Sadnesss about the person I used to be

Lately, I’ve been surprised by moments of sadness that show up when absolutely nothing is wrong. I can be making my morning tea or looking out the window at the river going by and feeling completely at peace. And then, without warning, I find that my breath is shallow, my shoulders are up around my ears, and I feel like I could cry.

Most often, I’ll realize that the feeling is connected to a simple question that can only pop up when things are actually going well:

“Why did I make things so hard for so long? Why didn’t I figure this out sooner? Why didn’t I give myself a chance earlier in my life to find the peace I’m feeling now?”

What I’m feeling isn’t really regret about a particular mistake, relationship, or missed opportunity. It’s a specific kind of sadness about the person I used to be and what that person cost me.

Not every problem needs solving. Not every diffcult person needs managing

For decades, I felt like I moved through the world confidently — that is until I started to get old enough to pay thoughtful attention to my life. I hit a point where I would most often describe myself as someone who was always busy or always tired. Over time, in an effort to protect my energy, I started to mute anything about myself that wasn’t connected to some kind of duty. I cared deeply about my work, other people, and the world around me, but somewhere along the way, I also became convinced that every problem needed solving, every difficult person needed managing, and every unfair system needed fighting.

And I suffered under the misguided assumption that I was the one to do it, which may be part of what made it so hard to recognize. I thought my exhaustion was evidence that I was doing important work and I worried that if I didn’t control everything, chaos would come.

Then, when I found a Stoic practice and started reflecting more on what was really mine to control, it could have been liberating — but not at first. It made me grieve and, frankly, it made me angry. Because once you learn to stop and ask, “Is this problem actually mine to solve?” the simplicity of the question is almost infuriating. And I remember thinking to myself, “Seriously? I could have made this shift this all along!?”

I thought about the nights I spent awake rehearsing conversations that never happened, the arguments I prepared for, the motives I assigned to people, and the problems I tried to solve before they were even problems. And I saw it as so much unnecessary time.

And it’s OK to be sad about that. I can sit with sadness, examine my judgments without becoming preoccupied with externals, and eventually find my way toward peace and forgiveness. But that sadness can become a trap if I use what I know now as another reason to criticize the person I was then. I’d rather be grateful that I was able to learn something different than to be upset that it took me so long.

Not pretending difficult things are not difficult

Thankfully, Stoicism has helped me understand that living with less suffering doesn’t require pretending difficult things aren’t difficult or becoming indifferent or detached. For me, it has become an opportunity to get much more precise about what belongs to me and what doesn’t.

I still forget this, of course. A plan falls apart or someone behaves badly, and I can still feel that familiar tightening in my chest — the old instinct to grab hold of the situation and start wrestling. And reality certainly does not owe me cooperation.

But now, I do my best to catch myself and simply say, “This is what is happening.”

Not fighting the battles that are not mine to fight

I can’t get back the years I spent fighting things that were never mine to fight, but I don’t have to turn that sadness into another fight with a person who no longer exists, or with a person who has yet to be. I’m finally getting better at knowing the difference between what belongs to me and what doesn’t and to letting the sadness come, acknowledge it, and then move through me.

And that means more space to have a life — and a good life.

Andi Sciacca is a writer, mentor, and educator. She is also Co-Founder of The Stoic Heart®

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