When the Heart is Sick with Despair, Anger, Grief, and Big Emotions - A Good Practice

"These pains you feel are messengers. Listen to them." Rumi, Poet

It was not an ordinary evening. Last night. It was supposed to be a night of "Follies" - a fun community talent event in Wenatchee. But it was being overshadowed.

There was a damper-like feeling in the air, the kind that settles over a small town when something has shifted and no one quite knows what to do with it.

John and I were sitting in a little local Mexican restaurant in Cashmere. The room was warm, the lights low, but the mood felt heavy. We ordered ceviche—bright with lime and cilantro, clean and sharp—but even that freshness could not quite cut through what we were carrying.

Earlier that day we had learned there had been student protests at Cashmere High School in response to immigration enforcement actions connected to U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement. There had reportedly been counter protests too. Tension. Harsh words. Young people facing off across invisible lines.

In a small community, events like that do not feel abstract. They ripple. They enter restaurants and grocery stores and conversations at neighboring tables.

John stared down at his plate for a long moment.

“This is our community,” he said finally. “All these are our kids.”

He wasn’t just upset. He was heartsick. Beneath the sadness was something heavier—despair. A quiet, stunned hopelessness. As if something precious had cracked and he wasn’t sure how to mend it.

There was fear in him. Fear that division would deepen. Fear that anger would escalate. There was longing—for unity, for kindness, for a way through that did not leave neighbors estranged. And there was grief, and an almost whispered question: What if this becomes something we can’t repair?

At the time, neither of us was thinking, “Ah yes, self-compassion. That is the antidote got this moment.”

We were simply two human beings feeling overwhelmed. I saved naming that remedy of self-compassion until now for a reason. Hang on.

We did not recognize in that moment that what we were doing—pausing, naming, softening—was a form of self-compassion. We were not using that language. We were not applying a framework. We were just trying to be honest and not make things worse.

But looking back, I can see clearly what was happening. And now I want to bring it to the forefront—for John and for me, and for our community and others who are navigating heavy times.

Because what we stumbled into instinctively is something we can practice intentionally.

In an earlier article, I wrote about the U-turn—the inner pivot where we interrupt our automatic reactions and turn toward our interior life before reacting outwardly. The U-turn is not withdrawal from engagement. It is preparation for wise engagement.

When we turn inward, we often discover what John and I learned to call our FLAGs—our fears, our longings, our aching wounds, and our stifled gifts.

We learned that FLAG language from our mentor, Frank Rogers Jr., in his book Practicing Compassion. Frank’s authority on compassion was forged not in comfort but in profound wounding. He endured deep betrayal and trauma. Instead of letting that suffering shrink him, he allowed it to enlarge him. His own pain became the ground from which his understanding of compassion—both for others and for the self—grew.

One of the gifts he offered us was this simple lens: when emotion surges, look for the FLAG -

Fear asks, What is at risk?

Longing asks, What do I cherish?

An aching wound whispers, Where have I been hurt before?

A stifled gift wonders, What in me urges to be expressed?

Sitting over ceviche that evening, all four were present.

John’s fear was palpable—the fear of fracture and escalation.

His longing was unmistakable—he loves this town and believes in its goodness.

There was an aching wound too, perhaps from other moments in history when division hardened into dehumanization.

And beneath it all was a stifled gift: his deep desire to be a bridge-builder.

At the time, we were not analyzing this. We were simply feeling it. Naming it. Letting it exist without immediately trying to fix it or broadcast it.

Only later did I recognize that this was self-compassion in action.

Self-compassion is often misunderstood. That's why I didn't want to name it right off the bat. Many people I have worked with resist it. They fear it will soften their edge. They worry it will excuse their failures. They equate it with self-pity.

But self-compassion is not self-pity!

Self-pity says, “Poor me. My suffering is special.” (The only people who are not good candidates for practicing self-compassion are grandiose narcissists and malignant narcissists.)

Self-compassion says, “This hurts. And hurting is part of being human.”

Psychologist Kristin Neff describes self-compassion as having three elements: mindfulness, common humanity, and self-kindness.

Mindfulness means noticing what is happening without exaggerating it or suppressing it. “This is despair.” “This is fear.”

Common humanity means remembering that we are not alone. Many communities are strained. Many parents are unsettled. Many students are confused.

Self-kindness means responding to ourselves with warmth instead of harshness, as we would to a friend.

That night in the restaurant, John noticed what he was feeling. Hopeless. Scared. Sad. He was practicing mindfulness.

When we acknowledged that anyone who loved their town would feel shaken, we were practicing common humanity.

When we did not shame ourselves for feeling heavy, we were practicing self-kindness though we didn't notice it at the time.

I want to bring self-compassion into the foreground of our lives. Because screaming emotions—fear, anger, despair, hopelessness—are not signs that we are failing. They are signals, think of them like literal flags, that something important is at stake.

They are cues.

Cues to take the U-turn.

Cues to slow down.

Cues to practice compassion with ourselves before we try to practice anything else...especially fixing ourselves.

I learned this in a more dramatic way during a season when I experienced an outsized emotion. The trigger was small. It had happened before on more occasions than I wanted to admit. My reaction was enormous. I was embarrassed by it. I wanted to kick that emotion in the butt and move on.

Instead, I went away for a few days. At first, I tried to conquer the emotion through analysis. It did not work.

I had read the work of the Linns, Catholic retreat directors, who suggest that inviting spiritual companionship into deep inner work can help us. So I did imagine a spiritual being to walk alongside me as I did this deep work (I worry that in a previous blog when I said, "We have to walk the lonesome valley by ourselves, that readers might think no one can walk along side us. Not true. It's just that our inner work is OUR inner work. We must do it ourselves with curiosity, courage, kindness).

Slowly, instead of fighting the emotion, I listened.

And there were the FLAGs—fear, longing, an aching wound, a stifled gift.

Self-compassion illuminated what self-criticism could not.

That is why I now want to name it clearly: self-compassion is not a luxury. It is a skill for survival and flourishing in modern life. And really what good are you going to do if you are all shook up, curled up in a fetal position, hiding in a cave OR all shook up with knives out creating more havoc and armored up adversaries?

Remember our best work can best be done by a steady, centered presence. I can at a later date, show you an image of our physiological response and what happens to our creative thinking and behavior (think here the 3rd way of Jesus) when we are in a steady state versus a cortisol state.

If you find yourself overwhelmed by what is happening in your community, your family, your nation, here are three simple steps.

First, pause and name without drama. Remember "name it to tame it."

Say quietly, “This is fear.” “This is hopelessness.” Notice where it lives in your body. Naming calms your nervous system.

Second, use your curiosity to courageously identify the roots of the emotion, the underlying FLAG.

What am I afraid of?

What am I longing for?

Is an old wound being touched?

Is there a gift in me that wants expression?

Curiosity and courage transforms emotion from enemy to messenger.

Third, respond with kindness.

Place a hand over your heart. Say, “This is hard. Of course I feel this. I am human.” Speak to yourself as you would to someone you love.

From that steadier place, ask: What kind of presence do I want to be? Because this is not just about being steadied. It's about preparing us to do our best work in the world.

Last night, nothing in the wider world resolved. But something essential shifted inside me.

Despair was acknowledged.

Fear was named.

Longing was honored.

A stifled gift began to breathe again.

I felt more able to go forward as a helpful presence in my community.

How might we journey together to the good life by not pushing away self-compassion for our intense emotions, but rather embracing them with kindness, courage, and curiosity so that we can do our best work in the world?

Side note:

Here is poem that is often used to help people be with emotions and times of heart sickness. The author knew may have known nothing about the term "self-compassion," but he clearly gets its value and how to practice it. Our mentor used this poem and many retreat leaders use it. See what it might offer you. It might give you some thoughts about what we humans have been dealing with for many years in all cultures. It is written by the famous Persian poet, Rumi, hundreds of years ago (1200s!).

This being human is a guest house.

Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,

some momentary awareness comes

as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!

Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,

who violently sweep your house

empty of its furniture,

still, treat each guest honorably.

He may be clearing you out

for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the

malice,

meet them at the door laughing,

and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,

because each has been sent

as a guide from beyond.