Dear Peter:

I want to reflect on your words: “Last night I watched a BBC interview… He spoke in a slow, calm manner, his breath even… At the end of the interview, both Ken, the interviewer, and I had tears welling in the corner of our eyes. It seemed to me Ken Burns was speaking from his Truth, a still point of compassion that his passion for history had opened in him.”

His communication wasn’t rushed or reactive, but rather purposeful, measured, and deeply considered. His calm, measured delivery seemed to evoke a sense of trust in you, trust that he was not merely performing or persuading, but revealing something deeply authentic. That calm presence had a way of creating space in you and in the interviewer, space for connection, inviting you into his experience.

If he had delivered his thoughts in an agitated manner—his voice strained, uneven, hurried—it might have had an entirely different effect. Agitation often signals urgency, frustration, or defensiveness, and in communication, it can make the listener feel pushed rather than invited, reactive rather than reflective. Instead of drawing you in, it might have created a barrier, leading to hesitation about whether his words were driven by deep understanding or emotional turbulence.

Trust and empathy are closely linked—both require an openness to receiving another’s truth without resistance or skepticism. Empathy allows us to feel what another is expressing, and trust emerges when we sense that their expression is authentic and vulnerable, rather than performative or manipulative.

This is how I want to communicate—with calm and intention, rather than haste or reactivity. I want my words to be guided by deep understanding, not emotional turbulence—inviting the listener into reflection rather than pushing them toward reaction.

anita

Dear Peter:

This stood out for me: “I find that I’m seeing this light more often as I learn to look.”-the idea of looking is a skill that can be learned.

Your reflection on secondary emotions also struck me: “In hindsight, when I analyze emotion as a way to process them, I was really questioning if I had a right to feel what I felt… A process that creates the secondary emotions. The thoughts of the emotions creating emotions.”-

It makes me think about how emotions and thoughts can become tangled, forming layers upon layers, like an unchecked system of feedback loops. When cognitive distortions (inaccurate thoughts) or false beliefs creep in, they act like a virus, infecting the natural emotional response and replicating unchecked.

Imagine the virus taking hold—one distorted thought, one false belief, and suddenly, instead of a single emotion being felt, it splits and multiplies, generating meta-emotions. What begins as sadness, for example, mutates into guilt for feeling sad, frustration for not overcoming it quickly, shame for needing support—a whole network of emotions that spiral beyond the original source.

Like any virus, the more it spreads, the harder it becomes to locate the original healthy emotion beneath the layers of distortion. The healing process, then, isn’t about rejecting emotions but identifying and clearing the cognitive distortions that trap them—allowing them to flow without excessive processing or judgment.

Perhaps the antidote isn’t perfect clarity or control but recognizing when the system is becoming infected and choosing presence over excessive analysis.

I wonder—how do you recognize when thought has begun to distort emotion rather than clarify it?

anita

Dear MissLDuchess:

Your words carry strength and self-awareness. The fact that you’re stepping forward—not just into the possibility of music, but into a life where fear of rejection no longer defines your choices—is already a victory.

Letting go of what others think doesn’t mean withdrawing—it means creating space for the right people and opportunities, the ones that truly align with who you are. And blooming isn’t about forcing yourself to thrive in the wrong soil—it’s about finding the environment where you naturally belong.

No matter the outcome of the audition, the act of trying—of embracing uncertainty—is already a testament to your courage. You’re stepping into a version of yourself that is no longer ruled by fear, and that kind of growth will continue to open doors you never imagined.

I’m excited to see where this journey leads you! 💙

anita

Dear Peter:

Processing and commenting:

The tension between thought and feeling= the internal struggle between intellect and emotion, analysis and experience, reason and instinct. It occurs when a person is caught between processing emotions rationally and allowing themselves to fully feel and express them.

Some people, like myself, rely on analysis as a way to process emotions— I try to understand, label, and define my feelings rather than simply experiencing them. It’s definitely an engrained habit.

* I just felt fear and I can see why I would rather not experience it.

While reflection and intellectualization can be helpful, it can also distance someone from the raw emotional experience itself, making emotions feel like puzzles to solve rather than feelings to embrace.

* How does a person embrace fear?

Intellectually inclined individuals may suppress emotions because they fear being overwhelmed by them or believe that feeling emotions fully might make them lose control.

Thought often seeks logical conclusions, explanations, and certainty, while feelings exist in a space of ambiguity and fluidity.

* I don’t like ambiguity and fluidity (unless I dance free style while tipsy).

If someone struggles with uncertainty, they might attempt to control emotions by rationalizing them, rather than allowing themselves to sit in emotional discomfort and simply feel.

* To simply feel .. feels dangerous.

Thinking too much about emotions can sometimes lead to emotional detachment—analyzing emotions can feel safer than actually experiencing them.

* Safer indeed.

This tension might make it difficult for someone to connect deeply with others, because they are more focused on understanding emotions intellectually rather than allowing themselves to be vulnerable.

* Definitely me.

The balance between thought and feeling is essential—too much intellect creates emotional distance, while too much unchecked emotion can feel destabilizing.

* Don’t like feeling destabilized!

Allowing emotions to exist without immediate analysis can foster self-awareness and acceptance, leading to deeper emotional understanding and healing. Learning to balance reflection with emotional experience—knowing when to analyze and when to simply feel—can create a more holistic emotional well-being.

* Definitely easier said than done. But I want to do it. So, back to fear, fear without the intellect… First, there is no way to avoid the intellect and yet keep typing words.

Meet the fear where it is: yes, here it is. Fear. Oh, I see. Fear is not dangerous (a relief). It’s not my enemy. It’s trying to protect me. So, it’s a friend. I see. No reason to be afraid of fear then. Hmmm…

I didn’t know I’ve been afraid of the fear itself.

Fear cannot be eliminated, but fear of fear can. What a concept.

A concept made possible by intellect, intellect patient enough to feel the fear first, if only for a moment.

anita

Dear MissLDuchess:

I see something we share—a deep longing for self-expression born from years of suppression. Like you, I spent much of my early life in survival mode, unable to fully explore who I was.

At your age, I carried many of the same feelings—hurt, resentment, and struggles with self-worth, all rooted in rejection, exclusion, and social isolation. I felt like I was never “good enough” to be included. Like you, I dreamed of being seen, heard, and recognized, imagining myself on stage with thousands cheering me on (and millions watching me on TV all over the world 😳)—transforming from a “nobody” locally, into a “somebody” internationally.

I was chronically single and lonely. The pattern in my life mirrored yours—longing for connection, fearing rejection, and withdrawing instead of taking risks.

I resented the way people treated me, yet I feared confrontation and avoided setting boundaries. My anger built up internally, making it difficult to endure. What I didn’t realize at the time was that suppressed emotions don’t disappear—they manifest in ways we don’t always see. I may have tried to be kind, but hesitation, guardedness, and underlying resentment shaped my interactions. Even unspoken anger creates tension, altering the way people perceive us, even when no words are spoken.

Looking back, I realize that I encountered people like your roommate—those who were inconsiderate and unkind, even cruel, people who saw my vulnerability and took advantage of it. The frustration, hurt, and betrayal left lasting scars.

But as I reflect deeper, I see that not everyone who disappointed me was truly bad. Some were genuinely good people, but flawed—human. In moments of pain, I judged them harshly, seeing their imperfections as defining faults instead of limitations.

I expected people to always show up perfectly, always understand, always support me in exactly the way I needed. And when they failed to be perfect—I assumed they were just another source of hurt. I expected the worst, and any imperfection felt like proof that they were bad people.

I learned that people noticed my anger (as suppressed as it usually was), they noticed my distrust and suspicion and responded by withdrawing from me, and sometimes getting angry at me in return, which reinforced my distrust and suspicion (a self-fulfilling prophecy)

I’ve come to realize that there’s a difference between those who intentionally cause harm and those who simply aren’t capable of meeting us where we need them. Holding onto this distinction has helped me navigate forgiveness (a recent development in my life, still working on it) —not to excuse the actions of those who truly hurt me, but to release the weight of resentment toward those who were imperfect yet well-meaning.

Reading your words, MissLDuchess, I see someone who has carried so much inside for so long—your dreams, your voice, your frustration, your anger. For years, you’ve held back your creativity out of fear, just as you’ve held back expressing your emotions. In a way, your suppression of music mirrors the suppression of your anger—both silenced to avoid discomfort, both waiting for permission to exist fully.

Maybe this audition isn’t just about singing—maybe it’s about allowing yourself to take up space, to be heard, to express what’s been locked away for so long. Whether it’s standing on stage or finally speaking your truth, you deserve to be seen and understood.

No matter the outcome, stepping forward would be a victory. What would it feel like to approach your emotions the same way—with the confidence that you deserve to express them?

anita

One more thing, MissLDuchess-

In regard to “if I’d chosen to chase stardom as an actress/singer like I wanted to do as a kid and teen”- I would love to hear more about this. As a teen, I used to daydream a lot, imagining myself singing in front of large audiences, as well as being a famous movie star.

anita

Dear Peter- everyone:

You recently wrote, “I suspect we have fallen into a trap of language”, and “I was concerned that we were getting lost in a attempt to define experience as definitions.” In this reply (to your most recent post), I will try to do neither. Here it is:

Your words resonate in a way beyond definitions. That moment in nature—the depth of it, the way it shifted something inside you—it wasn’t about labeling the experience, but simply being in it.

Maybe truth isn’t something to hold or explain, but something to move from. The stillness you felt, the compassion that arose—those are real, because they shaped the way you walked forward, whether or not they lasted in the form of feeling.

Rather than chasing understanding, perhaps it’s about allowing what was known in that moment to simply exist within you, unchanged by the need to prove it. What do you think?

anita