Making Room for What Is
When Linda opens her calendar, her eyes come to rest on a conversation scheduled for tomorrow. She knows the employee well. It will not be a dismissal meeting, nor a conversation in which unexpected bad news has to be delivered. Yet she knows she has to address something the other person would probably rather not hear.
She reads through her notes once more, changes a few sentences and closes her laptop.
An hour later, she opens the same document again.
The examples have been carefully chosen, the order is right and the message is clear. Yet she keeps searching for wording that will make the conversation a little easier. A sentence that softens the disappointment without taking away from the clarity.
When she closes her laptop again, a sense of calm briefly returns.
Later that evening, she thinks about the conversation again. As she clears the table, she imagines how the employee will respond. On her way upstairs, she thinks of an answer to a question that may never be asked.
In bed, she goes through the conversation again, this time using different words.
Those who carry responsibility prepare themselves. No one would blame a mechanic for first investigating the source of a fault, or a teacher for thinking about their lesson. Good professionals take their work seriously.
Linda notices that it is not only the conversation that demands her attention. The tension that precedes it also becomes something she tries to find a solution for. Without her noticing, her preparation takes on a second purpose. Not only to prepare for the conversation, but also in the hope that the discomfort will lessen.
Throughout our lives, we learn to solve problems. We repair what is broken, reduce risks and look for ways to make difficult situations manageable. Without that approach, we would not build bridges, treat diseases or be able to lead organizations.
It is therefore not surprising that we bring the same approach to our inner lives.
As soon as tension, sadness or uncertainty arise, we treat them as though they too need to be solved.
Linda does indeed feel calmer after going through her notes again. The relief is real. That is why she opens her laptop again later that evening.
Before long, the tension returns. There is still something else to prepare, something else to consider or something else to think through.
It is no longer the conversation that is central, but the attempt to avoid having to feel the tension that precedes it.
The discomfort of a difficult conversation is one thing. The ongoing effort to avoid having to experience that discomfort adds something else.
Pain and suffering are not the same.
Pain is part of a life in which something is at stake. Those who carry responsibility can fail. Those who speak up may encounter resistance. Those who connect with others will sooner or later experience sadness, uncertainty or disappointment.
These are not signs that something is going wrong.
Suffering often arises at a different point.
Not when the pain appears, but when it is no longer allowed to be there.
From that moment on, a second struggle begins. We first try to get rid of the tension before having the conversation. We postpone a decision until the doubt has disappeared. We hope the sadness will lessen before we connect with others again.
In this way, the original experience is joined by everything we do to avoid having to feel it.
That second layer often demands the most energy. It requires control, reassurance, postponement and endless thinking.
Gradually, more of our lives becomes organized around avoiding pain.
Protection gradually becomes a way of life.
Think of an experience you would rather not have felt: tension, uncertainty, sadness or shame. What was the first thing you did to reduce that feeling or bring it under control? And did that move bring you closer to what mattered to you, or did it mainly provide temporary relief?
The answer is rarely black and white. Protective strategies did not arise because we are weak or because we did something wrong. At some point, they gave us something. They made difficult situations bearable, provided something to hold on to or gave us a moment to breathe.
That is why they remained.
Over time, something changes.
The relief lasts for less time, while the cost becomes greater. Choices begin to revolve around avoiding pain.
The space in which to live becomes smaller.
The change takes place step by step. What began as an understandable response to a difficult experience gradually gains more and more influence over the way we deal with discomfort.
Acceptance begins with seeing. Seeing how an experience arises, what movement follows almost automatically and what that movement costs us.
Once we recognize that pattern, we can ask ourselves a different question.
No longer: How do I get rid of this?
But: Can I make room for what is here now?
The tension does not have to disappear for that to happen. The next time a difficult conversation approaches, Linda will again notice her body responding. Her heart rate increases. Perhaps she will once again feel the urge to go through her preparation one more time.
The difference is that she can notice that urge without having to follow it immediately. This frees her attention for something else: what does this conversation ask of me?
That is where acceptance begins. Not as resignation or as a way to feel better, but as a willingness to take discomfort with us when life asks something of us.
And precisely when we make room for what we think and feel, something else becomes visible. Thoughts and feelings rarely come alone. Almost immediately, we begin to interpret them, judge them, and give them meaning.
This happens so quickly that what we think or feel and the meaning we give to it can easily become intertwined. We do not simply feel tension; we may also see that tension as a sign that something is wrong, that things will not turn out well, or that we are not capable enough.
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This chapter is from my book Doing What Matters – Resilience at Work with ACT.
Learn more about the book, online course, and training programs