When good people do bad things, it is sad, but when they reach

There is a haunting depth in the words of Rick Tumlinson, who said, “When good people do bad things, it is sad, but when they reach the point where one can predict that they will do nothing but bad things, a deeper kind of sadness sets in, almost at the level of resignation.” In this reflection lies not mere observation, but the lament of one who has watched the light in a person’s soul dim until it flickers no more. It speaks of the tragedy of moral decay — not sudden or violent, but gradual, quiet, and almost invisible until it becomes absolute. For when a good person falls, there is still hope of redemption. But when that person’s heart becomes hardened, when the pattern of wrongdoing replaces the memory of virtue, we face a sorrow that goes beyond pity — the sorrow of resignation, of watching goodness surrender its last defense.

The origin of this quote lies in Tumlinson’s deep moral and philosophical awareness, forged through his lifelong advocacy for humanity’s future — especially his passion for exploration, ethics, and responsibility. But this statement transcends any single field. It is a meditation on the human condition itself — on how those who begin in innocence can be led astray by pride, by fear, or by the slow corrosion of conscience. The words carry the tone not of condemnation, but of mourning. For Tumlinson does not speak as one who despises the fallen, but as one who grieves the loss of what they once were. His insight is that evil is not always born — sometimes, it is learned, and its persistence over time transforms tragedy into inevitability.

The ancients understood this truth well. In the philosophy of Aristotle, virtue was not a fixed trait but a habit — something built through action and destroyed through neglect. A person who repeatedly chooses the wrong path begins to lose the power to choose otherwise. The Romans called this corruptio optimi pessima — “the corruption of the best is the worst.” For when one who once carried light succumbs to darkness, their fall is not merely a loss to themselves, but to the world that once drew warmth from their goodness. And so, Tumlinson’s sadness mirrors the grief of every sage and philosopher who has ever witnessed the transformation of the noble into the cruel, the just into the unjust, the compassionate into the cold.

Consider the story of Anakin Skywalker, known later as Darth Vader — a tale as old as myth itself, and one that echoes through every age. Once a brave and selfless warrior, devoted to justice, he was slowly consumed by fear, anger, and the desire for control. At first, his wrongs were born from desperation — the actions of a man who believed he could do harm in service of good. But over time, his heart hardened. The boy who had once fought for others became a man who served only himself. And when those around him realized that his course could no longer change, their grief deepened into resignation. For it is one thing to see someone stumble; it is another to see them choose the path of darkness again and again until it defines them.

Tumlinson’s words also reveal a deeper spiritual truth — that the greatest tragedy in life is not sin, but the loss of the capacity for remorse. A mistake can be corrected, a heart can be healed, a broken trust can be rebuilt. But when a soul ceases to feel the pull of conscience — when wrong becomes routine, and guilt turns to indifference — redemption becomes distant. This is why his sadness carries the tone of finality. It is the sorrow of watching the divine spark in a person grow dim, and knowing that no argument, no plea, no love may reignite it. It is the grief of recognizing that what once was good has become predictably cruel, and that in such predictability lies tragedy’s completion.

Yet within this reflection lies also a warning and a call to vigilance. No one begins evil, and no one is immune to the slow drift toward it. Each small compromise of conscience, each indulgence in bitterness or selfishness, begins to erode the inner compass. The wise must guard their hearts fiercely, for corruption often enters softly — disguised as justification, as necessity, as the smallest of lies. Tumlinson’s sorrow thus becomes a guidepost: to remain self-aware, to reflect, to repent quickly when one errs, and to never allow apathy to replace empathy. For to lose the will to choose good is to lose the essence of being human.

The lesson, my children, is this: never allow the heart to grow numb to goodness. Be quick to recognize when your actions wound others; be humble enough to turn back before habit makes cruelty familiar. If you see goodness fading in another, do not meet it with hatred, but with compassion — for even in their darkness, they are a reflection of what you might become if vigilance fails. Mourn the fallen, but do not follow them. Learn from their descent the preciousness of moral strength.

For as Rick Tumlinson teaches, there is no sadness deeper than the sight of a soul that has forgotten its light. Let this truth stir within you not despair, but determination — to keep the flame alive within your own heart, to nurture it daily through kindness, courage, and conscience. For the world’s hope does not rest in perfection, but in the refusal to surrender to the darkness of predictability — in the eternal act of choosing goodness, again and again, even when it hurts.