I was surprised when he said it so plainly, “An emotion,” he said, “lives for a few seconds.”
I looked at him, almost amused. A few seconds? I could recall anger that lasted an entire day, sadness that stretched for weeks, and anxiety that had followed me for years.
He noticed the look on my face. “That,” he said calmly, “is not emotion anymore.”
I leaned forward.
“When you see something,” he explained, “your mind interprets it. Based on that interpretation, certain chemicals are released in your body. Those chemicals create a sensation—pleasant or unpleasant. That sensation is what we call an emotion.”
Joy. Fear. Anger. Relief.
“All of these,” he continued, “are chemical events. And like most chemical reactions in the body, they dissolve quickly. Roughly within six seconds.”
Then, after a pause, he added, “If nothing feeds them.”
That last sentence landed quietly—but heavily.
I told him what many people would say, “But people stay angry for hours. Sometimes from morning till night.”
He nodded. “Yes. And that’s the key distinction.”
He leaned back slightly.
“When someone is angry all day, they are no longer experiencing an emotion. They are replaying a story.”
I felt totally exposed.
“Think of it this way,” he said. “The initial anger comes and goes. But then you think about what happened. You explain it to yourself. You justify it. You rehearse it. You imagine what you should have said. You imagine what you’ll say next time.”
Then he smiled faintly and added, “You are now feeding the emotion.”
That distinction changed something in me: An emotion arises automatically. But sustaining it is a choice. Not always a conscious one—but still a choice.
He gave a simple example: “Have you ever woken up angry,” he asked, “and by evening you’re still angry?”
I nodded. I could clearly remember that.
“Then ask yourself,” he said gently, “how many times did you visit that thought during the day?” At breakfast. In the shower. On the drive. In imaginary arguments. “The body did not keep producing anger,” he said. “You kept inviting it back.”
He used an analogy that continued to occupy my mind: “Imagine walking into a dark room,” he said. “You see a coiled wire on the floor. In the darkness, you mistake it for a snake.”
My body tensed just imagining it.
“In that moment,” he continued, “your heart races. Fear chemicals are released. Your body reacts.” Then after a pause, he continued, “Now the lights turn on.”
“It’s just a wire,” I said.
“Exactly,” he smiled. “And notice what happens. The fear immediately dissolves.” No effort. No struggle. No technique. “Because the interpretation changed.”
This understanding quietly restores responsibility—without blame. It tells us we are not weak for feeling emotions. We are not broken for getting triggered. But we are participating when an emotion overstays. That participation happens through rumination, storytelling, rehearsing, justifying, replaying—and often through the quiet belief: “I have a right to feel this way.”
He didn’t argue with that. “You may have a right to the emotion,” he said. “But do you want the cost of feeding it?”
What struck me most was this idea: between the emotion arising and the emotion becoming a mood, there is a small window. A pause. A choice. In that window, I can let it pass or give it a narrative. Let it dissolve or give it a home. Most of us never notice that window. But once you see it, you cannot unsee it.
Since that conversation, I began noticing small things. A sharp comment from someone. A wave of irritation. A few seconds of heat. Then a fork in the road. If I say nothing inside, it fades. If I start explaining, “How dare they…”, “This always happens…”, “They never understand…”—I’ve chosen my day.
He was very clear about one thing. “This is not about suppressing emotions,” he said. “Nor about pretending you don’t feel them.” Emotions are natural. Automatic. Human. “But carrying them,” he added, “is optional.”
And that distinction felt deeply freeing.
When an emotion shows up now, I try to ask myself: “Is this still an emotion—or am I feeding it?” Sometimes I still feed it. But now I know I am doing it. And that awareness, by itself, shortens its stay.
An emotion is a visitor. If it stays too long, it’s usually because we offered it a chair, served it tea, and asked it to tell its story again. Once you see that, you don’t have to fight emotions. You only have to stop feeding them.
