It’s easy to buy into the myth that "doing the work" means living in constant zen, effortlessly rising above every trigger with a smile. But emotional fluency isn't immunity to being human. Having a rich emotional life means you're going to experience the full spectrum from feeling balanced to feeling messy: Here’s the truth: the messy moments aren't a sign that you're failing or that something is "wrong" with you. It’s your nervous system flagging a boundary, an unhealed wound, or simply a tough day. Maybe your core values, deeply ingrained beliefs, or personal expectations about how the world or people "should" operate are being activated. Maybe you’re running an outdated script. Maybe the current context of the situation and the physical or mental resources you have available in that moment (like sleep, energy, or stress levels) are not on your side. Real emotional fluency isn't about avoiding those reactions—it's about how quickly you can offer yourself compassion when they happen, learn from them, and navigate your way back to center. The beauty of emotional well-being isn't found in a perfect streak of calmness. It’s found in accepting the messy, unpredictable moments as an essential part of the journey, rather than a detour from it. Let’s Reflect Together Choose one (or all three!) of the questions below to explore and share in the comments: 1. The Reflection: What’s a "messy" emotional moment you’ve had recently that you initially judged yourself for? Looking back, what was it actually trying to tell you? What did you need? 2. The Mindset Shift: What does "accepting the mess" look like for you in your day-to-day life? 3. The Grace Check: Which emotion do you struggle to hold space for the most (frustration, envy, sadness, shame, hurt or something else) How can you offer yourself more grace next time it shows up?

Listening back to the story, I'd like to share a final reflection. One of the most difficult things to grapple with in allowing my story to change and evolve is the sense of justice. The moral high ground of right versus wrong, just versus unjust, respect versus disrespect. Growing up, I remember feeling slighted, as if I was treated unfairly. Holding on to my story and keeping it frozen in the way that I tell it used to give me the feeling that I was holding the high ground. It used to feel like I was exposing the injustice, the disrespect and in doing so, exacting what I was owed. In the end, holding onto these stories, in the way that I used to, kept me a prisoner to them; I was reliving the same injustice, the same disrespect and suffering from the inflated sense of mistreatment. Being able to admit vulnerability, humbly adapt and edit my version of events, and use a larger perspective to narrate my experiences has proven to be liberating. The openness and freedom I've gained from learning to let go a little and allowing some fluidity to enter the schema has given me access to a wholly different way of living my life. I still get caught up in the old meanings from time to time, but it doesn't last that long. It evolves more quickly, more easily. I feel less rigid and less encumbered by the meanings I've imposed on people and events. I get a chance to live more presently, more connected and more authentically. The trick isn't to get rid of the old feelings. They will always be there. The trick is to not let that be the only thing we have in our emotional toolkit. With effort, practice and support, we can add some other tools like acknowledgment, balanced perspectives, understanding the meaning behind our triggers, self-acceptance as well as recognizing and questioning our needs, values and beliefs. All of these can be used to create a more fluid, flexible and genuine life story that honors your path instead of condemning it.

There are a couple of things that I slowly started to change about the way I tell my story. And while I still have to make a conscious effort, here are some of the approaches I've found helpful. Whenever I feel the urge to prove myself, to make an excuse, or to try to position myself in a certain way, I let it go. I try to stick more to the facts rather than the emotional thoughts. For example, all of the stories that start with "I don't know why this..." I stop and choose a more neutral tone: "I was at 'X' place and 'Y' happened." If I hear myself starting to position blame for something on another person or a circumstance, I try to balance my language so that responsibility is shared. For example, I stopped saying things like "I lost my business because of the 2008 housing crisis." Instead, I say, "The 2008 housing crisis hit everyone hard, and so I decided it was better for me to close my business." This redistributes the responsibility, and I become more of an active agent instead of a victim of circumstance. I also try to be careful with how I use certain words: should, supposed to, have to, must, etc. I try to replace them with less obligating words and more volitional words like; I would like, it would be interesting to, it's important for me to... This helps soften the harsh tone of my story as well as my own inner dialogue. I have also tried to stop using absolutes. Always and never can be not only exhausting terms, but they can also create a sort of stonewalling in interactions. Even if the "always" or "never" aren't applied to the person we are talking to, it can create a sense of psycho-rigidity. In effect, it can cause some people feel like we are judgmental. This lack of flexibility can lead to repeating patterns in a rather involuntary manner. Adding some balance, some kindness and some flexibility to the way I tell my story has had the same effects on me, psychologically, emotionally and socially. This may not have completely resolved everything for me, but it has given space for other more authentic experiences to occur.

Some of my common themes have been complaining to someone about someone or something. I usually employed an incredulous "Why blah blah blah?!" This not only set the tone, but also the way the whole interaction would play out. I would come with such disbelief about what had happened because I felt like it was adequately expressing my shock and inability to accept whatever I was talking about. I've done this so many times that people just began to expect that type of encounter with me. But what I was really doing was type casting. I car myself in a certain role as well as anyone who was listening to me. I also continued to cast a familiar set of characters: the villain, the perpetrator, the scapegoat, the captive audience, and of course, the victim. These same stories have repeated over and over. Change some names, places and a few other details, but essentially the same. I did this because knowing the roles of people, knowing the terrain makes life easier to navigate and 2 because familiarity feels comfortable. However, it wasn't until I learned to break this narrative that I was able to have some more space in my life, more flexibility in my experiences and more real life connection. Breaking the story patterns can be a bit terrifying at first, but we eventually discover new terrain and it's worth it.

If I continue to track some of the story patterns I've used over the years, one of the things that had made it hard to break the coherent story was social anxiety. I've had my feelings hurt more than once about how I looked, how I didn't fit in, etc., and I would cling to this negative self-image in an attempt to not be hurt by others. My stories would come out awkwardly. There would be a mix of self-depricating humor (so no one could say anything worse about me than I already was) and an inflated ego to try and offset the pain I was now causing myself. This would sound often like I was the victim of someone or something, in a way that would put me down and then I would counter it by either minimizing how it impacted me or turn it around to make myself out be the underdog hero of the story. I wouldn't necessarily lie, but I had a very biased view, a bit of exaggeration, a bit of minimizing, but for so long the same repetitive schematic of: "can you believe this horrible thing or person.... but whatever, I did this and then I got it to work out." In the end, I kept trying to convince other people of my own worth in an attempt to feel safe and validated. It wasn't until later in life that I learned that I'm the only one I need to prove my worth to. If I don't see it, then it doesn't really matter... But I mean really, really see it. I'm still socially anxious, but I've learned to connect to those nerves and fears and just let them be for the moment instead of reacting to them.