Why Good Intentions Aren’t Enough: Lessons in Accountability and Emotional Labour

We often think our good intentions protect us from blame. But what if they’re keeping us from growth?

There’s a comforting belief I’ve held close for years: that we’re all inherently good people who simply make mistakes. But lately, I’ve begun to wonder—what happens when those mistakes pile up, cushioned by the soft excuse of “I meant well”?

To be fair, I’m surrounded by some incredibly emotionally mature people. (Hi, team.) I know what healthy relationships look like. And I’m not just talking about therapy-speak boundaries and communication — I’m talking about the quiet steadiness of people who show up, take ownership, and apologise when they’re wrong. Honestly? It’s humbling. It makes me count my blessings with the kind of regularity people save for gratitude journals.

But here’s the tension. Amidst all the grounded people in my life, there’s one person who feels like an emotional outlier — someone I love deeply, who also happens to leave me completely undone.

It’s not that they’re toxic. Far from it. They’re kind, magnetic, funny. But our relationship is…chaotic. Our life goals clash, our values misalign, and yet, I keep them close. Closer than logic would recommend.

It was while watching Ramy — the Hulu series that’s one part philosophy, one part mess — that the disconnect started to make sense. Ramy is a character whose flaws are heartbreakingly human. He wants to be good. He tries. He fails. He tries again. His efforts are sincere. His failures, frustrating. And I saw myself in him… until I didn’t.

The Problem with Good Intentions

Here’s the thing about Ramy (and my friend): both believe their intentions are enough. They weaponize goodness as a justification. Every emotional slip-up, every defensive outburst, is coated with: “But I meant well.”

But meaning well doesn’t mend the mess. Especially if you’re hurting someone repeatedly — and especially if you never take responsibility for it.

That’s where the emotional labour began to feel one-sided. I found myself constantly stepping in to soothe, fix, advise. I’d spend days helping them through a decision, only to watch them abandon it. We kept going in circles — hope, collapse, repeat. And each time, their apology was some version of: “I didn’t mean to.”

Over time, I realised something quietly brutal: I had become their emotional scapegoat. I was being held accountable for things I hadn’t done, simply because I was the one who stayed.

When Accountability Feels Like Betrayal

We talk a lot about emotional intelligence, but rarely about emotional responsibility. Saying “I didn’t mean to hurt you” isn’t the same as saying “I’m sorry I did.”

Intention matters. But so does impact. And when someone can’t hold both, they end up outsourcing their discomfort. They make you responsible for how bad they feel, not for how much you were hurt.

And here’s the kicker — I’ve done it too. I’ve been so afraid of being the “bad guy” that I’ve dismissed hurt I’ve caused with the cushion of good intentions. But as any therapist will tell you (and as we explore in this emotional regulation article), awareness isn’t enough. It’s what you do with it.

5 Realisations That Helped Me Detangle This Dynamic

• Struggles aren’t a competition. Just because someone else is hurting doesn’t mean your hurt is less valid.
• Intentions don’t erase harm. Accountability isn’t an accusation — it’s an invitation to grow.
• Using your intentions as a shield often leads to blame. It distances you from the discomfort of being wrong — and pushes that discomfort onto someone else.
• Empty apologies protect the ego, not the relationship. A real apology includes: “I understand what I did, I see how it hurt you, and I’ll try to do better.”
• You can love someone and still need space from their patterns. Holding them accountable doesn’t make you cruel. It makes you honest.

So, What Now?

I’ve been some version of Ramy. I’ve also been close to people who embody him completely. But the lesson is this: being flawed doesn’t make us unworthy. It makes us real. What matters is what we do after the flaw shows up. Whether we reach for repair. Whether we learn.

And sometimes, the most loving thing we can do — for ourselves and others — is to stop excusing pain in the name of good intentions.