“What negative belief are you struggling to confirm?”

I had written this question to myself months ago and have reflected on it recently. Though I wrote it myself, the question has changed as I think about it. The popular use of “negative” usually has connotations of bad, undesirable, pessimistic, or cynical. In behavioral psychology, however, “negative” is often used more formally with the meaning of negation or subtraction.

Carl Jung often used a word, “enantiodroma,” which is highly useful and yet has fallen out of use; I suspect in part because one cannot be sure how to pronounce it simply by looking at it. Enantiodroma is the psychological tendency of a thing to become its opposite. Taoist thought speaks to this as well — extreme weakness becomes strength, extreme strength becomes weakness. In part I think of this as the natural consequence of dualistic thinking. Though I often work with binaries in my thinking, a binary is an imperfect means of separating and analyzing phenomena that co-occur.

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We live in at least two worlds. One world is our outward experience: conversations with friends, work, chores, the movement of history, all of which connects us to life outside. Another world is the inner experience: feelings, thoughts, fantasies, secret grudges, dreams. By the time we reach adulthood, most of us develop working models to navigate both worlds with a moderate level of success. When these models fail to meet the challenges of life do we experience significant distress, interpersonal conflict, withdrawal, toxic anger, or any of the things that we term in this culture “mental illness.”

One truth is that few of us have truly robust, accurate models of either the inner or outer worlds. This is wonderful! We can spend our lives continuing to learn and grow with curiosity and wonder at the complex lives we inhabit. What seems the most troubling is when we stake so much identity in this belief of knowing everything, having it all sorted out, knowing exactly what something means and being unwilling to entertain any doubts or questions.

We benefit by a willingness to listen to what is happening inside or outside of ourselves. Each of us inhabits a subjective world that is contained within this larger world, and through our individual experiences we touch some underling truth. Often my experience feels in conflict with another’s, particularly when the experience moves into touchy, vulnerable territory. I could be going about my day thinking all is fine, only to be given some challenging feedback about the impact of my behavior, and then an opportunity arises. I could shut down and deny the feedback, clinging to my idea of who I am. I could totally throw aside my sense of self and accept the feedback uncritically. I could avoid the entire conversation through jokes, charm, and willful ignorance.

I could also allow the space to hear the feedback and attempt to understand the other person’s subjective experience. This is a difficult balance to hold, allowing the person to speak while honoring what is happening for myself. Allowing another person to feel angry and attempt to make themselves understood while I feel afraid and want to run away, or vice versa. I can listen to both experiences with curiosity — what is this fear saying to me? Does it feel appropriate for the circumstances, does it feel exaggerated, does it feel almost absent? What is this person’s anger saying to me? What does this outside feedback tell me about the congruence between who I think I am and what others see?

Providing space and empathy my own experience can help us to be more comfortable when those around are struggling or need to say something difficult. Roshi Joan Halifax speaks of how empathy for our own feelings increases empathy for others, while learning to distinguish between what is mine and what is yours increases true compassion. Compassion is the ability to “feel with” what another is experiencing without taking it into myself. I know your pain is your pain, and I can feel and honor your experience of pain, but I am not driven to fix or justify away your pain so I can feel better in the moment. As I can listen to and honor my own experience, I can allow you to have yours.

This is not about minimizing real danger and denying my self-protective instincts, as these may be guiding me to the best action. Listening to what is happening does invite a moment of reflection and curiosity, a willingness to accept that more may be happening inside or outside of myself that does not match my beliefs about either world. These uncomfortable or painful moments can break into deeper insights into self and the world, greater freedom with one’s own challenges and greater connection to those around us. If we can be present, we are also helping our friends, enemies, and family to have their own opportunity for growth and expansion. I notice that when a person is allowed to truly be heard and understood, then they are more willing to hear and understand my perspective. We can have an honest, real conversation that’s not about blaming each other but about truly taking responsibility for our own experiences.

Sometimes we get stuck.

It may make no sense. Parts of life might be going really well. The feeling seems to come from nowhere. All at once we feel trapped in something that we’ve faced before. This anger, deep and fierce, that scares others. A sadness, a hopelessness that feels like it has no bottom. A joyousness that seems incapable of feeling pain.

We have a cultural ambivalence to emotions and feelings. Some parts of our culture emphasize “letting go” and “forgiving” and focus on cultivating “positive” qualities and emotions. Taken superficially, this can leave those of us struggling to feel even worse about ourselves for being unable to transcend our suffering, particularly those emotions that seem to come from nowhere. Other parts of culture may treat feelings as the truth about who we are, and emphasize sharing them, expressing them, holding others responsible for our feelings. Taken superficially, this keeps us stuck in a different way, keeping us dependent upon our environment for emotional peace. If I cannot be happy because you did something, then I have relinquished the keys to joy.

These extremes signify qualities of which we need both. Regarding forgiveness, Wilfred McCay writes:

Forgiveness makes sense only in the presence of a robust sense of justice; without that, it is in real danger of being reduced to something passive and automatic and empty, a sanctimonious way of simply moving on.

He speaks to a truth about our condition, in which mercy and justice define each other. I want to address how this paradox speaks to our emotional reality: we cannot let go of our pain and stuckness until we have embraced them. We cannot honor our pain and stuckness until we acknowledge that it can help us move in a direction that serves our whole self.

Feelings are not things done to us by others. They are messages from our body and soul trying to communicate something important about our experience. Our feelings provide the energy, esteem, and authority by which we engage in our lives.

This shift in perspective is not to say that what others do doesn’t or shouldn’t matter, that we “should” be able to control our feelings and not feel hurt or vulnerable to what others do. The underlying message of our cultural norms is that somehow our feelings are not valid if we cannot make a strong case for blaming others. “You made me mad, you hurt me, you need to change” seems like a strong, forceful position. Speaking from this position, however, limits the scope of our attention to one of wariness, and undermines our ability to listen when others want to make amends, explain, or offer a different perspective. Saying “I feel angry and hurt about what just happened” communicates accurately and precisely my emotional experience without enfolding it into a larger story. I don’t need to prove that what you did was wrong or hurtful, I only need to honor that it was my experience, and then I can listen to your experience.

I think of emotions as being like small children or pets: living creatures that have needs and wants but lack language with which to communicate. They do the best they can to communicate their needs, but adults accustomed to verbal exchanges can struggle to understand and attune to what is happening. And if needs go unmet, then the communications intensify or begin to distort. When we find ourselves breaking down in tears because the grocery store is out of our favorite cereal, we are hearing from a part of us that has deep unmet needs and pain. Not about the cereal. The cereal has become symbolic of the larger problem. The cereal symbolizes how “all my life part of me has felt deprived and starved,” for example.

This is why I think “letting go” is not always a helpful suggestion. That anger is trying to say something to you, and wants your attention, wants you to listen and hear its need. We cannot simply forgive away our deep pain of being wounded, tortured, or abused. Sometimes we need to make time to be still and listen to what the emotion is saying, and it can be a process. We can approach this curiosity and a willingness to set aside our usual beliefs about what things mean. What’s happening in my body? What thoughts are coming up? What memories seem to be activated? What was happening when the emotion began?

As we learn to better “hear” what emotions are trying to say, the intensity often seems to diminish. We stop fighting the feelings and allow them to rise and fall as they naturally will. Simply turning to face the feeling can be enough. Other times, we may need to make changes in our lives.

Doing this work can open up places in ourselves that feel scary, and it can throw us off for a period of time. We benefit from the support of trusted friends, clergy, therapists, or others to help us hold ourselves. Some of us are not in life circumstances that are safe or stable enough for us to do this work. Some of us will spend our lives avoiding this work, with steep costs. This process can be challenging, unpleasant, and it can transform our lives.

I think many conflicts reveal themselves through personal and cultural expressions of “Yes” and “No.” Many people grow up in environments where their “No” was not respected or was dangerous to voice, and learned to say “Yes” to things that drain vitality or cause harm. Others say “No” to everything, even when something deep inside wants to say “Yes,” even when saying “No” makes no sense.

I think we internalize a lot of ambivalence as children, a time in which we are learning the boundaries of our personhood and are subject to people who have a lot of power over us. For children and oppressed people, saying a firm “No” could be completely disregarded or result in active harm by those with power. Learning how to say “Yes” and “No” is, I believe, an act of self-respect and claiming our own power. This can be very troubling to those who are invested in having power over us.

A few examples of how things become complicated:

We might say “Stop it! No!” but we smile and laugh, and our bodies seem to be communicating “Don’t stop! Yes!”

We might say, “Yes, no problem,” but the smile is forced and tight, and our bodies seem to be communicating “Back off, leave me alone.”

We might say, “No, I don’t want that,” but secretly we long for it desperately. We want to scare away the potential lover hoping that they will see through the ruse, overcome the obstacles we erect, and save us from self-imposed exile.

We might say, “Yes, I will happily do that errand for you, except I have fifty other things to do, and I need to be at home by five, and I won’t be able to get around to it until next week.” And we secretly hope the other person will just do it themself.

Somehow it can feel awful to only say “Yes” when we really want something, and only say “No” when we really don’t. They cannot be complete sentences. They need to be qualified.

Tara Brach teaches , a practice I will convey in its complexity here, but at its simplest is a saying “Yes” to life as it is right now. By saying “Yes” in this way, we open the doors of awareness and possibility. We include parts of ourselves and our lives. We say “Yes” to those things that might scare us or cause us discomfort, because those things are already present. We say “Yes” to the things we would otherwise close off and flee. I find this a deeply affirming, life-enriching practice, and I do not see it as including saying “Yes, it is okay for you to hurt me.” Instead, I see it as saying, “Yes, I feel my hurt.” “Yes, I feel my sense of burden.”

I believe saying “Yes” in this way complements the practice of saying “No.” “No” draws the boundary. “No” has the power at the negotiation table. When I am honest with my experience, then I understand what in my life feeds me and what causes me suffering and harm. I can say “No” to suffering and harm. I need no other reason or justification for saying “No.” When I offer reasons or justifications, often others hear those as obstacles to be overcome or reasoned away on the road to getting a “Yes.” “No” stands alone. “No” can feel harsh but does not need to be cruel and judgmental. “No” is simply a closed door. I will not do that favor tonight. I will not continue to hurt myself by participating in this relationship. I will not buy that thing.

I’ve learned that I need to respect my own “Yes” and “No” before others will, and sometimes I need to figure out how to manage a situation in which my “Yes” or “No” may never be accepted. Deciding my answer internally can inform my behavior, such that the truth is communicated even if my words are civil. As with so many other things, studying my heart and saying “Yes” to what I learn can help me to understand my “Yes” and “No.”