Leaving Space for Big Emotions

From time to time—probably more often than I’d like to admit—I find myself overwhelmed and revolted by the state of human affairs. Those feelings rarely come from what’s happening in my own life. They emerge from looking at the world my kids—and all children—will inherit. News about irreversible climate change, displays of virulent ignorance, or the normalization of cruelty in governance can leave me anxious on their behalf. Worse, I know that my attachment to the people I love is precisely what makes those things so difficult to bear.

Looking across history, even just the twentieth century, to say nothing of antiquity, there is no shortage of violence, cruelty, and fear-based decision-making that has imperiled countless beings, human and otherwise. That realization is not particularly hopeful.

Sometimes, neither is my practice. The difficult thing about recognizing that everything is conditioned and co-arising is accepting how little control we have over the larger conditions that shape our existence. In our confusion, that realization can itself become another source of suffering. We may become angry with ourselves for not being able to fix the unfixable, becoming estranged from our own lives in the process.

It can help to realize that I’m not the only one with these feelings. Lots of us are living with a sense of powerlessness in the face of forces much larger than any one person’s ability to affect. Yet some days, “let it go” does not seem possible. So what do you do with anger or sadness that has nowhere to be directed?

In many ways, the answer is nothing. That does not mean there are no practices worth cultivating. Contemplative and somatic approaches involving breath, attention, and the body can provide grounding. But they are not about making feelings disappear. They can, however, reveal that even difficult emotions—anger, vulnerability, helplessness—can be tended to by opening up and allowing them, with deep permission, to aerate and settle in their own time.

We are strongly conditioned to do the opposite. We poke the bear. We pick the scab. We continue to ruminate. Even when we find relief, we often check whether we truly have chilled out. Then we discover we are not perfectly calm, and we boomerang back to aversion.

The approach of spaciousness and self-compassion is different. It is deep permission for whatever is present, even when feelings come hard and fast like a powerful rainstorm.

One way into this is through what some call the “field of care,” or, in Buddhist terminology, refuge. It is the sense of being seen completely, accepted in all one’s layers of suffering, and loved within those layers. It is the feeling that it is safe to be vulnerable and open to our own emotions, whatever they might be.

To access that authentically, it cannot simply be a mental script. You have to find what, in the present moment, reminds you of your connection to those deeper parts of yourself that can abide warmly and openly with any feeling.

For me, it’s the sense of my grandmother running her fingers through the back of my hair. I do not have to enter into the complexities of those memories or what they mean. I stay with the feeling of her fingers. That is enough. If that image doesn’t resonate, there is surely another. For example, I also have an inventory of lakes and oceans in my refuge bank. Calling those feelings forward as though they are happening in the present can create that same connection.

Even anger that cannot be directed anywhere productive can be held this way. Because sometimes there is no boundary to create; no action to take that will meaningfully change the larger conditions giving rise to the feeling.

In those moments, it is the emotion itself that needs non-judgmental accommodation. Such tending happens in the quiet, open space of acceptance and deep permission. Often that means stepping away from whatever is feeding the cycle—doom scrolling or trying to solve what cannot be solved—and reconnecting to our field of care.

The goal is not to make feelings disappear. It is to welcome them and allow them the time they need to off-gas, aerate, and settle. You cannot invite them in for tea while secretly waiting for them to finish so they can get out the door.

This is not something you do once. At least for me, it requires practice, even though the practice itself is extraordinarily simple and does not involve doing much at all.

In these times, many of us are carrying these kinds of feelings. If anyone finds themselves curious about ways to work directly with emotions like this, feel free to reach out.