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“There is a space between the stimulus and the response. It is in this space that we have the power to choose how to respond.” ~ Viktor Frankl
I forgot about that space for a while.
When conflict broke into my life – first with my employer and then with my insurance company – I did not react explosively. I didn’t fire the ill-advised emails.
I did something that seemed much more reasonable.
I built arguments.
I have built up careful, layered explanations. I mapped policy references, contextual details, and logical connections. In my defense, I revealed a complete web of thoughts. If I could make my case airtight, I thought it would be undeniable.
It seemed rational.
But it wasn’t peaceful.
When conflict enters the body
The conflict didn’t just live in my mailbox. He lived in my body.
I woke up trying to argue. After sending them, I reread the messages and look for weaknesses. I even defended myself in silence.
There was tension in my jaw. The low hum of alertness. I feel small within systems that used language more formally than I did.
The fear was there, though I didn’t name it at first.
Fear of misunderstanding. Fear of being fired. I fear that if I leave a loophole in my argument, it will be used against me.
So I tried not to leave a gap.
The instinct to over-explain
As someone trained to think in systems, I instinctively look for structure. If something is wrong, I look at how the pieces connect. I show the framework below the problem.
Under pressure, this instinct intensified.
The more I worried, the more detailed my explanations became. My emails weren’t emotional – they were complicated. Comprehensive. Dense.
And exhausting.
What I slowly began to see was that my need for wholeness was more than just intellectual discipline.
It was anxiety in disguise.
If I covered every angle, I wouldn’t be vulnerable. But covering every angle didn’t reassure me. It kept me spinning.
The power of a break
The shift was not dramatic.
It started with an interruption.
I started creating space before sending certain emails. Sometimes that meant going away for a day. Sometimes this meant looking at my draft through a neutral lens and asking simple questions:
Is that clear? Is this too dense? What kind of result do I really want?
What surprised me wasn’t the feedback.
It was the break itself.
Instead of adding further explanation, I started removing it.
Half of what I wrote was defensible – but unnecessary. I didn’t have to anticipate every counterargument. I didn’t have to prove the whole philosophical basis of fairness.
I had to be precise.
And the precision seemed calmer.
Clarity is stronger than volume
Strength, I began to see, did not come from density.
It comes from clarity.
Not all supporting ideas belong in the email.
It is not necessary to argue every possible objection in advance.
Not every detail needs to be protected.
Clarity sometimes means cutting your argument in half.
This was an uncomfortable feeling at first. He felt like giving up.
But it wasn’t giving up.
It was refinement.
When I shortened my answers, something else shortened as well—my rumination. My body softened. The inner meeting room grew quieter and quieter.
The clarity reduced the emotional charge.
How to defend yourself without escalation
If you overexplain yourself in moments of conflict, the following have helped me:
Write the full version privately first. Tell me everything. Build the entire fort if necessary.
Then step away.
When you return, ask yourself:
- What specific result do I want?
- Which sentences directly support this result?
- Which sentences are trying to prove that I am right?
Cut what you’re trying to prove. Keep what you’re trying to solve.
Replace abstract statements with clear requests. Instead of “That’s unfair”, try “I want X by Y date”.
Notice how your body feels when you read the shorter version.
You often feel more stable.
And persistence is power.
Choosing dignity over fear
Eventually, the conflicts were resolved. Not dramatically. Not perfectly. But enough.
What remains with me is not the result.
It was who I became.
It is less reactive. Overbuilding is less complicated. You are less afraid that purity requires full coverage.
I learned something that was never taught:
Advocacy does not require agitation.
It requires presence.
You don’t have to overpower someone to stand your ground.
You don’t have to sacrifice your peace to protect your rights.
Fear tries to cover every angle. Dignity lies in a clean position.
When I shifted from building intellectual fortresses to being comfortable with what I needed, everything changed—not necessarily the system, but me.
And that was enough.
If you’re facing something similar right now—an email you dread sending, a situation where you feel unheard—try to create space before you respond.
Plan it. Don’t send it. Come back with calmer eyes.
Choose clarity over coverage. Choose persistence over urgency.
You can stand up for yourself without losing your peace.
I didn’t want to learn that lesson.
But I’m thankful I did.
If sharing this helps even one person feel less alone in the uncomfortable space between self-preservation and self-preservation, then the tension I experienced was not wasted. That’s my hope.
About Tony Collins
Edward “Tony” Collins, EdD, MFA, is a documentary filmmaker, author, educator, and advocate for people with disabilities living with progressive vision loss due to macular degeneration. His works explore presence, care, flexibility and the quiet power of small moments. She currently writes books on creative scholarship and collaborative documentary filmmaking, and shares personal essays on meaning, hope, and disability on Substack. Connection: substack.com/@iefilm | iefilm.com
