Seeking Peace Among Our Flames

When we hate others, we probably hate something in ourselves

I hadn’t talked to her in years.

And it had been even longer since I’d seen her in person.

But as she transited the living room between her bedroom and the kitchen, she didn’t even look at me. While she moved, she mumbled something unintelligible under her breath; probably a gripe about how I was inside her house, sitting on her couch, talking with her husband, and interacting with her children.

After a hunched-over shuffle to the fridge, she opened the door and filled her water bottle. Her youngest approached and asked an innocent question, and she half-snapped a reply at him before he turned, dejected, and walked toward the door to the garage. He was headed to his football game, which I was excited to watch.

Seconds later, she closed the fridge and followed her child’s path. Just before reaching the garage door, she glanced up at me, her eyes filled with rage, which I met with a half-smile. It was evident that her internal fire was red-hot.

Engulfed in emotional flames, she flung open the door, passed under the transom, and slammed it closed behind her.

While the smoke from her combustion still lingered in the air, I sat there processing what I’d just witnessed.

I’d been in Texas for a few days at that point, and while making the rounds between friends, I’d quickly stopped by my buddy’s house a couple of times already. During my visits, she never came outside to say hi, which I thought was a little odd. But she was never exactly a personable individual to begin with, so I chalked it up to her surly demeanor.

However, the display of pure hatred I’d just witnessed was unsettling.

I turned toward my buddy, seeking answers in his expression.

“I asked her if she wanted to meet with us for lunch the other day,” he started explaining, “and she immediately said, ‘No fucking way.’”

“Why?” he asked her. “Because Derek voted a different way than you?”

He said that she didn’t provide a coherent answer, other than to regurgitate mainstream conservative talking points about how “liberals are ruining this country.”

I paused and reflected for a moment before admitting, “I feel a strong desire to retaliate.”

“Then you’d be no better than her,” he responded.

There was a lot of truth in that statement, so I brushed aside my appetite for reciprocity and decided to enjoy the rest of the evening. We ended up having a wonderful time at the game, filled with great conversation in the bleachers (even though his wife sat next to us throughout), salty snacks from the concession stand, and a big “W” for his son’s team.

Once we’d returned to his house and I was about to leave, I gave him a heartfelt hug, thanked him for a beautiful night, and told him that I’d be in touch about possibly meeting again the following day before I drove back to Colorado.

But when I arrived where I was staying, I realized how psychologically draining his wife’s deep negativity had been and texted him: “I’ll definitely keep you posted about tomorrow. If it ends up working out, though, let’s meet somewhere other than your place. As we discussed, I no longer wish to be caught in anyone’s emotional tornadoes. Love you.”

When I woke up the following morning, I still hadn’t received a response from him, so I spent longer than usual meditating and reflecting. I sat with my hurt, confusion, and anger at his wife’s behaviors toward me—and recognized how, for years, I reacted the same way to challenges to my worldview.

I remembered my own seething rage; my insides singed by red-hot flames of righteousness. How I deflected this pain onto others and blamed them for not seeing things the same way, while wallowing in self-inflicted misery. And how my emotional fires, fueled by deep personal dissatisfaction, frequently exited my mouth, and scorched the landscapes of so many previous relationships, whether friends or romantic partners.

I wanted to let her know that I understood her pain. That I’d lived it. But also, that I’d faced it, and that despite the difficult, dirty work, so much beauty waited for her on the other side. So, I sent her the following text:

“Amy [not her real name], I recently learned that people’s reactions directly reveal how they feel on the inside.

Consequently, I know you’re not really angry with me. You’re furious with yourself.

And it’s painfully obvious: Everything I witnessed yesterday—how you act, speak, and engage with the world—screams that you’re forehead-deep in misery.

May you one day have the courage and self-compassion to release your iron-tight grip on self-hate. I can tell you firsthand that doing the hard work is worthwhile.”

I can only imagine the hell that ensued at my buddy’s house. How she probably screamed for hours and stomped around indignantly for days. And how she almost certainly used my words as further proof that I’m a terrible person, as ammunition for her vendetta against me, and as leverage that he should cut me from his life.

And apparently, he did.

It’s been nearly five months since I sent that text, and I haven’t heard a word from him. Not even on my recent birthday.

I fully understood the potential repercussions when I wrote those words, though. However, after a lot of self-work, I’d recently reached a point where I was cutting toxicity in all forms from my life and recognized that our 40-year friendship was largely stitched together by wounds, instead of being joined by our healing. And I refused to continue subjugating myself for the sake of maintaining peace.

Still, this fresh wound remains sensitive to the touch, as he was someone I’d literally grown up with. Someone who visited me wherever I traveled over the decades. Who was the best man at my wedding. Whose oldest child bears my last name as his middle name.

But I know that it’s ok. All is as it should be.

Because over the past couple of years, the Universe has carved an awful lot from my life. The ending of a 22-year marriage. My mother-in-law’s death. Job loss and career dissolution. Periods of insanity. And now, my best friend from childhood.

If nothing else, though, I’ve learned that our flaming wounds often act as pillars in our lives. And when we mindfully sit with—seek to quench—them, ask what they can teach us, and release our clinging to them, everything they once supported will crumble into dust.

While stepping into authenticity has been painful and tumultuous, these lessons in impermanence have also created new pillars that support my next phase, and constitute the most beautiful period of my life.

And for that, I have so much gratitude.

I believe that seeking peace among our flames is the most honorable work we can do. Not just for ourselves, but for the world we inhabit, and for our children’s futures.

May we all have the courage to let what was burn away, step forward into rejuvenation, and embrace what will be.