Systems of the Soul
The Space Between Feeling and Response
Every morning I would wake up angry — regardless of how well I had slept.
If there were many things waiting for me that day, the anger only deepened.
Some mornings it was a dull ache behind my eyes; others it was an explosion of restless energy — rushed, short-fused, ready to snap at anything out of place.
Looking back, I see now that it was mostly exhaustion mixed with an unhealthy relationship with anger.
I had lost sight of a powerful Buddhist teaching:
“Holding onto anger is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die.”
No matter how angry you get at a situation, it won’t change the situation — especially when the moment you’re reliving is already in the past, or the one you’re dreading hasn’t yet arrived.
By letting anger consume us, we allow an emotion to take control of our inner world.
Emotions are grand storytellers; they carry truth, but each has its bias.
That doesn’t erase the guilt of those who harm you, nor does it invalidate your pain.
It doesn’t mean suppressing anger or pretending it doesn’t exist.
Anger — like all emotions — will visit every human being at some point in life.
It also doesn’t mean failing to protect your own wellbeing; it simply means that instead of carrying anger into the next moment, you accept its root and release it.
For me, somewhere in childhood I learned that emotions were divided into “good” and “bad.”
Anxiety, fear, and anger all fell into the second category — feelings that made you less of a person.
I wasn’t told that outright; it was implied in tone, reaction, and silence.
When I was upset or frustrated, the messages came quickly:
“Oh, you’ve got nothing to be mad about.”
“It’s okay.”
“Don’t worry so much.”
It taught me to run from those emotions instead of facing them.
I learned to escape through distraction rather than addressing the root.
Unconsciously, I felt shamed whenever those feelings visited.
But ignored emotions never disappear — they return, louder each time, until the dam finally bursts.
I began practicing mindfulness during a season of grief and quickly noticed how it stopped me from spiraling into sadness.
Pausing throughout the day to ask, “What are you feeling right now?” gave me clarity.
Later I began asking, “Where do I feel this in my body?” when strong emotions arose.
Like a muscle, awareness can be trained — a single pause can change the outcome of any moment if you allow it.
My anger usually begins in the mind long before I act on it.
A single thread catches, and I start pulling.
My inner language turns sharp; my patience shortens.
Everything becomes a target.
Eventually the thoughts spill out aloud, regardless of who’s listening.
I’m not violent, but my movements grow aggressive — doors slam, dishes clatter, I bump into people because I’m less aware of my surroundings.
If pushed too far, I yell.
When I pause in those moments, I can feel it: heat in my chest, tension in every muscle, the pulse in my ears, and a deep urge that I can’t stay still.
One morning I caught myself ruminating on grief — spinning a story of unworthiness and manipulation.
Then something shifted: a quiet voice within asked, “What are you feeling right now?”
“Anger,” I heard myself reply.
“Is that really how you want to be?”
In that instant, I realized I didn’t.
I didn’t want to explode anymore.
I wanted to feel safe in my own body — safe within my own reactions.
I was drinking the poison.
I was choosing to suffer in my anger, and that suffering was shaping the world around me every chance it got.
Stoicism teaches that we can shape our story by taking ownership of it.
When we choose to suffer in our minds, we write a tragedy.
Why not instead decide to write a story in which every emotion has its rightful chapter?
Instead of repeating a painful scene, we can begin a new book.
“The more we value things outside our control, the less control we have.” — Epictetus
The more energy we spend on what’s beyond our control, the more powerless we become.
Focus on what you cannot change, and those things begin to define you.
Focus on your reactions, and the pen returns to your hand.
Through mindfulness, I began to recognize anger and negativity as they arrived.
It took five full minutes the first time to notice I was spiraling.
I paused and traced it back: exhaustion, poor sleep, a pile of work problems waiting on my desk — things I had to face alone.
My mind overloaded the moment I woke, leaving no space to process.
But instead of writing the same story again, I stopped.
I acknowledged the reasons for my anger — and then chose to let them go.
Modern science supports what these ancient philosophies taught.
Signals travel first to the amygdala before reaching the prefrontal cortex.
We always feel before we think — the emotional brain reacts faster than the logical one.
That’s why mindfulness matters: it gives us a moment to breathe between stimulus and response.
Respond to an emotion; don’t react to it.
It’s easy to hide behind distractions — and today they’re endless.
The entire world is in our pockets: content, games, intoxicants, noise.
Used consciously, these can comfort or inspire; used unconsciously, they become escape hatches from reality.
I woke one day to realize my whole life had become distraction — and that my anger was simply a symptom of avoidance.
Without boundaries, I couldn’t say no; without self-worth, I kept surrounding myself with people who mirrored my chaos.
I was living the prophecy I’d written: this guy will always be mad.
Even now, there are days when anger wells up again — when sadness turns to helplessness, when thoughts race and collide.
But every emotion, even anger, carries a message.
Through mindfulness, I’ve learned to meet it like an old teacher — not to hold it forever, but to listen to what it’s saying.
Sometimes anger is just stored energy needing movement — a walk, a workout, a deep breath.
Sometimes it’s discomfort that’s been ignored too long.
Either way, it’s the body’s signal that something needs attention.
We will all be visited by every emotion in life.
What matters is whether we let them write our stories for us.
The next time anger, anxiety, or sadness rises, pause and ask yourself:
Is this the way I want to be?
What emotions have control of your story?
Do you want to keep writing those chapters?