Does it ever feel like life is coming at you in waves?
Not the neat, Taoist metaphor where every descent is followed by an equal and opposite rise. You are probably most familiar with them embodied as the classic yin-yang symbol.
No, this time I’m talking about real waves. The ones that are messy and uneven and churning ceaselessly. The ones that threaten to drag you down and hold you under until you emerge thrashing for the surface, gasping for breath while you struggle to find sure footing.
I’ll be honest, in this most recent season, it’s been these types of waves that have been more commonplace. And, for me, there are really only three things I can do when one begins to pull me under:
I can fight it. I can claw toward the surface, force the wave to retreat, strain to get back to fine. And when I do, the next time I fall even harder; the steep crash is always worse than a gentle descent would have been.
I can endure it. I can brace myself, armor up, grit my teeth, tell myself to be strong and to suffer through. This one is the trap, because it looks like strength. But the truth is that you’re still fighting, just with more armor.
I can accept it. Acceptance is not endurance. Accepting the wave does not mean gritting through the pain, romanticizing it, or making suffering noble. Acceptance is gentle. It is allowing. It is release.
The Two Arrows
Let’s revisit the Buddhist teaching about the two arrows. The first arrow is the pain itself. It’s the illness, the loss, the wave that pulls us under. That arrow flies on its own, released without our awareness. We don’t get to choose where it strikes, and it hurts.
But then most of us reach back and jab a second arrow straight into the very same, gaping wound. We do this with our own resistance, with fear of being afraid, with unanswerable questions like why is this happening to me, and with the idea that I should be handling this better than I am.
The first arrow is the injurious and often unavoidable pain. The second arrow is the suffering we add to it, and that one’s completely avoidable.
Acceptance Not Endurance
When we are enduring, we are forcing that second arrow into our wound and calling it courage. I must be strong, I must not break, I must suffer… That line of thinking becomes its own kind of wound, thrust haphazardly on top of the one that was already there.
Acceptance means I notice what’s rising before it can begin to build its whole story. It means I let the feeling actually move through me instead of calling it into my core and making it a part of me. It means I reach out for help, for another set of eyes, for the people who can see what I cannot see on my own.
That is the whole difference. Enduring fires a second arrow. Acceptance lays the whole quiver down.
Making Space for Forgiveness
Acceptance makes space for forgiveness. For a gentler approach to what is happening. It allows me to forgive my own body. The body that is not betraying me, even when it feels that way sometimes. No, my body is carrying me through something hard. It’s doing the challenging and invisible work of remaking itself from the inside out. It deserves my tenderness, not my blame. It deserves my love and my appreciation for the hard work it is doing.
Finding acceptance allows me to forgive myself. To give myself grace on the mornings I fight back against the wave with all my might, and for the times I endure when I meant to accept.
With acceptance, I can let go of the frustration about how long all of this is taking. About how I have a new sense of normal that looks unlike anything I experienced for most of my life.
I used to meet those moments of recognition and endurance with a kind of scolding. I’m learning to meet them with compassion instead. Besides, the scolding was only ever a second arrow, aimed directly at my already fragile, wounded body. And forgiveness is how I finally put it down.
And in the end, acceptance means I get to choose the story I tell about all of it. Because the story we tell about our suffering is another chance for that second arrow to get fired, or when we finally get to set the bow down.
Mindful Minute: Are there stories you tell that are firing a second arrow into your already wounded self? Are there ways you can reframe those stories to protect yourself from the avoidable pain of the second arrow? Could forgiveness of self and others be a part of it? Share as much as you feel comfortable. I know that other people will benefit from your observations, and I love reading your comments.
If you want to read more of the 5-part series on grief, start with denial here. And remember that we are touching on some emotionally sensitive topics. If any of this caused you to reconsider your own painful arrows and personal conflict, I encourage you to speak with a professional about it.