A rite of passage that’s a given

Can we normalise harassment and toxic behaviour under any circumstances? I began to ponder this deeply, the way one ponders existential questions, while chopping onions and crying for reasons unrelated to the onions.

Normalisation is a fascinating word. It’s like Dettol for the soul, except instead of killing germs, it politely disinfects outrage. Once something is “normal,” it stops being alarming and becomes background noise, like a neighbour’s dog that barks all night or relatives who ask, “So, what are you doing with your life now?”

Take the bride. The newly married woman steps into her in-laws’ home carrying hopes, heirloom recipes and the fragile belief that adulthood comes with dignity. Within days, something feels off. Not dramatic enough to name, not loud enough to protest. Just… chilly. Conversations pause when she enters. Her friends are treated like suspicious imports. Her parents’ calls are tolerated, not welcomed.

She confides in well-meaning people who nod wisely and say, “These are teething issues.”

Teething issues, apparently, involve grown adults emotionally biting someone new to establish hierarchy. She is told to “adjust”, that all-purpose Indian verb that has fixed nothing since its invention. Tolerate it, she’s advised. One day, magically, the behaviour will disappear. Like acne. 

Then there’s the workplace, where fresh graduates enter with shiny shoes and even shinier optimism, only to be gently escorted into a ritual humiliation chamber. Somewhere between induction and appraisal, this team manager “chooses” a victim. Emails are nitpicked like sesame seeds in a bun. Abuses hurled. Boundaries are treated like urban legends.

When the young employee breaks down, advice pours in: “This is the real world.”

Ah yes, the real world, where basic respect is optional and bullying is considered professional grooming. He is told to toughen up, grow thick skin, develop resilience. Resilience here is a polite synonym for “learn to bleed quietly and call it growth”.

Families nod approvingly. “This will make him strong,” they say, as if trauma is a protein supplement you add to your morning routine.

And then we arrive at academia, that sacred space where the pursuit of knowledge mysteriously requires the systematic dismantling of self-worth. Doctoral studies come with a disclaimer no one prints: “Abandon ego at the door.” Ego, in this context, translates to self-respect, confidence, and the delusion that your time and mental health matter.

You are reminded often that nothing will go smoothly. Your work will be dismissed, deadlines stretched beyond reason, and your silence interpreted as compliance. If you flinch, someone inevitably says, “We went through worse.”

This is the academic version of “I was traumatised, therefore you must be too.” Toxicity here is heritage. Passed down lovingly, like ancestral jewellery, heavy, restrictive, and impossible to refuse without being labelled ungrateful.

But toxicity doesn’t stop there. It’s an overachiever.

It thrives in parenting, where emotional control is disguised as concern. Children grow up hearing, “We only want the best for you,” while their boundaries are trampled like wet rangoli. Privacy becomes rebellion. Disagreement becomes disrespect. Therapy becomes an insult to family honour. Love is expressed through comparison, guilt, and unsolicited life management.

It flourishes in friendships too, the ones that are like emotional sponges, some tend to compete instead of celebrate, and some tend to humiliate casually. We’re told to hold on because “old friends are rare”, as if longevity automatically neutralizes all the hurt.

Romantic relationships are no safer. Overt possessiveness is mistaken for passion. Control is renamed concern. Emotional withdrawal is rebranded as maturity. If someone belittles or gaslights you, advice arrives promptly: “Relationships need work.”

Yes, but not excavation. Love is not supposed to feel like unpaid emotional labour with overtime.

Creative fields romanticise toxicity with flair. Rejections and suffering are sold as fuel for art. Exploitation is called exposure. Abuse is excused as genius temperament. Burnout becomes proof of seriousness. Apparently, creativity only blooms when watered with anxiety and self-doubt.

Gendered spaces perfect this normalisation. Women are told to laugh off sexist jokes. Men are mocked for vulnerability. Queer people are advised to “not draw attention.” Toxicity is justified as “how society is”, and silence becomes the entry fee for safety.

Workplaces crown overwork as virtue. Staying late is dedication. Taking leave is laziness. Burnout is a badge of honour. And the most dangerous phrase of all floats around cheerfully: “We’re like a family here”. Which usually means boundaries will be ignored and emotional labour will remain unpaid.

Even religion and culture lend a hand. Questioning authority is arrogance and there will be consequences. Obedience is holiness. Suffering is spiritual growth. Toxicity uses tradition like an armour, making resistance feel sinful instead of necessary.

And let’s not forget healthcare, where pain, especially women’s pain, is routinely minimised. “It’s just stress.” “Everyone goes through this.” Gaslighting becomes standard practice, wrapped in clinical language.

Across all these spaces, toxicity survives on three magical phrases:

That’s how it’s always been.

Everyone goes through it.

You’re being too sensitive.

When cruelty is inherited instead of questioned, it stops looking like violence and starts resembling tradition. And that is precisely when it becomes most dangerous.

So no, harassment cannot and should not be normalised, anywhere, under any circumstances. Normalising toxicity doesn’t make people stronger; it just makes cruelty the norm. It trains bullies to feel entitled and victims to feel guilty for wanting better.

Perhaps it’s time we normalised something truly radical: respect. Or at the very least, the right to say, “This is not okay,” without being slapped by cruel consequences. Because if suffering is the entry ticket everywhere, one has to ask: at what point does living actually begin?

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