I am never upset for the reason I think

On freezing, anger, and not finding my voice.

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Two weeks ago, I left an online meeting furious and trembling.

The group leader was absent that night. Another student took the lead, and we listened. And listened and listened. She spoke at length, and towards the end she wove in something from an entirely different context.

Specifically, she asserted that Yin is always busy and moving, and Yang is always static and still—reversing one of the most foundational principles in Chinese cosmology.

Despite my timidity in groups—especially this particular group—I spoke up. Soft-spoken but direct, I said, “Actually, it’s the opposite.”

She responded with complete confidence that I was wrong. She restated her position. I restated mine. She replied, “Oh no—that’s just the body. This is different.”

I felt heat rising in my face, my chest and throat tightening, my thoughts scrambling for anything resembling coherence.

I froze. She continued.

The group went along with her, and within minutes the meeting ended. It was around 1 a.m. my time, and when I logged off, I was shaking.

I tried to sleep, but a few hours later I got up and wrote the message I wish I’d been able to speak—still reactive, still charged—and posted it in the group chat. I mentioned that I’m a doctor of TCM who has studied Yin-Yang in Mandarin.

Part of me wanted that authority to carry weight. I laid out Yin-Yang as carefully as I could in that moment, in the language most fluent to me: writing.

For the sake of transparency, and because clarity around Yin-Yang matters, here’s what I wrote (not complete, not perfect, but accurate):

Even after sending it, I was unsettled. Not just unsettled, but angry—more angry than I’ve been in some time.

And as Lesson 5 of A Course in Miracles says: “I am never upset for the reason I think.”

On the surface, I believed I was angry about being dismissed. About truth itself being dismissed. About what felt like spiritual bypass. About a group dynamic that favored consensus over precision. In the days that followed, my anger intensified as my message sat in the chat unacknowledged and the conversation moved on.

I thought I was angry about all of that. But when I looked more closely, I wasn’t deeply angry about any of it.

The deeper anger was towards myself—for freezing, for not being able to articulate what I knew in the moment, for shrinking when I longed to voice what I knew.

In the lineage I was taught, each organ in Chinese Medicine carries an aspect of Tian 天—Heaven made manifest in a person. The Heart’s expression of Tian is living and speaking what’s in your heart, allowing it to be seen. When the Heart is steady, you can speak from this place without needing approval.

I did embody it in some measure—by speaking up at all, however faltering, and later by articulating myself more clearly in writing. But the gap between what I wanted to say in the moment and what I could access while frozen felt like a chasm.

If I look deeper still, beneath my frustration with my faltering voice, I find something heavier and older.

It has to do with a particular flavor of injustice: telling the truth and not being believed, watching confidence override accuracy, sensing how power—explicit or implied—can set the terms of reality.

There is a moment in that dynamic when the ground drops out. I feel frozen and falling. There’s no purchase. I’m watching it happen from somewhere outside of myself.

My body reads this as danger.

Beneath my anger is fear. And beneath fear, for me at least, there is grief. Grief that has been there as long as I can remember. Grief that doesn’t always have a clear cause. Grief that includes not being truly heard or known by those from whom belonging felt most essential.

I am never upset for the reason I think.

All of this becomes practice. A living edge. A place that won’t be resolved by arguing better next time. Perhaps I will grow into that capacity. But during the recent meeting, that capacity wasn’t available.

What was available is this: noticing. Making space. Going straight into the intensity instead of turning away. Staying long enough for the deeper layers to come into focus.

I don’t have a tidy resolution. What I do have is trust that staying with what arises—including shame, anger, and my own participation in the group dynamic—slowly reshapes who I am and how I move through the world.

In the days since writing that message—and then writing this letter—the tightness around needing the moment resolved has softened.

Not because the student later acknowledged, in plain language, that she had reversed Yin and Yang—she didn’t. In the following meeting and chat, the moment was smoothed over without that simple, direct acknowledgment. When the leader returned, he backed the student’s mistake.

But turning towards what was happening in me began to loosen its grip.

In Chinese Medicine, the Kidneys’ expression of Tian is humility rooted in deep inner knowing. It shows up as quiet strength—a willingness to remain with what’s difficult without posturing or proving. When the Kidneys are strong, you trust your depth enough to keep going. You don’t rush, perform, or inflate yourself. You continue—steady, faithful, resilient.

I am never upset for the reason I think.

I am still practicing. I am still learning to use my voice. I am still learning what lives underneath.

WHAT’S NOURISHING ME

All the sober love. The comments on my sober birthday letter (six years, no booze) and on this note—including from Lena Dunham, whose description of her first sober birthday filled my heart and brought tears to my eyes—were deeply nourishing.

I’m not usually one for celebrating birthdays (age or sober), but I’m so thankful I shared mine this year. The response felt like the best kind of gift and reminded me how grateful I am for the sober community: people who show up courageously and honestly, take accountability, and take care of each other. Thank you. I love you.

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WHAT I’M HUNGRY FOR

Spaces where precision and humility coexist. I’m noticing how much I long for conversations where disagreement and difference don’t destabilize belonging.

I’ve caught a real glimpse of this in my Sati Center cohort for the Certificate of Theravada Buddhist Studies. We’ve only met a couple of times so far (the more intensive portion begins this fall), but the difference I feel in that container is striking. My usual shyness in speaking is still there, but much less so. I can show up as I am. The exchange in the room feels thoughtful, grounded, and present. Even a small taste has left me hungry for more.

I’d love to hear yours.

Part of what excites me about writing these letters is hearing about your lives—what’s supporting you, what you want more of in the days and weeks ahead.

With that in mind, I’d love to hear:

• What’s nourishing your body, mind, spirit?

• What are you hungry for?

• What would it feel like to speak from your heart this week?

If this resonated, a small heart ❤️ helps these letters find their way.

Thank you, with love,
Dana

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We’re currently exploring the organs and the body-mind-spirit patterns they shape.