Recently I completed The Philosophy of Ethics course with Professor Stephen Hicks at the Peterson Academy, which has pushed me to think more deeply about what it means to live a good life and to lead well.

But before I share my lecture notes, it’s worth pausing to reflect on why ethics holds such a central place in my work, and why I believe it should matter to anyone in leadership.

The way I have come to see ethics is that it is the daily discipline of aligning decisions with values, especially when circumstances are unclear or conflicting. In a school context, for example, every choice, whether it’s about discipline, inclusion, staff development, budgets or class mixing, carries ethical weight. As a leader, you’re constantly asked to balance competing needs.

Studying ethics is especially valuable, I believe, as I reflect on what our Good Citizens Club at school really stands for. It’s helped me to see that character goes well beyond just “good behaviour”, and is much more about the development of sound ethical judgement. Rather than children following rules to avoid punishment or earn rewards, character education is about learning to think carefully about what’s right, to act for the right reasons, in the right way. And like any skill worth having, that kind of moral reasoning takes practice.

I find ethics fascinating because it demands so much careful decision-making, especially when what’s “right” isn’t always obvious. As the study of right and wrong, ethics offers a lens to examine assumptions, justify actions and build cultures of trust. It helps guide how we behave towards others and what principles should shape our choices, all of which are, of course, critically important in leadership.

Part 1: From Hierarchy to Liberty – Locke and Rousseau

Locke: Reason, Responsibility and the Pursuit of Happiness

John Locke (1632–1704) saw people as active moral agents, capable of making ethical choices using their reason. He believed morality was like science or maths, it could be worked out through observation and logical thinking.

Locke challenged the idea that moral authority should come from tradition, religion, or parental control. He argued that ethics should be based on human nature itself. Since we are naturally free and rational, we are also naturally capable of living moral lives. This belief had a huge influence on how we think about education, politics and personal growth.

In his writing on education, Locke said learning should be enjoyable and tied to our natural love of freedom. He didn’t see education as a process of making children obey, but as a way to help them grow into independent thinkers with strong moral judgement.

He also changed how people thought about the body and mind. Rather than seeing the body as less important than the soul, Locke believed both should be cared for. A good life, in his view, means nurturing both our physical and mental well-being.

In politics, Locke’s ideas helped shape the foundations of liberal democracy. He argued that governments don’t rule by divine right, but with the permission of the people. If a government becomes unjust, people have the right to take back their power. Toleration, especially religious toleration, is essential to a moral society where each person uses their own reason to decide what to believe.

Rousseau: Passion, Equality and the Critique of Civilisation

Jean-Jacques Rousseau (1712–1778), writing a generation after Locke, had a very different take on human nature and morality. While Locke praised reason and individual freedom, Rousseau believed these very things had damaged us. For him, the real problem wasn’t authority or hierarchy, rather it was inequality. He saw the growing gaps in wealth and status as the main cause of human suffering and social breakdown.

Rousseau argued that in our original, natural state, humans were not ruled by reason but by two basic instincts: the need to survive and a natural sense of compassion. In that simpler time, people lived more peacefully, in tune with nature and with each other. But as civilisation developed, with property, rules, and reasoning, people became more competitive, proud and disconnected from one another.

He believed that modern society had twisted our natural feelings, made our desires artificial and created unfair social structures. The very institutions that Locke admired, like education, science and government, Rousseau saw as tools that often deepen inequality and control.

But Rousseau wasn’t simply anti-progress. He didn’t want us to go back to a primitive life. Instead, he imagined a new kind of society, one based on equality, community, and shared values. He called for a political and moral reset: a way to strip away unnecessary complexity and build fairer, more compassionate communities.

The Difference…

Locke’s moral world is built on the freedom to choose and the duty to think. Rousseau’s is built on the capacity to feel and the need to belong. Where Locke sees education as the path to individual excellence, Rousseau sees it as a potential tool of conformity. Where Locke trusts reason, Rousseau elevates compassion.

Both thinkers remain profoundly relevant. As modern societies continue to wrestle with questions of freedom, fairness and fulfilment, the dialogue between Locke and Rousseau challenges us to ask:

• Should the moral life prioritise liberty or equality?
• Are we truly free when we are unequal?
• Can reason guide us to justice, or must we also listen to our passions?

Each question invites us to reflect on the kind of society we want to build—and the kind of people we wish to become.

Their tension between liberty and equality still shapes political ethics today.

Part 2: Duty Over Desire – Kant

Kant and the Challenge of Doing What’s Right

By the late 1700s, Europe was in the middle of a transformation. Science was advancing, literacy was spreading and political change was in the air. Yet uncertainty remained—especially around religion, power and the role of reason. Immanuel Kant stood at the heart of this tension.

Immanuel Kant (1724 – 1804) admired the Enlightenment’s bold thinking but also believed reason had limits. He supported free thought, yet lived under a system of state censorship in Prussia. His moral philosophy reflects this balance. At its core is a powerful idea: do the right thing simply because it is right—not because it benefits you, feels good, or avoids trouble.

Why Duty Comes First for Kant

Kant wanted a clear, consistent foundation for morality, one that didn’t depend on emotions. His test for whether something is moral is simple but strict: Could the rule behind your action apply to everyone, in all situations, without contradiction?

Take honesty. You might be tempted to lie to get out of a difficult situation. But if everyone did the same, trust would collapse, and so would the idea of truth. If your action only works because others behave differently, your reasoning is flawed. You’re making yourself the exception.

This idea is called the categorical imperative: only act on rules that you’d be happy for everyone to follow, all the time. It’s not like the usual “if you want X, then do Y” kind of thinking (which Kant called hypothetical imperatives) that depend on getting a certain result. For Kant, morality isn’t about what works or what you get out of it—it’s about doing the right thing simply because it’s right.

When Doing the Right Thing Doesn’t Feel Good

Kant also made an important distinction: it’s not enough to do what duty requires—you must do it because it’s your duty. If you help someone because it makes you feel good, that’s kindness. But if you help when you don’t feel like it, simply because it’s the right thing to do, that’s moral strength.

The centre of Kant’s ethics is the good will. A good will isn’t defined by success or results, but by the intention to act rightly. Competence, talent and even good outcomes don’t make a person moral—their commitment to do the right thing does.

Reason Can Guide Us… But Only So Far

Kant believed that we only know the world through the way our minds structure it. This means we can’t prove the existence of things like God, the soul or free will, even if we believe in them. As a result, we shouldn’t base morality on rewards in the afterlife or fear of punishment.

Still, Kant insisted that we must act as if we are free, because moral responsibility only makes sense if we have real choices. We may not be able to prove freedom, but without it, ideas like duty and justice lose their meaning.

The Tension in Kant’s Politics

Kant’s ethical beliefs weren’t always easy to reconcile with his politics. He admired Rousseau’s respect for ordinary people and was cautious of Locke’s overly optimistic view of reason. Yet controversially, Kant also believed people should obey the state’s authority—even if they disagreed with it.

This creates a real tension: on one hand, he defends individual moral freedom. On the other, he supports strict civic obedience. Rather than brushing this aside, it’s worth confronting head-on: What happens when moral integrity and political loyalty clash?

Kant’s Six Big Moral Questions Answered

Where do morals come from?
From reason alone—not from nature, religion or culture.

How do we know what’s right?
By testing whether our principles could be followed by everyone.

Who does morality apply to?
All rational people, equally.

Is morality about the individual or the group?
It starts with individuals, but within a shared community of equals.

What is truly good?
A good will—choosing what is right for its own sake.

Why be good?
Because rational beings are bound by moral law, not because of what they might gain.

Using Kant in Everyday Life

Kant’s ethics may sound tough, but they offer clarity when things get murky. Here are some practical ways to apply them:

• Write your maxim: What’s the rule behind your action? E.g. “I will exaggerate my achievements to get the job.”
• Test it: What if everyone did this? If it undermines the system (e.g. all interviews become dishonest), it’s not moral.
• Check yourself: Are you giving yourself special treatment? That’s a red flag.
• Treat others as ends: Never use people as tools to reach your own goals.
• Raise moral thinkers: Teach children and teams to do what’s right because it is right—not because it earns praise.

The Strengths and Struggles of Kantian Ethics

Strengths

• Provides clear, universal moral standards
• Resists pressure, trends and personal convenience
• Exposes self-serving exceptions in difficult cases

Struggles

• Can feel cold or overly strict
• Ignores the emotional and practical impact of outcomes
• Sits uncomfortably with Kant’s belief in obedience to state authority

Reflection prompt:
When was the last time you did the right thing, not because you felt like it—but because you knew you should? What guided you in that moment?

Kant rejected outcomes and emotions as ethical guides. Morality, for him, is rooted in rational duty. His categorical imperative calls us to act only on principles we could will universally. Moral worth lies not in doing the right thing, but in doing it because it is right.

Part 3: Faith in the Absurd: Kierkegaard and the Emotional Core of Ethics

In 1845, the Danish philosopher Søren Kierkegaard published a haunting fictional account: a man visits a prostitute, the act ends, but the guilt lingers. He fears he may have fathered a child, not because of biology, but because of a deeper moral unease. The story, many believe, echoes Kierkegaard’s own regrets and spiritual turmoil. Unlike abstract philosophers of his time, Kierkegaard began his ethics with raw emotion: guilt, dread, despair.

The Emotional Roots of Morality

Kierkegaard believed true selfhood begins not in rational reflection but in confronting the negative emotions that modern rationality often suppresses. For him, sin was not merely breaking a rule but an existential failure: doing what we know to be wrong, and feeling the unbearable tension that follows. This internal conflict leads to despair, the desire not to be oneself, or the torment of being oneself.

Dread, another key term, is a strange, paralysing attraction to what we fear. It reveals the depths of human freedom and the terror of choice. Rational thought, Kierkegaard argues, is helpless here. What matters is how we respond inwardly.

Either/Or: The Aesthetic and the Ethical Life

In Either/Or (1843), Kierkegaard explores two ways of living:

• The aesthetic life pursues beauty, pleasure and emotional intensity. It avoids commitment and responsibility. Over time, it leads to emptiness and despair.
• The ethical life is marked by duty, marriage, and moral effort. It demands inward honesty and long-term responsibility.

Kierkegaard does not present the ethical life as easy or superior by default. He shows its challenges and limitations. But it represents a step closer to authenticity and wholeness.

Fear and Trembling: The Leap of Faith

In the same year, Kierkegaard published Fear and Trembling, a bold exploration of faith through the story of Abraham, who was willing to sacrifice his son Isaac at God’s command. This act defied reason, ethics and human emotion. Yet Abraham is praised, not condemned.

Why? Because faith, for Kierkegaard, is a personal, irrational leap that suspends even ethics. At the highest level, faith may demand what morality forbids.

Faith is not comfort. It is absurd, terrifying, and radically individual. It cannot be explained, only lived. Abraham tells no one. He obeys in silence, with trembling.

Against Rationalism

Kierkegaard pushed back against the Enlightenment idea of a calm, fully rational, independent self. He said truth is subjective, not in the sense that anything goes, but in the sense that real truth has to be taken in and made your own inside. For him, philosophy should not start with tidy logical systems but with the real emotional experience of being a human being.

This made Kierkegaard a forerunner of existentialism. Later thinkers like Nietzsche, Sartre and Camus would follow, though often without his religious grounding.

The Existential Stakes

Kierkegaard does not offer a system or a rulebook. Instead, he points to the pain and paradox of existence, and the lonely, trembling path to authenticity.

Reflective Prompts

• What does it mean to live a life grounded in faith, rather than reason or morality?
• Can irrational choices ever be justified if they arise from deep inward conviction?

Kierkegaard’s ethics begins where many modern philosophies end: with emotion, contradiction and inward struggle. He invites us to consider whether the most profound truths might lie in the courage to face absurdity.

In the spirit of Kierkegaard, the question that follows is can you see your doubts and emotional turmoil as the honest starting point for a deeper, more personal form of integrity?

Part 4: Morality in a Fragmented World – Schopenhauer and Comte

In 1848, Europe erupted in revolution. Across its cities, barricades rose, monarchies trembled, and political ideals clashed violently. To many, it was a moment of democratic hope. But for Arthur Schopenhauer and Auguste Comte, the chaos revealed deeper moral fractures.

They responded in radically different ways. Schopenhauer turned inward, seeing suffering as the foundation of human life. Comte looked outward, calling for a new collective morality grounded in science. Both tried to reconstruct ethics in a world where old religious and political structures no longer held.

Schopenhauer: Pessimism and Compassion

Schopenhauer saw life as fundamentally driven by Will, a blind, restless force present in all nature. Human beings, he believed, are not guided by reason but by insatiable desires. Existence itself, he wrote, is a mistake: a “uselessly disturbing episode in the blissful repose of nothingness.”

In this view, suffering is not accidental. It is the core fact of life. The ethical task, then, is not to maximise pleasure or fulfilment, but to minimise harm and understand the illusion of the self.

He argued that morality begins when we feel compassion, when the boundary between self and other begins to dissolve. Unlike Kant’s cold rationalism or Mill’s calculation of pleasure, Schopenhauer saw compassion as an irrational yet deeply moral instinct, a kind of mystical connection.

He was also influenced by Eastern philosophies, especially Buddhism and Hinduism. These traditions taught him that the self is an illusion, and that renunciation, humility and quiet compassion are paths to peace. Morality, for Schopenhauer, is not a system but a mood: gentle, world-weary, and quietly kind.

Comte: Altruism and the Religion of Humanity

Across the border in France, Auguste Comte drew a very different conclusion from Europe’s turmoil. The revolutions of 1848 confirmed for him not the futility of life, but the need for a new moral and social order.

Comte founded both positivism and sociology, aiming to replace traditional religion with a scientific, secular morality. He called this the Religion of Humanity. Its purpose: to organise society around altruism, order, and the collective good.

For Comte, personal freedom and liberal democracy were symptoms of moral disintegration. True morality came from unity: shared rituals, scientific education, and a moral elite who could guide the masses. He proposed a “sociocracy” led by men over 42, trained in science and virtue. Women, though excluded from politics, were seen as moral stabilisers in the home.

He coined the term altruism and made it the central moral ideal: to live not for oneself but for others. Science, education, and even emotional life were to be shaped by this ethos.

Two Visions of Post-Religious Morality

Both thinkers rejected traditional religion. But where Schopenhauer saw in its collapse a call to compassion and renunciation, Comte saw the need to build a new kind of religion without God.

Schopenhauer’s ethics is quiet, inward, and tragic. Comte’s is organised, outward, and optimistic. One begins with suffering, the other with order. One calls for withdrawal, the other for reconstruction.

Reflective Prompts

• Can moral compassion survive if we abandon belief in the individual self?
• Is it possible—or desirable—to engineer society toward collective unity, as Comte envisioned?

As our modern world continues to fracture and reassemble, Schopenhauer and Comte ask us what morality can look like when the old gods are gone—and whether we respond with solitude or structure, sorrow or system.

Part 5: The Ethics of Utility – John Stuart Mill and the Moral Case for Freedom

In the mid-19th century, amid industrial growth and political reform, John Stuart Mill emerged as one of liberalism’s most powerful voices. His ethics offered something rare: a bridge between Enlightenment reason, emotional depth and democratic values.

Mill’s philosophy defended liberty, individuality and happiness—but not as self-serving indulgence. Instead, he saw them as moral goods that foster collective well-being. At a time when rigid authority and social conformity threatened human flourishing, Mill argued that moral life begins with freedom of thought and feeling.

Freedom and Individuality as Moral Goods

In On Liberty (1859), Mill declared that society should never silence opinions, even if they are false. Why? Because truth emerges through clash and critique, not silence. Suppressing ideas, he warned, impoverishes everyone.

But Mill’s argument runs deeper. He believed that human beings need space to grow—to experiment, err, reflect and become their best selves. Individuality, for Mill, was not a private luxury but a public virtue. Eccentricity often signals moral courage and creative potential. A conformist society is morally stagnant.

Utilitarianism: The Greatest Happiness Principle

Mill’s ethical foundation lay in utilitarianism: the idea that actions are right if they promote the greatest happiness for the greatest number. But he refined this tradition.

Unlike earlier utilitarians, Mill rejected the idea that all pleasures are equal. He distinguished between higher and lower pleasures. Intellectual, emotional and moral experiences—reading, creating, loving, striving—are more fulfilling than mere physical enjoyment. Once we’ve tasted these higher pleasures, we would never trade them for shallow comfort.

This led to his famous claim: “Better to be Socrates dissatisfied than a fool satisfied.” Morality, for Mill, was about cultivating rich, meaningful lives—not just comfort.

Beyond the Self: Duty Without Divinity

Though focused on happiness, Mill’s ethics was not selfish. He argued that morality requires impartiality: we must consider everyone’s happiness, not just our own. This often calls for self-sacrifice.

Mill grounded ethics not in divine command, but in human feeling and reason. We act morally because we have a conscience shaped by social life. The “sanction” of morality is the internalised awareness of what promotes well-being.

Unlike Comte, Mill welcomed religion only if it uplifted life. He rejected doctrines that glorify suffering or blind obedience. For Mill, morality should serve human flourishing, not divine agendas.

The Risk of Majority Rule

Still, Mill saw dangers in democratic societies. The tyranny of the majority can crush minorities in the name of utility. In Utilitarianism and On Liberty, he insists that rights protect individuals even when their suffering might seem outweighed by collective gain.

He anticipated critiques like Dostoevsky’s, who questioned whether harming one for many could ever be justified. Mill’s answer: while utility is the guide, higher pleasures, rights, and individual dignity limit what utility can demand.

Reflective Prompts

• Are there limits to pursuing the greatest happiness? When should individual rights override majority preferences?
• What pleasures in your life have proven more meaningful over time—and how did you come to value them?

Mill’s legacy is a liberal ethics grounded not in cold calculation, but in deep respect for personal growth, public reason, and shared happiness. He reminds us that the moral life is not about obeying rules or maximising comfort, but about building a world where people can flourish in their own distinct and meaningful ways.

Part 6: Nietzsche and the Will to Power – Beyond Good and Evil

As the 19th century neared its end, Friedrich Nietzsche launched a philosophical rebellion. Against Christianity, against Enlightenment morality, against liberal democracy—he asked not just what is good, but who benefits from calling it so. His question cut deeper: what if morality itself is a tool of power?

Where Kant grounded ethics in reason and Mill in happiness, Nietzsche grounded it in instinct. He saw moral systems as expressions of human types—some born to command, others to obey. His aim was not to repair traditional values but to dynamite them and clear space for something higher.

Slave Morality vs Master Morality

Nietzsche’s key distinction is between two moralities:

• Master morality arises from strength, health and self-affirmation. It declares what is good based on what is noble, life-giving and powerful.
• Slave morality arises from weakness, fear and resentment. It calls the strong “evil” and elevates obedience, humility and pity as virtues.

Nietzsche argued that Judeo-Christian ethics and modern democratic values are built on slave morality. They protect the mediocre by vilifying the exceptional. These values, he claimed, were invented by the weak to control the strong.

The Will to Power

Underneath all human striving, Nietzsche saw one driving force: the will to power. Unlike the will to survive, this is the drive to expand, create, overcome and dominate—not necessarily others, but one’s own limitations.

Truth, morality, art and religion are all, in Nietzsche’s view, expressions of the will to power. Philosophers do not find truth—they create it, shaped by their temperament and desires. To understand a moral claim, Nietzsche urges us to ask: what kind of person wants this to be true?

The Overman (Übermensch)

Nietzsche did not call for savagery, but for a new kind of human being: the Overman (or Übermensch). This person would create their own values, affirm life without illusions, and embody a fusion of strength and depth.

The Overman is not selfish in a crude sense. He is self-shaped. He lives with purpose, passion and intensity. Nietzsche even imagined a figure who combines power and compassion: a Caesar with the soul of Christ.

Morality as Herd Control

Nietzsche’s critique remains controversial. He saw morality not as universal truth, but as psychological strategy—a way for societies to preserve themselves by taming powerful individuals.

He called modern ethics herd morality: systems that reward conformity, obedience and safety at the cost of excellence, courage and greatness. In this view, “goodness” often just means “harmlessness.”

Reflective Prompts

• Which moral code do you unconsciously follow—and who taught it to you?
• What if your values were shaped not by truth but by a system designed to control your instincts?

Nietzsche’s challenge is not to destroy morality, but to reclaim it as a personal, creative act. He invites us to look at our values not as sacred, but as inherited—and to ask, honestly: are they worthy of us?

In an age of mass culture and moral consensus, Nietzsche’s voice is unsettling but essential. He reminds us that true morality may not lie in being good—but in being great on our own terms.

Part 7: Culture, Emotion, and the End of Moral Absolutes – Benedict and Ayer

As the 20th century opened, traditional ethics faced a new challenge—not from revolution or religion, but from anthropology and analytical philosophy. Ruth Benedict and A.J. Ayer each, in their own way, dismantled the idea of universal moral truth. In doing so, they shifted moral reflection from commandments to culture, from truth to feeling.

Benedict: Morality as Cultural Pattern

Ruth Benedict, an American anthropologist, argued that morality is not universal, but deeply shaped by culture. In Patterns of Culture (1934), she showed how societies select and amplify certain traits—honour, modesty, aggression, cooperation—and build entire moral systems around them.

What is “good” in one culture may be meaningless or even shameful in another. For example, practices like arranged marriage, communal child-rearing or even ritual cannibalism make sense within their cultural logics.

Her key insight: we are not born with universal moral knowledge. We are trained into a moral pattern by our culture, and often never question it.

This has a liberating message for self-development. If our values are culturally shaped, then we can step back, reflect, and choose which values to carry forward. Tolerance, curiosity and critical reflection become moral virtues.

Ayer: Ethics as Emotion, Not Fact

Across the Atlantic, British philosopher A.J. Ayer took a more radical route. In Language, Truth and Logic (1936), he applied logical positivism to ethics—and found it literally meaningless.

For Ayer, a statement is only meaningful if it is logically provable or empirically testable. Moral claims like “stealing is wrong” fail this test. They are neither fact nor logic. So what are they?

Ayer’s answer: expressions of emotion. Saying “stealing is wrong” is equivalent to saying “Boo to stealing!” It’s not a truth claim but an emotional reaction.

This view—known as emotivism—doesn’t mean morality is trivial. It means moral talk is a form of persuasion or expression, not discovery. When we argue morally, we are trying to move hearts, not prove facts.

The End of Absolutes?

Together, Benedict and Ayer challenge the entire structure of traditional morality:

• Morality is relative (Benedict)
• Moral claims are emotional (Ayer)

This can feel destabilising. But it also offers a powerful tool for growth. Once we accept that values are shaped by culture and feeling, we can become more intentional. We can reflect on inherited norms, resist blind conformity, and build a moral identity rooted in conscious choice.

Reflective Prompts

• What is one belief you hold strongly that you suspect comes more from your culture than from your personal reasoning?
• How might your moral responses change if you viewed them as emotional expressions rather than objective truths?

Benedict and Ayer do not tell us what is right. They ask us to reflect on how we came to believe what we do. In doing so, they leave us with a challenge at once disorienting and empowering: if no value is absolute, what kind of moral pattern will you choose to live by?

Part 8: Natural Goodness and Its Critics – The Moral Vision of Philippa Foot

Philippa Foot proposed a bold idea: that moral goodness is rooted in human nature, just as we judge a plant or animal by how well it fulfils its species-specific function. Her approach revived virtue ethics by linking morality to human life-forms—our shared capacities and needs. But this idea also provoked intense critique.

Can we really move from what humans are to what we ought to do? And if human “functions” are diverse and contested, does this make morality too unstable to guide us?

Is “Function” Too Broad to Guide Ethics?

Foot’s central analogy is biological. Just as a bird’s wing is defective if it cannot fly, a human life is morally defective if it fails to support rational, social flourishing. But critics argue this idea is vague:

• What exactly is the “proper function” of a human?
• Are we essentially rational? Creative? Cooperative? Competitive?

Humans inhabit diverse roles and cultures, so the idea of a stable life-form is difficult to fix. If “function” is too elastic, then moral norms based on it become unreliable.

Foot’s reply: She concedes human life is more complex than plant or animal life. But she insists there are shared capacities (like rationality and sociality) that define our nature. Ethics, then, tracks how well we realise these.

Why it matters: If we can’t define human function clearly, then deriving moral standards from it may open the door to relativism or arbitrary claims about “natural” roles.

Can We Bridge the “Is/Ought” Gap?

Since Hume, philosophers have warned against leaping from facts to values. Just because something is part of human biology doesn’t mean it is morally required. Critics ask: where’s the missing ingredient that turns an “is” into an “ought”?

Foot’s reply: We already use normative language for biology (e.g., a heart “ought” to pump). She argues that moral evaluation is a natural extension of functional assessment—but now applied to rational, reflective beings.

Why it matters: Many still doubt whether this step holds for human morality, which involves freedom, culture and conflicting values—not just functioning organs.

What About Niche and Role Variation?

Humans live in wildly different cultural “niches.” What is good functioning in a warrior society may differ from what is good in a pacifist one. Critics ask whether a single standard of “human flourishing” can survive this variation.

Foot’s reply: She argues there’s a core set of capacities across cultures. While flourishing looks different in detail, it still involves using those capacities well.

Why it matters: If her framework can’t account for deep value differences, it risks becoming either too narrow or too vague to guide real moral debate.

Can It Handle Moral Evil and Conflict?

Another challenge: how does Foot’s model explain moral failure, evil, or tragic dilemmas? Humans can knowingly violate moral norms. We also face situations where virtues conflict—e.g., honesty vs kindness.

Foot’s reply: She views moral failure as a defect of the will, just as a sick body is a defect of nature. She acknowledges moral complexity and doesn’t claim a tidy system—but believes virtue still tracks human well-being.

Why it matters: Some fear that a functional model may oversimplify moral agency or ignore the richness of ethical struggle.

Is the Biology Reliable?

Finally, some object that Foot’s biology is outdated. Evolutionary theory treats functions in terms of survival and adaptation, not moral ideals. If biology changes or proves culturally biased, does her framework collapse?

Foot’s reply: Her analogy is philosophical, not scientific. She uses biology as a tool to clarify our moral intuitions, not to dictate them.

Why it matters: If the biological claims weaken, her naturalism may lose its grounding—or slide into subjectivism.

Summary: Strengths and Limits

What’s compelling:

• Grounds morality in human experience, not abstract rules
• Reconnects ethics to flourishing and virtue
• Challenges the idea that facts and values must be separate

Where caution is needed:

• Human diversity complicates “natural” norms
• The move from biology to ethics remains controversial
• Tragic or conflicting moral cases may resist neat resolution

Reflective Prompts

• When you say, “This is what it means to live well,” what picture of human nature are you assuming?
• If science revised a major view about human nature, would your moral views shift too?
• Can a single idea of “functioning well” capture the complexity of your moral choices?

Philippa Foot tried to bring ethics back down to earth—into the realm of lived, human nature. But her effort also reminds us how difficult it is to define what a human being ought to be, even once we agree on what a human is.

Concluding thoughts..