I said it almost casually, “I think the problem is that people don’t want to change.”
He didn’t respond immediately. He rarely did. He waited, not to correct me, but to see whether I would hear myself. After a long silence, he said, “Most people don’t fail to change because they don’t want to. They fail because they never see what needs to change.”
That was a little unsettling for me. “But people know a lot,” I replied. “They read, they listen, they attend sessions. They understand what is right and wrong.”
He smiled slightly. “Knowing is not seeing.”
I looked at him, unsure and waiting for him to say more.
“Think of your own life,” he continued. “How many times have you known the right response—and still reacted differently?”
Too many times, I thought.
“The issue,” he said, “is not lack of knowledge. It’s the absence of a learner’s posture toward one’s own inner life.”
I asked him what he meant by that.
“A learner,” he said, “stays curious even when things become uncomfortable. Especially then.”
I thought of the moments when emotions flare up—anger, hurt, resentment. “But emotions just happen,” I said. “They come without warning.”
“Exactly,” he replied. “And that is why they are such powerful teachers—if you don’t run from them.”
I admitted that when emotions rise, my first instinct is to do something: explain myself, correct the other person, withdraw, or justify.
“That is where learning is lost,” he said. “Most people treat emotions as commands. A learner treats them as signals.”
“Signals of what?” I asked.
“Of meaning-making,” he replied. “Of expectations, assumptions, old patterns, unfinished stories.”
I told him that it feels unfair to pause when emotions are strong. “Sometimes the situation really is wrong.”
He nodded. “Actions can be right or wrong. That is not the debate. The question is: do you want to react, or do you want to understand?” He leaned forward slightly. Then, after a long pause, he said, “Awareness does not mean suppressing emotions. It means staying present to them without giving yourself exemptions.”
“Exemptions?”
“Yes,” he said. “We practice awareness when it’s easy. But when the emotion feels justified, we say: This time doesn’t count. A learner doesn’t do that.”
That stung. “So what should one do instead?” I asked.
“When a negative emotion appears,” he said, “treat it like a question.”
“A question?” I asked.
“Yes. Ask: What just got activated inside me? Was it an expectation? A fear? A familiar wound? A belief about how people should behave?”
I thought of a recent incident—someone repeatedly interrupting me. The anger had come instantly.
He seemed to read my expression. “That irritation,” he said, “was not just about interruption. It was about meaning. Perhaps about being ignored or undervalued. That meaning came from somewhere.”
“So, the emotion is pointing backward as much as it is reacting forward,” I said slowly.
He smiled. “Now you’re learning.” Then he said something that made me uncomfortable in a different way: “You must also accept something else if you want to grow.”
“What?”
“That human beings are fallible. Including you. Including everyone who disappoints you.”
I objected. “But some mistakes cause real harm.”
“They do,” he said calmly. “And still, they are mistakes—not proofs of moral superiority on your part.”
He continued, “You make dozens of errors every day—small ones you don’t even notice. Others are allowed their share too. Even when their mistakes affect you.”
I felt resistance rise inside me. “That perspective,” he continued, “is what keeps humility alive. Without it, people become harsh judges and poor learners.”
I asked him if this meant tolerating everything.
“No,” he replied. “It means responding from awareness, not injury. Accountability can coexist with understanding.”
There was a long silence after that. Finally, he said, “A learner does not aim to be calm all the time. Or perfect. Or emotionally invulnerable.”
“What does a learner aim for then?” I asked.
“To stay awake,” he said. “To remain curious about the self. To notice patterns instead of defending identities.”
As I sat with that, something shifted. The emotions I had been trying to control suddenly felt less like enemies and more like messages I had ignored for years.
“Growth,” he concluded, “is not about eliminating discomfort. It’s about letting discomfort teach you.”
I realized then that perhaps life had been offering lessons all along—ones I had been too busy reacting to notice.
