the speaker, but in the perception and interpretation of the listener.

The same principle applies to remarks about politics, religion, gender, sexuality, age, or any other personal characteristic. Words do not come with built-in emotional consequences; their impact depends entirely on how they are received. Nobody can predict with certainty how another person will interpret a comment or whether it will provoke discomfort, amusement, or offence. And yet, increasingly, our societies demand that speakers bear the blame for the unpredictable reactions of listeners.

In law, there is a principle known as the “egg-shell skull rule.” It holds that if someone negligently or intentionally injures another, they are responsible for the full extent of the harm—even if the victim suffers unusually severe damage because of a hidden vulnerability. If you strike someone who happens to have a skull as fragile as an eggshell, you are still liable for the injury. But that principle applies only to physical harm. We do not, and cannot, apply it to emotional or verbal matters, because feelings are not fixed in the same way as bone and tissue. Yet today, many seem eager to extend moral and even legal responsibility for offence to those who merely speak, regardless of intent or reasonableness.

This trend is visible in law. The Australian Racial Discrimination Act makes it unlawful to “offend, insult, humiliate or intimidate” someone on the basis of their race or ethnicity. While the intent of such laws is to promote harmony, they depend entirely on the subjective feelings of the person claiming to be offended. Whether a statement is deemed unlawful may rest not on what was said, but on how it was felt. And because no one can know in advance how another person will feel, the safest course is often silence. When the price of speaking freely is the risk of prosecution or public shaming, people learn to avoid speaking at all.

The result is a quieter, more cautious public conversation. In America—and increasingly in Australia—people often say “Happy Holidays” instead of “Merry Christmas”, not from genuine inclusiveness, but from fear that someone might take offence. Artists, filmmakers, and writers avoid certain subjects, such as depictions of the Prophet Mohammed, because expressions of offence can escalate beyond criticism into violence. The chilling effect is real: when people fear emotional reactions as much as physical ones, freedom of thought begins to shrink.

Being offended, like feeling angry, lonely, or frustrated, is an emotion—one of many we can experience in response to life’s events. And like those other emotions, it can be managed. It is not involuntary. We might not control the first flicker of irritation when we hear something provocative, but we do control what happens next. We decide whether to nurture the feeling or let it go. Even when someone deliberately tries to hurt us, our reaction is shaped by our beliefs, our sense of self, and our resilience. Some people are unfazed by insults; others take deep offence at harmless remarks. That difference reflects not the words, but the worldview of the listener.

Free speech does not depend on a “right to offend.” Rather, it depends on a shared understanding that offence is not an act done to us but a feeling we allow ourselves to experience. Of course, civility and empathy matter. Good manners and respect for others help social life run smoothly. But we do not need laws to tell us that blunt honesty in delicate situations—say, in answering “Does my bum look big in this?”—can lead to trouble. Courtesy should be guided by character, not by fear of legal or moral reprisal.

When we hand control of our emotions to others, we surrender a piece of our independence. If we say that someone else can make us feel offended, we are admitting that they can control how we think and feel. Yet nobody can force us to believe something, just as nobody can force us to be offended. To claim otherwise is to give others more power over our inner lives than they deserve.

Words can be cruel, ignorant, or bigoted. But unless they are coercive—unless they threaten, deceive, or force us into action—they have no power except what we give them. We are always free to choose our reaction. To feel offended is one option among many, and it is the least productive one. We can also choose to shrug, laugh, argue, or simply move on.

What is often called “hate speech” may in many cases be nothing more than speech that someone disagrees with. Protecting people from ideas they dislike is not the same as protecting them from harm. A mature society must be able to distinguish between the two. When we forget that offence is taken, not given, we trade our emotional autonomy for a fragile comfort—and in doing so, we risk silencing not only those we disagree with, but ultimately, ourselves.