A WhatsApp discussion among old friends unexpectedly turned into a meditation on politics, friendship, ego, equanimity, and the increasingly difficult task of remaining inwardly peaceful in a noisy world.
I recently came across a Buddhist quote that stopped me mid-scroll:
“Be kind enough to understand others. Be intelligent enough to know not everyone deserves your tolerance.”
Continue to be kind, but know that just because you are kind to the world does not necessarily mean that the world will be kind to you. Be aware, and continue to practice kindness, was the gist of the accompanying explanation.
One friend believed strongly in stepping away from anyone whose values no longer aligned with her own. Another argued for a more practical “agree to disagree” approach in order to preserve relationships and emotional balance. Yet another spoke of maintaining peace—not by shutting the world out entirely, but by cultivating enough inner steadiness to avoid being consumed by it.
As I read through the discussion, I realized I was wrestling with something larger than politics.
How do we stay engaged with the world without letting it completely colonize our inner lives, especially during times when division and outrage seem increasingly unavoidable?
It is a question I have been pondering for some time now.
In recent years, I have watched intelligent, thoughtful people become emotionally saturated by the endless consumption of outrage, fear, and political hostility. Conversations increasingly begin not with curiosity, but with certainty. Disagreement is often treated not as difference, but as moral failure. Human beings are flattened into categories, ideologies, affiliations, and voting blocs.
And yet life itself remains stubbornly more complicated than that.
Old friends still carry memories of our younger selves. We miss them, and our memories together, even if our ideologies and affiliations change. Family members still show up with meals, concern, affection, humor, and history, even when we disagree deeply on certain issues.
People remain capable of generosity and contradiction simultaneously—strange but true. The fact is easier to acknowledge intellectually than to truly accept emotionally. For true acceptance means acknowledging that people—especially those who matter to us—can simultaneously contain shades of what we perceive as good and bad. Imperfectly perfect.
Relationships become layered, messy, and resistant to simplistic conclusions.
Perhaps maturity lies somewhere in learning how to hold both discernment and grace at once.
We cannot neatly separate the parts of people we cherish from the parts that challenge us.
Not every disagreement requires surrender. But perhaps not every disagreement requires exile either.
Interestingly, as the conversation continued, even some of the more absolute positions began softening around the edges.
One friend who initially admitted she routinely cut people out of her life over political differences later paused to wonder whether doing so simply deepened the echo chambers all sides now inhabit. Another reflected that perhaps the first step is temporarily protecting one’s peace, but the deeper work lies in strengthening the mind to the point that disagreement no longer so completely disturbs one’s inner equilibrium.
That distinction stayed with me.
There is wisdom in stepping back when interactions become emotionally corrosive.
But perhaps there is an equally important wisdom in not allowing external turbulence to permanently dictate the condition of one’s inner world.
Equanimity, I am beginning to understand, is not indifference. Nor is it passive acceptance.
Equanimity may simply be the gradual cultivation of enough inner steadiness to remain discerning and compassionate without becoming emotionally captive to every disagreement around us.
As the conversation unfolded, I found myself returning to an idea deeply rooted in Vedantic thought: sakshi bhava—the witness state. The ability to observe without becoming entirely consumed. To engage sincerely, yet maintain enough inner distance to preserve clarity.
It struck me then that this might also explain something else I had only recently come to understand about myself.
After a difficult experience navigating personalities and egos within a spiritual volunteer group, I had stepped away for a while. Yet, I returned to work again recently. For some time, I wondered why. I had initially believed stepping away was strength. Perhaps returning with greater perspective required a different kind of strength altogether.
Now I think I understand.
Perhaps growth is not about finding perfectly harmonious spaces free of ego, conflict, or imperfection. Such places do not exist for long wherever human beings gather. Perhaps the deeper challenge is learning how to participate meaningfully without allowing external turbulence to permanently disturb one’s inner equilibrium.
One friend in the discussion offered a simple metaphor that lingered with me long after the debate itself had faded:
Maintaining inner peace, she said, is like repeatedly flushing soap through a bottle.
Slowly, over time, the bottle becomes cleaner.
Simple wisdom often arrives dressed in ordinary language.
I am beginning to suspect that balance is not something we arrive at once and for all.
Balance is a daily act of recalibration—between engagement and detachment, conviction and humility, boundaries and compassion, realism and hope.
Perhaps that is the work of midlife itself—not withdrawing from an imperfect world,
but learning how to move through it without losing oneself within it.
And perhaps the real question is: how do we remain fully human without becoming emotionally captive to the noise around us?
Meaningfully yours,
Anu Prabhala
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