Hi Everyone

Last night, I read a passage in Fredrik Backman’s novel My Friends:

“When they were teenagers, the artist never wanted to show anyone anything that wasn’t finished. Art is a nakedness—you have to be free to decide when you’re comfortable with it, and with whom…
It’s just that until I show a drawing to someone, it’s only mine. You know? It isn’t too late to fix it. I’m not good at drawing, I’m slow. People who are good at drawing are just good… all the time. Their worst drawings are still great. If you saw my worst drawings, you’d realize I’m actually just a fraud. But… before the drawing is finished, it isn’t too late. That’s the only time I… like myself.”

Reading those words, I felt they held a truth that speaks to the question: What if my authentic self is someone I don’t like?

The unfinished drawing symbolizes a space of safety and possibility. Before it’s shared, it belongs solely to the artist—unjudged, unexposed, and to her mind still redeemable. This reflects how we often feel safest in our unexpressed selves, fearing that exposure will confirm our inadequacy…

In the story, none of the friends claim to like themselves very much. Yet they are able to love each other fiercely and freely. It seems that the selves they dislike are not their true selves, but roles, labels, and measures most of which have been projected onto them. No wonder they struggle with self-acceptance when they begin to identify with these imposed definitions.

To me, this suggests that the authentic self is something beyond such measures, and instead point to a Self that loves freely… A something that can only be lived, not grasped and measured.

Here’s another quote from the book that I think speaks universally to how we come to dislike ourselves and a way out:

“The janitor had had the truth revealed to him by his mom when he was little:
“All children are born with wings,” she had whispered. “It’s just that the world is full of people who try to tear them off. Unfortunately, they succeed with almost everyone, sooner or later. Only a few children escape. But those children? They rise up to the skies!”
The janitor had grown up feeling lost and different, rejected at school, never normal like other children. But his mom always reminded him:
“You feel strange because you still have your wings, rubbing beneath your skin. You think you’re alone, but there are others like you, people who stand in front of white walls and blank paper and only see magical things. One day, one of them will recognize you and call out: ‘You’re one of us!’”

The novel is, I think, about the quiet ache in the fear that our authentic self might be someone we don’t like. It seems to me that our fear arises not from truth, but from confusion mistaking the roles and labels we’ve been given for who we truly are. Backman’s story reminds us that the self we often reject is not the one born free, but the one shaped by judgment and comparison.

And yet, even in that confusion, love persists. The characters love each other not because they are perfect, but because they see through the masks to something deeper. That deeper self, the one with wings still rubbing beneath the skin, is not defined by talent or success. It is the part of us that still sees magic in blank paper, from which all things might arise and return. The authentic Self being the Self that “sees” deeper.

I feel that to live from that place is to live from love that flows freely when we stop trying to fix ourselves and start recognizing the beauty that was never lost…

Than maybe the real miracle when we begin to see with those eyes is that we discover that everyone is ‘one of us’. Everyone is born with wings. Some are just harder to see, hidden beneath years of forgetting. That when we remember our own, we help others remember theirs. At that point, I wonder if the question of authenticity might not just fad away?

I think your on the track worth exploring Silvery Blue.

The following is a break down of a paper from Arao and Clemens (2013) – From Safe Spaces to Brave Spaces – which I found helpful

The idea of safe spaces and trigger warnings is relatively new, emerging alongside digital communities and campus conversations about inclusion. At their core, these concepts were meant to create environments where people, especially those from marginalized groups, could feel protected from hostility and harm. Over time, though, the meaning shifted. Safe spaces often became associated with comfort, focusing on external protection rather than helping people build inner resilience. Ironically, this sometimes made participants feel less safe to speak honestly, worried that disagreement might be seen as harm.

Trigger warnings added another layer of complexity. While they were designed to give people space to prepare for difficult content, the responsibility for managing emotional triggers often shifted almost entirely to the community. This created an expectation that environments should be completely free of discomfort. Yet when someone discovers they are easily triggered, part of the work is internal learning how to recognize and gradually disarm those triggers, rather than relying solely on external control. This balance between communal care and personal resilience being essential for growth.

That’s why the concept of brave spaces has gained attention. Instead of promising total safety, brave spaces acknowledge that real conversations, especially about identity, justice, and difference will involve discomfort. The goal isn’t to eliminate risk but to create a culture of respect where people can speak honestly, listen deeply, and stay engaged even when it’s hard. It’s about courage and care, not comfort at all costs.

I’m encouraged that many in the therapeutic and educational fields have recognized these challenges and are working to restore balance emphasizing both compassion and resilience as essential for healthy dialogue.

I like to think it’s possible to create spaces that balance care with candor, where people feel supported without avoiding the hard conversations that help us grow.

Hi silvery blue
“I just sometimes wish that others who come into conflict with me would think of me that way, too… Sometimes I feel like I’m trying my best and I’m all alone.”

I’ve felt that same loneliness

It is funny-sad, isn’t it? In an age overflowing with tools for communication we often find ourselves more fragmented, misunderstood, and lonely than ever. More “connected” than any generation before us, yet deep connection feels rarer. We have endless ways to express ourselves, yet language feels more fragile, more easily misread.

We seek safe spaces, yet risk losing the courage to engage bravely… and for that I have no answer.

Hi Everyone

The topic of compassion and conflict is one I’ve returned to more than once, and I suspect I’m repeating some of what I’ve tried to say before. To be honest, I wasn’t sure I should re-engage with it. But last night, an old song came to mind “This Little Light of Mine.” It came out of nowhere. Maybe that’s the invitation to let the light shine, even when the path feels uncertain.

What follows is a reflection I’ve been sitting with, shaped by past readings, metaphors, and personal experience. I offer it with humility, knowing it may be misunderstood, but hoping it might resonate with someone else navigating the tension between healing and being heard.

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In a space like Tiny Buddha, where many come to share personal trauma and seek healing, the importance of compassion and respect cannot be overstated. Yet, the very nature of online forums, limited to words alone, adds complexity. Tone, intention, and nuance are easily lost, and what was meant as support can sometimes feel like confrontation.

I believe that anyone posting here is hoping to be seen, heard, and perhaps helped. But it’s not always clear what kind of help they’re seeking. Some may want advice, others simply a witness. For those truly seeking healing, I’ve come to believe that tension is inevitable, because healing often requires being pushed, even triggered which I picture as a metaphorical ‘slap’ of the Zen master. 😊

I wonder: without that tension, can we truly be seen? In ballroom dancing, if the connection doesn’t hold tension, there is no dance. The movement collapses. The same might be true of dialogue.

Still, like a dance, this is a delicate balance. When the past is alive in the present, triggering can feel like re-traumatization. Forgiveness, in such cases, may feel like vulnerability to further harm. Under these conditions, honest engagement becomes a tightrope walk where even well-intentioned responses can and will trip over boundaries often invisible.

I’m not sure what the answer is, other than cultivating a space of grace. Even now, I hesitate to post these thoughts, suspecting they may be misunderstood or felt as aggressive. But perhaps grace begins with the willingness to risk being misunderstood, in service of something deeper?

I’ve wrestled with these questions for years, and one resource that gave me hope was the book Crucial Conversations, followed by Crucial Confrontations. These books explore how to stay present and respectful during high-stakes, emotionally charged dialogue. What stood out most to me was the idea of “mastering one’s story,” learning to recognize and reshape the narratives we tell ourselves before we speak.

But I’ve learned that mastering one’s story isn’t a quick fix. It’s shadow work. It means facing the parts of ourselves we’d rather avoid, the good, the bad, and the ugly. And that process, too, can be triggering. Yet without it, I don’t know how we can engage honestly or compassionately, especially in conflict.

Is it paradox, irony, or something else that one might reach out to a site like Tiny Buddha while in the midst of mastering their story or doing shadow work? To seek clarity in a space where misunderstanding is likely? Perhaps it’s a kind of spiritual risk, a willingness to be seen in the messy middle, not just the polished end.

A surprising source of insight for me has been the show ‘Cesar Millan: Better Human, Better Dog’. While it’s framed around dog training, what often unfolds is a deeper emotional journey, one where the dog’s behavior reflects the energy and unresolved trauma of the human. In many episodes, the “pet parent” must confront their own fears, grief, or past wounds to help their dog. And sometimes, it’s the dog that leads the way not by intention, but by mirroring what needs attention.

The dog’s past trauma is often soothed by the calm confidence of the pet parent. Both grow. The pet parent learns to be still, to regulate their energy, and the dog learns to trust. Growth emerges from this tense, honest engagement where healing is not forced but invited through presence and attunement.

I often imagine my ego, or perhaps my id, as a dog responding to energies I’m unconsciously projecting. When I’m anxious, it barks. When I’m avoidant, it hides. When I’m reactive, it lunges. And just like Cesar’s approach, the work isn’t about suppressing the dog, it’s about understanding the energy behind the behavior.

This metaphor helps me see that compassion and respect, especially in conflict, aren’t just about how we treat others, they’re also about how we relate to the parts of ourselves we’d rather not face. And maybe that’s why forums like Tiny Buddha matter. They offer a space where we can begin to notice our own projections, and if we’re lucky, learn to hold them with grace.

I’m curious if others resonate with this metaphor or hearing about any sources or practices that have helped you engage with tension, healing, or shadow work, especially in online spaces like this one? I’d love to hear what’s supported you.