Reading · The Less Triggered Tribe

The family trip was our son Quinn’s graduation gift, not to mention his send-off to college. In other words, we were bringing more than luggage to the airport—we were bringing emotional baggage, too. We wanted the experience to be special, and a chaotic airport terminal didn’t feel special at all.

So, what do you do?

Years ago, that was a complicated question for me, and my mind would offer countless answers, each one more anxious, angry, or sullen than the one before it. These days, the answer is singular and simple: You open your heart to it. Instead of protesting against it, you find a way to participate with it. You just roll with it, baby, as Steve Winwood once sang.

Of course, this is easier sung than done.

You’ll reflexively push back, every single time.

Muscles in your core and arms will engage. You’ll lean forward with all your weight. You’ll instinctively resist the pressure being placed on you. And maybe that’s the right thing to do.

But also, maybe it’s not.

You see, if you automatically push back against the force being applied, then your actions are being dictated by the force. You’re not acting, you’re re-acting. If you fight the force, you can’t be free of the force.

This is what happens when your heart closes.

Life pushes on you and you instinctively push back. You can feel the pushback in your body at first. Sometimes it’s almost imperceptible, like a pilot light whooshing on in a furnace.

A small pit in your stomach.
A congealing of something beneath your sternum.
A fullness in your chest.
A pulse in your temple.

But it’s more than just physical. It’s spiritual, too. When your heart closes, there’s an ever so subtle quickening and thickening of your whole being. Your soul is armoring up. Your spirit is shutting down.

What feels strong at first, then, leaves us weaker at last.

However, after years of openheartedness practice, I found it relatively easy to open back up.

“It is what it is,” I thought, feeling not frustrated but free. “We’ll depart when we depart. We’ll arrive when we arrive. And we’ll figure out how to have fun along the way.” I didn’t push back on it.

I rolled with it, baby.

On day one, he picked up a sunburn that would keep him off the beach for several days. No problem, though, because we had adventures planned. Quinn rallied. He opened his heart.

On the second morning, he’d be watching the sunrise from the top of a volcano. Except the clouds were especially high that morning so the mountaintop was enshrouded in dense fog. No sunrise to be seen. Strike two. Quinn rallied again. He opened his heart.

On the third morning, we were halfway to our snorkeling expedition when we got the call: a swell was making the waters too murky to see anything. The expedition was cancelled. Strike three. And Quinn was out.

His heart closed fiercely.

The whole trip had been “tainted” by his sunburn, he said. Mother Nature had made the vacation a “disappointment.” He announced he was tapping out for the day. Told us to go to the beach without him. Pulled out his phone. Started scrolling. Algorithmic anesthesia.

I did not roll with that, baby.

My heart closed to his closing. I felt more than just a pilot light in my gut. The furnace threatened to blow full blast. My temples didn’t just pulse. They pounded. I wanted to push back fiercely, too.

It’s so, so, hard to stay openhearted when you’re in pain.

Fortunately, my years of practice allowed me to get a foot in the door of my closing heart. It was mostly closed. And yet still a little open.

The closed part of my heart was willing to use any weapon to push back on the situation. It wanted to tell Quinn he was selfish for looking this gift horse in the mouth. It wanted to pep him up with a cheerleading routine about how none of this was as bad as he was making it out to be. It wanted to coach him and cajole him, mentor him and mold him.

The open part of my heart, on the other hand, could see how that would just make the situation worse. It could see that Quinn was in pain. It could see that he didn’t want to tap out. It could see the opening of his heart was his work to do, not mine. However, it also had something it wanted to say, so it asked permission of Quinn to say it.

Quinn said yes.

“One of the most important things I’ve learned over the years,” I said, “is the difference between pain and suffering. Pain is inevitable. It’s just part of being human. Suffering is all the unnecessary hurt we create by resisting the pain. By fighting it. Closing to it.”

He’d stopped scrolling.

“For example,” I continued, “seeing you in pain triggers my own pain. It hurts when someone you love is hurting. But I’ll create exponentially more suffering if I try to force you out of your pain. So all I can do is feel my pain and let you decide what to do with yours.”

His response sounded something like, “Hmph.”

I left to join the rest of the family at the beach. I wasn’t feeling happy, but my heart was all the way open again. So I was feeling free.

An hour later, we were sitting in the sand when my wife got a text from Quinn.

She read it. Smiled. Looked up.

“He wants to go for a hike with me this afternoon.”

I smiled back.

Because Quinn, too, had gotten free.

When life doesn't go according to plan, what's your first instinct: run from it, fight it, fix it, or roll with it? Let us know in the comments—and feel free to leave any other reactions as well!

Just Roll With It, Baby

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