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You Don’t Fix Emotions Directly

 

 

 

یہ مضمون اردو میں پڑھیں

I asked him something that had been bothering me for a while, “If thoughts affect emotions, and emotions affect thoughts… then can we work directly on emotions to fix our thinking? Can we calm emotions first, and let thoughts follow?”

He paused, not dismissing the question, but refining it. “What you call working on emotions,” he said, “is almost always cognitive work.”

That was not the answer I expected. I had assumed emotions were something immediate, something we feel and therefore something we should address at the level of feeling. But he was pointing somewhere deeper, somewhere less obvious.

He continued, “Emotions are not independent. They are outcomes.”

That word—outcomes—shifted the entire frame. He explained that what we experience as an emotion is actually the result of how we have perceived something. And that perception is not neutral. It is shaped by our thoughts, our interpretations, our past patterns, what he called our “construction.”

In other words, before an emotion appears, something has already happened inside. A meaning has been assigned. A judgment has been made. A pattern has been activated. And the emotion follows.

He gave a simple example.

Imagine you are walking into a dimly lit room and you see something coiled on the floor. Instantly, your body reacts—fear, tension, alertness. Your heart rate rises. In that moment, the emotion feels real. Immediate. Unquestionable. But what produced it? Not the object itself. The thought: “This is a snake.”

Now imagine the light turns on. You see clearly that it’s just a coiled wire. What happens to the fear? It begins to dissolve. Not because you worked on the fear, or told yourself to “calm down,” but because the perception and the accompanying thought changed.

That is the nature of emotions. They follow perception. This is why, he explained, working on emotions directly is often ineffective. You can try to suppress them, distract yourself, or temporarily soothe them, but unless the underlying thought or construction changes, the emotion will return.

So the real question is not: How do I stop feeling this? The real question is: What am I thinking that is producing this feeling? And sometimes, the answer is not obvious. He pointed out that many of our emotional reactions are driven not by conscious thoughts, but by unconscious patterns. These are patterns we have built over time through experiences, assumptions, and repeated interpretations. You may not consciously think, “People always disrespect me.” But if that pattern exists within you, even subtly, then a small comment from someone can trigger a strong emotional reaction. The emotion feels disproportionate. But the pattern explains it. This is why awareness becomes the first step.

He said, “When you ask yourself, ‘Why am I feeling this way?’ the answer is usually in your thoughts or your mental patterns.” And that requires reflection. Not reacting. Not suppressing. But observing.

Another example he gave stayed with me. He said, “Instead of trying to fix the immediate problem, bring your vision to life.”

At first, I didn’t fully understand.

Then he explained. When we are overwhelmed, we become consumed by the immediate situation: the argument, the setback, the failure. Our thoughts narrow. Our emotions intensify. But if, in that moment, we shift our thinking to a larger vision: What kind of person do I want to be? What is my long-term direction? something changes inside. The situation does not disappear. But its emotional weight begins to shift. Because now, the meaning has changed. Instead of “This is unbearable,” the thought becomes: “This is part of a larger journey.” And with that shift, the emotion softens. Again, not because we worked on the emotion. But because we changed the thought.

He also mentioned practices like meditation. I had always thought of meditation as a way to “calm emotions.” But he reframed it. “Even there,” he said, “what you are doing is controlling or pausing thoughts.” You are stepping back from the constant stream of thinking. You are creating space. And in that space, emotions begin to settle. But the mechanism is still cognitive. It is still about thoughts. That is why, he said, the most effective way to regulate emotions is to develop awareness of your thoughts and to gradually bring them under your influence. Not complete control, not instantly, but gradually.

This is not easy work. Because thoughts are fast. Patterns are deep. And emotions are convincing. When you feel something strongly, it feels true. It feels justified. It feels like reality. But often, it is not reality. It is an interpretation. And interpretations can be questioned.

I remember trying this myself in a small, everyday situation. Someone close to me said something that felt dismissive. Instantly, I felt irritation rising. My mind began building a narrative: They don’t respect me. They always do this. But this time, I paused. I asked myself: What exactly am I thinking right now? And I saw it. Not a fact. A pattern. I consciously replaced it with another possibility: Maybe they are distracted. Maybe they didn’t mean it that way. The emotion didn’t disappear instantly. But it softened. It lost its sharp edge. And more importantly, I didn’t react in a way I would later regret.

That small shift taught me something powerful. You don’t need to win over your emotions. You need to understand the thoughts behind them. And once you begin to see that, a different kind of control emerges. It is not control over what appears. But control over what you follow. Over time, as your constructions change, your emotional world changes with them. The storms become less frequent. The reactions become less intense. The recovery becomes quicker. Not because life becomes easier. But because your perception becomes clearer.

In the end, what he was telling me was simple, but not easy. You don’t fix emotions directly. You refine the way you see. And when you see differently, you begin to feel differently.

And when you feel differently, you begin to live differently.

It Wasn't the Snake

 

 

 

یہ مضمون اردو میں پڑھیں

I still remember how confidently I had said it. “If people would just stop doing irritating things,” I said, “half our emotional problems would disappear.”

He smiled slightly, the way he does when he knows the issue is not where I think it is. “Are you sure,” he asked gently, “that it’s the things that do it?”

I looked at him, a little defensive. “Of course. If someone insults me, that insult creates anger.”

He paused for a moment, then said, “Let me tell you a very ordinary story.”

“Imagine,” he said, “you walk into a dark room late at night. On the floor, you see something coiled.”

My body immediately reacted with the imagination.

“You instantly interpret it as a snake,” he continued. “Your heart races. Fear floods your body. Your muscles tense.”

I could almost feel it.

“Now,” he said, “the light is turned on. And you see clearly that it’s just a coiled wire.”

I laughed. “Fear disappears.”

“Exactly,” he said. “Tell me what changed?”

“The object didn’t,” I replied slowly.

“Only your understanding did.” Those words struck me.

He leaned forward slightly and said, “This is the mistake we keep making. We say, ‘That situation made me angry.’ Or ‘That person hurt me.’ But the situation didn’t inject an emotion into you. Your mind constructed it.”

He explained that between an event and an emotion, something always exists: interpretation. “Sometimes,” he said, “it’s an old mental pattern. Sometimes it’s a fresh assumption. But it’s never the event alone.”

I thought of all the times I had snapped at someone and blamed them completely. It felt uncomfortable to realize that something inside me had been involved.

He gave another example. “Two people receive the same message,” he said. “One reads it and feels offended. The other reads it and shrugs. Same words. Different emotions. Why?”

“Different constructions,” I said.

He explained that our mind is constantly filling in gaps, guessing intentions, predicting danger, and assigning motives. Most of this happens so fast that we mistake it for reality itself. “That’s why,” he said, “emotions feel automatic. But automatic does not mean inevitable.”

I pushed back a little. “But some things are genuinely bad. Isn’t anger justified sometimes?”

He nodded. “Yes. Emotions are not the enemy. They are signals. But signals don’t come from outside, they come from interpretation.” He paused for what seemed like a long time, then added, “If you don’t learn to see this, you will always be fighting the world instead of understanding your own mind.”

Those words shook me.

He shared something personal. “There was a time,” he said, “when driving made me impatient. Every slow driver felt like a personal insult.”

I smiled. I knew that feeling well.

“One day,” he continued, “I noticed something strange. On days when I wasn’t in a hurry, the same drivers didn’t bother me at all.”

“So it wasn’t them,” I said.

“It was my internal narrative,” he replied. “The story that said, ‘I’m being delayed. I’m being wronged.’ When that story changed, the emotion dissolved.”

Just like the snake that turned into a wire. He explained that this awareness is not about suppressing emotions.

“You don’t say, ‘I shouldn’t feel this,’” he said. “You say, ‘Interesting! What interpretation just created this feeling?’”

That shift—from reacting to becoming curious—changes everything. “Once you see the wire where you first saw the snake,” he added, “you don’t need willpower to calm down. Calmness happens naturally.”

I thought of arguments in my home, moments of resentment, and silent anger I carried for days. How many of those emotions were snakes that turned out to be wires?

He seemed to read my thoughts. “This is not about blaming yourself,” he said softly. “It’s about reclaiming agency. If emotions are caused by your constructions, then growth is possible.”

That word—possible—felt relieving.

He ended with something that I could not forget: “Life will always have dark rooms,” he said. “You won’t always have full information. But you can train yourself to pause before reacting.”

“Pause for what?” I asked.

“To ask,” he replied, “What am I assuming right now?

Because sometimes, what looks like a snake is just a coiled wire on the floor. And sometimes, the emotion that feels overwhelming disappears, not because the world changed, but because our understanding did.

When Emotions Become Teachers

 

 

 

یہ مضمون اردو میں پڑھیں

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.