The Cave of Perpetual Shock: When the Energy of Outrage Fails to Become the Energy of Change
Weekly Reflections Through the Six Stages Framework Lens — Part One
Dr Shungu Hilda M’gadzah | 1 November 2026
Four hundred years later, why does it sound so familiar?
I recently watched a video of Sir Ian McKellen delivering a speech from the Elizabethan play Sir Thomas More, widely attributed to William Shakespeare. I was deeply moved, not simply by the power of McKellen’s performance or the beauty of the language, but by how familiar the words sounded. It made me think about the warning signs of racism.
The speech describes a crowd protesting against the presence of strangers in London. Immigrants. People who had arrived from elsewhere. People whom the crowd believed should be removed. The events being portrayed took place in 1517, more than five hundred years ago, while the speech itself was written approximately four hundred years ago. The Folger Shakespeare Library’s exploration of The Strangers’ Case provides a fascinating account of its historical origins and the extraordinary relevance of the speech today.
As I listened, I found myself thinking about the present. The language of strangers and outsiders, the resentment towards people considered different, the assumption that some people have a greater right to belong than others, and the collective energy of a crowd united through hostility all sounded disturbingly familiar. We have heard these voices before. We have seen the behaviours before. We know something about the circumstances in which these attitudes develop, spread and become increasingly accepted. Yet when racism, hostility and exclusion become visible again, we often respond with surprise. We express shock, condemn what has happened and ask how such behaviour can still exist in a supposedly more enlightened society. Then, too often, we wait for the next incident.
Four hundred years later, why are we still surprised by voices of bias and exclusion? Perhaps the more uncomfortable question is whether our repeated expressions of shock have themselves become part of the problem.
When shock becomes a comfortable place to remain
I have been thinking about how much energy we devote to being shocked by racism. Another discriminatory incident occurs, and there is outrage. Social media fills with expressions of disbelief, organisations issue statements, people gather to express solidarity, and we hear familiar declarations that discrimination is unacceptable and that lessons must be learnt. Gradually, however, public attention moves elsewhere, until the next incident brings another wave of outrage.
I am not suggesting that shock is inappropriate. It can be a genuine and important emotional response to injustice. Outrage may communicate solidarity, challenge silence and mobilise people who might otherwise remain inactive. But what happens when shock becomes the endpoint rather than the beginning of our response? What happens when we become highly skilled at expressing outrage but less effective at recognising the warning signs and changing the conditions that allow harm to continue?
I wonder whether we have become caught in what I might call the Cycle of Perpetual Shock. We recognise racism once it becomes sufficiently visible, react emotionally, condemn the behaviour and express our support for those affected. Yet the underlying assumptions, relationships, organisational cultures and social conditions may remain substantially unchanged. When similar behaviour reappears, we are shocked all over again, and the cycle continues.
Perhaps we need to ask whether some of the emotional energy consumed by repeated outrage could be redirected towards earlier recognition, prevention, accountability and meaningful action. Or perhaps we need to ask an even more uncomfortable question: Does expressing our shock sometimes allow us to feel that we have done something, without requiring us to change anything?
Through the Six Stages Framework lens: are we becoming stuck in our awakening?
The Six Stages Framework (SSF) provides a way of exploring this question. The framework describes a continuum extending from –6 to +6, examining awareness, beliefs, attitudes, behaviours and possibilities for movement towards or away from inclusion. On the positive axis, +1 represents Emerging Awareness, while +2 represents Discomfort & Awakening. These early positive Stages are important because someone may encounter racism in a way that challenges their previous understanding and experience shock, discomfort, uncertainty, anger or empathy. Something has disturbed their familiar view of the world, potentially creating an opportunity for growth.
But experiencing an awakening is not the same as developing understanding, taking responsibility or changing behaviour. Someone may be repeatedly shocked by racism without developing a clearer understanding of how it operates or what they might do differently. They may express genuine concern each time an incident occurs yet return to their familiar practices, relationships and assumptions. This makes me wonder whether we sometimes become psychologically attached to the experience of awakening itself. The emotional intensity of shock can make us feel that something significant has happened, and perhaps something has, but has anything changed beyond the emotional response?
There is an important distinction here. Shock is an emotional State, not a Stage on the SSF continuum. People occupying different Stages may experience shock for different reasons. Someone may be shocked because they have only just recognised an injustice, while another person may be shocked because an incident challenges values they have held for many years. Some expressions of shock may reflect social expectations rather than genuine emotional disturbance. The question is not simply whether someone appears shocked, but what happens next.
At +3, Developing Understanding, someone may begin examining the underlying beliefs, relationships and systems associated with what they have witnessed. At +4, Engaged & Reflective, that understanding may increasingly inform dialogue, self-examination and constructive action. At +5, Systems Thinker & Advocate, attention extends towards institutional patterns and systemic responsibility, while at +6, Transformational Leader, individuals may work to establish and sustain wider cultural and systemic change.
These Stages are not a rigid ladder. Movement can be uneven, contextual and reversible, and people may act before they have fully developed their understanding. Nor should we assume that public shock automatically places someone on the positive axis. Expressions of concern may coexist with dismissal, avoidance or resistance in other contexts. Nevertheless, the continuum raises an important question: Are we confusing the emotional experience of being shocked with meaningful movement towards inclusion? And, if so, what is keeping us there?
The energy of outrage: what happens after the vigil?
In WR018, The Spring of Activation: What Moves Us from Awareness to Action?, I explored how empathy, belonging, fear, loyalty and psychological safety influence whether emotional energy becomes action. I suggested that empathy can remain latent energy. Someone can care deeply about injustice while feeling unable or unwilling to intervene. I now find myself wondering about another possibility: what if some of the energy generated through public expressions of shock and outrage is not necessarily directed towards change?
Consider what happens following a widely reported tragedy or incident of discrimination. People gather, vigils are held, messages of sympathy and solidarity are shared, and there may be considerable emotion, collective attention and public discussion. These responses can be deeply meaningful, particularly to those who are grieving or experiencing harm. Public solidarity can affirm that people are not alone. But I find myself asking what happens after the vigil, when the candles have been extinguished, the speeches have ended, the photographs have been shared and people return to their familiar environments. Where does that energy go? Does it continue to challenge the circumstances that generated such concern? Does it lead to greater accountability, stronger protection, changed practices or sustained support? Or does much of it gradually disappear once the immediate emotional intensity has passed?
I am not questioning the sincerity of everyone who participates in public expressions of solidarity. But neither do I think we should automatically assume that every public expression of concern is sincere or accompanied by a genuine commitment to change. Some people may be deeply affected but uncertain how to act. Others may feel constrained by fear, institutional pressures, exhaustion or a lack of psychological safety. Some may demonstrate their commitment through quiet, sustained action rather than public statements. Others may participate because being seen to care is socially expected, professionally advantageous or reassuring to their sense of being a good person.
These possibilities are not always mutually exclusive, and we cannot reliably establish someone’s intentions simply by observing their public response. But we can examine what follows. We can examine patterns of responsibility, behaviour, accountability, follow-through and the outcomes experienced by others.
This brings me to a distinction I have been considering between observer energy and activated inclusion. Observer energy may involve genuine concern, emotional intensity and public visibility without necessarily leading to further action. Activated inclusion involves directing concern towards responsibility, intervention, sustained engagement and meaningful change. The difference is not simply how loudly people express their feelings, whether they attend an event, share a post or speak publicly, but what their response makes possible and what they are prepared to do afterwards.
I wonder whether we sometimes confuse the volume of our collective emotional response with its capacity to create change. We become activated around the injustice without necessarily becoming activated against the conditions that sustain it. Perhaps this is one way in which the status quo can continue, even when expressions of opposition appear overwhelming.
The comfort of our opinions: returning to our caves
There was another aspect of McKellen’s performance that stayed with me. In the speech, Thomas More confronts the crowd’s sense of entitlement and the certainty with which they demand the removal of strangers. He describes them as being “in ruff of your opinions clothed”. I find that image extraordinarily powerful. The language suggests people so wrapped in the authority of their own opinions that they fail to recognise the humanity and rights of those they are condemning.
More then asks them to imagine the situation reversed. What if they were the strangers? What if they were the people being driven from their homes, denied shelter or treated as though they did not belong? What would they think of those who treated them in this way?
As I listened, another image came to mind: people emerging from their comfortable caves to express powerful emotions, before returning to familiar environments in which their own lives, security and opportunities remain largely unchanged.
Those openly expressing hostility towards strangers and those expressing concern about racism are not doing the same thing. Their behaviours, intentions and responsibilities may be very different. But perhaps they can inhabit different psychological caves that sometimes contribute to the persistence of the same harmful conditions.
One cave may be filled with hostility, blame and certainty, while another may be filled with expressions of compassion, moral reassurance and concern. In the first, people actively reinforce exclusion. In the second, people may recognise exclusion but remain unwilling or unable to challenge the conditions through which it continues. The consequences and responsibilities are not equivalent, yet both may leave harmful conditions insufficiently challenged. This is especially important where individuals or organisations have significant power, influence or professional responsibilities.
What happens when we can publicly condemn racism and then return to workplaces, relationships and professional practices that we have never seriously questioned? What happens when we describe ourselves as caring, ethical and inclusive, but rarely examine how those values are experienced by the people around us?
Perhaps our comfortable caves are not always places where we deny that racism exists. Sometimes they are places where we acknowledge racism, condemn it and reassure ourselves that our concern is evidence of our commitment. We may leave our caves to express outrage, but are we prepared to leave behind the assumptions, privileges and practices that make those caves comfortable?
Toni Morrison: when racism becomes a distraction
I am reminded of a powerful observation by the writer Toni Morrison. In a 1975 address at Portland State University, Morrison explored the function of racism as a distraction, explaining how it repeatedly forces Black people to explain and defend their humanity, their language, their history, their abilities and their right to exist. She observed that racism “keeps you from doing your work.”
Her argument was not simply about the emotional consequences of prejudice. It was about the energy diverted from living, creating, achieving and pursuing one’s aspirations. Rather than allowing people to focus on their own goals and contributions, racism can demand that they continually respond to the assumptions and prejudices of others.
I find myself connecting Morrison’s argument with the energy of repeated shock. How much energy is spent responding to the latest expression of racism? How often must those experiencing it describe its impact, provide evidence of its harm or defend their right to be treated with dignity? How many times do we return to conversations that we thought had already established something fundamental about our shared humanity? And what happens when the people who experience racism are repeatedly expected to educate, persuade and reassure those who question their experiences?
Morrison’s concern was particularly about the demands placed upon those subjected to racism. I think we also need to examine the wider social pattern through which repeated expressions of shock and condemnation create the appearance of engagement while deeper change remains limited.
There is an important difference between the energy expended by those struggling against discrimination and the energy expended by observers expressing concern. Those experiencing racism should not be expected to overcome their distress quickly or carry responsibility for transforming the systems that harm them. The greater challenge is for those with authority, influence and opportunities to intervene. What are they doing with the energy generated by each new incident? Are they creating opportunities for inclusion, or simply adding their voices to the outrage before returning to business as usual?
If racism were a virus, would we keep being surprised?
This brings me back to an idea I have explored over several years. In my book If Racism Was a Virus, I considered what might happen if we approached racism with the seriousness and systematic attention that we bring to understanding and managing infectious disease.
I examined how racism can spread through individuals, relationships, families, communities, organisations and wider society. I explored the ways prejudiced beliefs may be transmitted, how people may carry and reproduce harmful assumptions without recognising them, and how racism can manifest openly or remain hidden behind what I described as masks of tolerance. I also considered warning signs, exposure, susceptibility, protection and the conditions that allow racism to flourish. These ideas are further developed through my work on the Racism Attack Virus (RAV) and the wider psychology of hate.
The metaphor is not intended to suggest that racism is literally an infection or that people who hold prejudiced beliefs are biologically diseased. It provides a way of examining transmission, environmental influences and opportunities for prevention. Listening to McKellen’s performance brought me back to a question: If we understand many of the ways racism spreads, why do we continue to act surprised when its symptoms become visible?
If we were responding to an infectious disease, would we repeatedly express shock each time another case emerged while failing to examine the conditions enabling transmission? Would we focus exclusively on helping those exposed to become more resilient? Would we simply ask infected individuals to change their behaviour and hope that the problem disappeared? Or would we also examine the environments in which transmission occurs, the warning signs of an outbreak, the protective measures available and the effectiveness of our interventions?
I think there is an important lesson here. Challenging discriminatory beliefs and behaviours does not guarantee that they will disappear, nor does educating someone about racism necessarily mean that they will change their views or practices. This may be uncomfortable to acknowledge, but perhaps part of our difficulty lies in the expectation that, as society progresses, we should eventually move beyond prejudice altogether.
Human beings remain vulnerable to group loyalty, fear of difference, simplistic explanations, the desire for superiority and the tendency to categorise others. Those vulnerabilities do not make racism inevitable. Racism is shaped by history, power, social learning and institutions, and people are capable of change. Nevertheless, prejudice and exclusion may remain recurring risks that require continuing attention.
We can accept that racism is a recurring risk without accepting it as an inevitable or acceptable condition of life.
Perhaps that distinction should influence how we approach inclusion. We must continue to challenge racist beliefs, educate, encourage empathy and create opportunities for transformation, but we cannot make people’s safety, dignity and opportunities dependent upon successfully changing every person who holds prejudiced views.
We also need environments that recognise discrimination, challenge its expression, reduce exposure to harm and provide meaningful protection and accountability. This is where my developing work on Human Climate Intelligence becomes particularly relevant. The environments we occupy influence what we notice, what we consider acceptable, how we respond and whether harmful behaviours are challenged, ignored, reinforced or rewarded.
Strengthening people’s resilience matters, but resilience must not become a substitute for addressing harmful environments. We should not simply become better at helping people survive racism. We must also become better at creating environments in which racism has less power to harm them.
Perhaps that is a more realistic and meaningful expression of activated inclusion.
The warning signs were already there
This is not a new concern within my work. In WR008, Preparing for Extremes: Why We Wait Until Crisis Arrives, I explored how warning signs can become so familiar that they are gradually treated as background noise. We notice changes in language, hear increasingly hostile descriptions of particular groups, encounter misinformation and scapegoating, and see discriminatory assumptions or behaviours dismissed as jokes, banter or isolated incidents. Yet too often, action is delayed until something more serious occurs, at which point the outcome is described as sudden or unexpected.
In WR013, They Walk Amongst Us: Two Years On — What Have We Learnt and What Have We Changed?, I revisited my reflections on the racist violence and disorder that followed the Southport murders in August 2024. I asked what we had learnt, what warning signs had been recognised and, perhaps most importantly, what we had changed. I was especially interested in what happened before the visible hostility. What had been tolerated or reinforced? What opportunities for intervention had been missed? And what had changed afterwards?
These questions remain relevant because the warning signs are not always dramatic. Sometimes they are embedded within ordinary conversations, repeated assumptions, social expectations and organisational practices. A particular group becomes associated with a problem. Their presence is increasingly questioned, their experiences are minimised, or their right to belong is presented as conditional. Over time, language that might once have prompted concern becomes normalised.
Of course, recognising warning signs requires careful judgement. Not every disagreement about immigration policy represents racism, not every expression of anger signals movement towards extremism, and a single statement or behaviour cannot establish someone’s SSF Stage. We need to examine patterns, contexts, relationships and changes over time. But recognising complexity must not become an excuse for avoiding responsibility.
The purpose of recognising warning signs is not to label everyone as dangerous. It is to identify when patterns of exclusion are developing and respond before harm becomes more deeply entrenched.
If we understand that such patterns can recur, why are we repeatedly waiting for them to become crises?
The Cave of Perpetual Shock
I have been thinking about whether our repeated reactions to racism might represent another psychological cave within the SSF: the Cave of Perpetual Shock.
Inside this cave, we repeatedly express disbelief that racism, prejudice and exclusion continue to exist. Our shock may be genuine, our concern may be sincere, and we may even feel deeply uncomfortable with what we have witnessed. Yet the cave can also become familiar. We condemn each new incident, reassure ourselves that we do not support such behaviour and then return to our usual routines.
The cave may provide a sense of moral certainty. We know that we were shocked, that we spoke against what happened and that we made our disagreement clear. Perhaps we did. But did we examine what happened before the incident? Did we question the environments that allowed the behaviour to develop? Did we use our influence to support meaningful change, or did we simply return to the comfort of knowing that we had expressed an appropriate response?
Sometimes caves are not places of ignorance. They can also be places where we know something is wrong but remain within familiar ways of responding to it. Perhaps repeated shock becomes one of those familiar responses, allowing us to experience the reassurance of having expressed concern without necessarily confronting the changes that concern might demand.
There is another uncomfortable possibility. Sometimes expressing our concern may help us feel that we have fulfilled our moral responsibility, even when the conditions that caused the injustice remain unchanged.
I think this matters particularly within professions and organisations that define themselves through care, compassion, inclusion and social justice. It is possible to be deeply committed to those values and still remain unaware of the distance between what we say and what others experience. We can fill our professional vessels with the language of inclusion, empathy and equality, but what happens when that energy has no outlet? What happens when it does not contribute to changes in behaviour, professional practice, accountability or outcomes? And what happens when the people we serve continue to experience exclusion despite our repeated declarations of inclusive values?
This question also connects with my developing My Dear White Friend reflections on loyalty, belonging and professional identity. When someone challenges the assumptions or practices of a group to which we belong, do we respond with curiosity and reflection, or do we interpret the challenge as disloyalty? Can we genuinely describe ourselves as reflective and inclusive if our sense of professional belonging depends upon others remaining silent about practices that may cause harm?
Perhaps the most important question is not whether we believe ourselves to be caring people, but whether our care has consequences for the environments we help create.
What does the energy for inclusion actually look like?
This is where I think we need to move beyond the language of shock, concern and good intentions. If we want to understand whether our energy is contributing to inclusion, we need to examine more than how strongly we feel.
We might ask whether our response is directed towards greater understanding, protection and accountability, or whether it simply amplifies outrage. We might examine who assumes responsibility for change and who continues to carry its burden. We might consider what people are prepared to question, challenge or relinquish when acting inclusively becomes uncomfortable, and whether their response continues after public attention has moved elsewhere.
Perhaps most importantly, we need to examine what difference is experienced by those affected. Are children and families experiencing greater dignity, fairness and belonging? Are workplaces becoming safer environments in which people can raise concerns? Are discriminatory assumptions being identified and challenged? Are organisational decisions and practices changing? Are harmful behaviours less likely to be tolerated, rewarded or repeated?
There will not always be immediate or easily measurable outcomes, and the absence of visible public action does not mean that someone is doing nothing. Meaningful change can take time, and some people are constrained by circumstances that make action difficult or risky. Nevertheless, our intentions should not be the only evidence we use to judge our commitment to inclusion. We need to listen to the experiences of those affected, examine our practices and assess the consequences of our actions.
This also challenges the assumption that the intensity of emotional activation is an accurate measure of commitment. Someone may express enormous outrage and do very little, while someone else may respond quietly but undertake sustained work that changes people’s experiences. The volume of the response is not necessarily the measure of its impact.
Activated inclusion is not simply about how much energy we generate. It is about how that energy is directed, sustained and translated into meaningful change.
Four hundred years later
I return to Sir Ian McKellen’s performance. What moved me was not simply the familiarity of the hostility described in the speech, but the appeal to humanity and the invitation to imagine what it would mean to become the stranger: to be the person denied belonging, to experience rejection and hostility from those who believe they have a greater right to safety, dignity and acceptance.
That appeal remains powerful, and perhaps this is why the speech continues to resonate centuries later. But I am left with another thought. How many more times must we appeal to our shared humanity before we become better at recognising the patterns that threaten it?
Humanity has made important progress over the last four centuries. Laws, institutions, knowledge, social movements and attitudes have changed, and those changes matter. Yet familiar patterns of prejudice, blame and exclusion continue to emerge. Perhaps the lesson is not that humanity never changes, but that progress does not make us immune to repeating familiar mistakes.
We cannot guarantee that everyone will abandon their prejudices, assume that challenging discriminatory behaviour will automatically remove the beliefs or systems associated with it, or expect people experiencing racism to carry the burden of repeatedly persuading others that their humanity deserves recognition.
But we can become better at recognising the warning signs, examining the environments in which exclusion develops, and challenging harmful behaviours before they become normalised. We can create protective systems, establish accountability, support those affected and evaluate whether our actions are making a difference.
Perhaps our goal should not be to create a world in which we are never confronted by prejudice. Perhaps it should be to create a world in which prejudice has less power to determine who belongs, who succeeds, who feels safe and whose humanity is recognised.
That requires more than shock. It requires understanding, responsibility and action. And perhaps the most troubling possibility is that our repeated expressions of shock, when disconnected from meaningful action, may help preserve the very conditions we claim to oppose.
Four hundred years later, perhaps the question is no longer why we are still surprised by racism and exclusion. Perhaps it is why we are not yet better prepared to recognise, challenge and reduce their harmful consequences.
This Week’s Cave Reflection
Think about the last incident of racism, prejudice or exclusion that left you feeling shocked or angry. What happened after that initial response? Did you examine the warning signs that may have preceded it? Did your understanding change? Did you take action, support someone else to act or question something within your own environment? Or did the energy of your response gradually disappear as attention moved elsewhere?
If you are a leader, educator, psychologist or someone with organisational influence, consider whether you are creating environments where people recognise and challenge exclusion early, or whether you are helping to sustain environments in which people wait for something serious to happen before expressing their shock.
And if you are someone who has experienced exclusion, remember that responsibility for creating safer and fairer environments does not rest solely upon you. Those who hold power, influence and professional responsibility must also be accountable for the climates they help create.
Reflective Question
If we have spent centuries recognising the warning signs of racism and exclusion, what keeps us trapped in a cycle of shock rather than moving towards meaningful action?
And perhaps the more uncomfortable question:
Are we contributing energy that changes the human climate, or energy that simply makes the existing climate louder?
Continuing the Reflection: Part Two
This reflection builds on my earlier work examining warning signs, psychological activation, the spread of racism and the environments that influence human behaviour.
In a forthcoming companion article, I will return to educationalist Bernard Coard’s challenge to Educational Psychologiststo move beyond critique and consider their responsibilities for transforming education. Through the Six Stages Framework, I will explore what this might mean for children’s self-worth, racial identity, adult expectations, emotional wellbeing and the educational environments we create.
I will also return to a question that has become increasingly important within my work: What is the difference between being a caring professional and becoming an activated professional whose care produces meaningful change?
Because if we are serious about inclusion, we must examine not only what professionals believe, but also what children, families and communities actually experience.
A more inclusive society begins with a deeper understanding of human behaviour.
Explore. Reflect. Question. Change.
Dr Shungu Hilda M’gadzah
Chartered Educational Psychologist | Founder, Six Stages Framework
Director, Inclusion Psychologists Ltd
Building Bridges of Empathy
© 2026 Dr Shungu Hilda M’gadzah | Six Stages Framework
The themes explored in this reflection — belonging, emotional awareness, psychological safety, human environments and our responses to difference — are also explored in my new book, Understanding Human Behaviour in a Complex World: Applying the Six Stages Framework to Navigate Difference, Challenge and Change.
Explore the book | Read a free sample
Paperback: https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1068562064
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