Choices have consequences. Seems obvious, right? Choose well and we get to enjoy the positive consequences. Choose poorly and we usually suffer the negative consequences. Often the consequences—good or bad—teach us lessons or reinforce what we already believe. Generally, when we accept the consequences as natural results of our choices, accept responsibility for them, learn what we need, and move on, we can feel remarkably at peace about even some of our seemingly poorest choices. What I often see in my practice are the ways in which people get stuck in a place of judgment, often punishing themselves above and beyond the natural consequences of their choices.

I see this dynamic play out regularly. There’s a cycle of choice-consequence-judgment that perpetuates unhealthy beliefs and attitudes. For example, I had a client share with me a story about a dinner out with a friend. The friend wanted to order a particular dish to share, but my client knew that this particular dish, while delicious, would probably make her feel sluggish and headachy in the morning. She was torn. On one hand, she wanted to be accommodating, and the dish sounded really good. On the other, she wanted to take care of herself. She ordered the dish.

In the morning, as predicted, she felt sluggish and headachy. That could have been the end of the story. She knew what consequences that choice would bring, weighed them against the pros of ordering something that would taste good in the moment, choosing something that could be shared with her friend, and avoiding feeling like she was “difficult”—something that doesn’t feel good to her. She made her choice; she suffered the consequences. Done. Except it wasn’t. To all of that physically icky feeling, she then added a layer of judgment. These thoughts included, “I’m weak-willed. I can’t believe I did that. What’s wrong with me that I can’t make better choices? I’m a terrible person. I will never learn/get better/make good choices.” She came to see me feeling lousy both physically and emotionally.

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This is but one example of many I see on a daily basis. People who make ostensibly poor choices kick themselves when they’re already down. It is not fun for them. It’s demoralizing. More importantly, it is unnecessary.

The truth is we all make poor choices sometimes. We do things we know aren’t great for us. We know that the consequences aren’t likely to be great. We may have very compelling reasons for making those choices. We might not—we might just do/say/eat something simply because we want to. As long as these activities don’t threaten significant permanent physical or emotional damage to ourselves or those around us, those choices truly are ours to make. If we own those choices, if we are deliberate about choosing and accepting the consequences, there is no need for the shame that comes with self-judgment.

So why do we do it?

A few months ago, I wrote a piece on “should” and how it contributes to anxiety. The should messages we tell ourselves generate feelings of dissatisfaction and, often, self-recrimination. Somehow we are not meeting the expectations we or others have set for ourselves. The choice-consequence-judgment cycle fits into this model. We feel we “should” know better somehow. We should always make the “right” choices. We are not able to simply accept that sometimes we make choices that don’t work so well for us. We are not able to see the value in making mistakes or the opportunities to learn from negative consequences. Somehow we’ve internalized the message that we must be right/perfect/good all of the time—even when we are trying something for the first time. Not being right/perfect/good somehow means that we are less than, are weak, are failures. Making poor choices feels like the end of the world. We create meaning to explain those choices—repeating messages we’ve heard or created along the way (I am lazy, I am weak, I’m irresponsible …). We spend a lot of time looking for excuses for those choices, sometimes putting the blame and responsibility outside of ourselves because blaming others feels more palatable than blaming ourselves. When we do blame ourselves, we look for defaults in our characters to explain why we chose the way we did.

Fortunately, we don’t have to do this. There is something tremendously empowering about owning our choices and accepting the consequences. If we weigh the pros and cons of our choices, understand the potential consequences, and accept what comes, we are the agents of our own lives. If we view our choices as intentional actions, expressions of want, not something we passively stumbled into, or worse—attempted to avoid, but were overpowered by—we no longer cast ourselves as victims, helpless in the face of overwhelming pressures. We learn that, next time, we can make a different choice, or even the same choice, for that matter. We learn we have the power to change. We allow ourselves to move forward and on to the next opportunity to choose.

Tara Brach, PhD, clinical psychologist and peace activist, is one of the most widely respected teachers of Buddhist meditation and spiritual awakening. Her teachings, which blend Western psychology with Eastern spiritual practices, focus on careful attention to inner life and compassionate engagement with the world. The result is a distinctive voice in Western Buddhism that encourages people to mindfully approach freedom from suffering as individuals and societies.

The founder and senior teacher of the Insight Meditation Community of Washington DC, Tara focuses on bringing practices of mindfulness to prisons and schools as well as issues of diversity, peace, and environmental sustainability. Tara teaches Buddhist meditation at several centers in the US and Canada, including Spirit Rock Meditation Center in California, the Kripalu Center, and the Omega Institute for Holistic Studies. She also helped create the Washington Buddhist Peace Fellowship. In addition to numerous articles, videos, and recorded talks, Tara is the author of the books Radical Acceptance, published in 2003 and True Refuge: Finding Peace and Freedom in Your Own Awakened Heart.

In an exclusive interview with CEO and founder of GoodTherapy.org, Noah Rubinstein, marriage and family therapist, Tara shares her inspiration for Radical Acceptance and True Refuge and discusses how Buddhist teachings have helped her as both an individual and mental health professional. [fat_widget_right]

For your new book, why the title True Refuge? [W]ho did you have in mind when you wrote it?

I love the language of True Refuge because it feels like this reality that each of us has this longing to be at home in our bodies, our hearts, with each other, and in the world. We’re seeking that sense of belonging. We come into this world, and there’s a lot of uncertainty. I think about William James, who wrote that every religion starts with the cry “help.” [O]n some level, we get we’re mortal, so something in us wants to find some way to be at peace. True Refuge refers to that experience where we’re not holding on to substitutes or numbing ourselves, we’re entering reality in a way that allows us to truly find a sense of harmony.

You were talking about different cries for help that cause people to look for refuge, and I think people would be interested to know what your cry for help was, how that brought you to this work, and influenced your awareness and growth.

Well, the cry for help that got me to write Radical Acceptance was this realization. I had it when I was camping with an older, wiser friend. But my friend said, “You know, I’ve learned to be my own best friend,” and I realized I was the furthest thing from that—I was at war with myself. I have discovered it’s probably the most pervasive suffering we Westerners have, sensing something’s wrong with us. That in some way we’re deficient. And writing Radical Acceptance was from what I was learning working with myself and others about how to trust our basic goodness, and stop being at war with the natural ways our egos express themselves.

The second was not long ago, when I got diagnosed with a genetic disorder that affects mobility and connective tissue. I went from being athletic and loving being outside, to not being able to swim anymore, to run, walk up inclines. I particularly remember one incident, when friends and family went to the beach without me because I couldn’t walk on sand, and it was one moment where I could feel the loss of everything I was loving, and there was that cry “Help, may I love this life no matter what? May I find refuge that can allow me to be with this world no matter what happens?” And that was the beginning of True Refuge, finding my way to a sense of being that is timeless, that doesn’t depend on being able to swim in the ocean.

True Refuge refers to that experience where we’re not holding on to substitutes or numbing ourselves, we’re entering reality in a way that allows us to truly find a sense of harmony.

I appreciate you telling that story about losing your mobility. I love that you walked away from this wanting to love life no matter what. [W]hen you talk about the heartache and loss people go through, how can anyone in those situations love their life no matter what? Is there a way to sum up how you do that?

I want to deepen the word “love.” The feeling is not joyful celebration in the beauty of life in that moment. It could be a feeling of the most profound heartbreaking compassion, like holding with infinite tenderness the pain and grief that’s here. [L]oving life no matter what doesn’t mean we don’t truly grieve. It means we stay open to that grieving process, and in that openness, we sense something timeless.

That’s what True Refuge is. It’s beyond our ego self, beyond the emotions. It’s that space of awakeness, tenderness, and openness that might be described as spirit. But the truth is, we lose everything, and we know that. We can celebrate the mystery that’s here, without having it stay the same in a way that keeps us secure.

I guess this makes me wonder how some of these issues are addressed in True Refuge.

[W]e all have different versions of feeling disconnected. And some people feel disconnection because their bodies are sick, there’s a sense of losing connection with living. And for some, the sense of what’s going on has to do with depression or anxiety, feeling disconnected because they’re caught in fear. So, how do we come back to a sense of connection?

[T]he book offers what I call “perennial teachings,” which you find in spiritual traditions that have to do with “Who are we really?” [H]ow do we go beyond that sense of a deficient self and realize more of that love and awareness that expresses our wholeness? And the book has three gateways to a feeling of wholeness, and they each include contemplative practices that help wake us up. And one of them I call “truth,” the gateway of presence, that we learn how to contact the present moment. [T]he second archetypal gateway is love, that we discover what allows us to feel loving connection with each other and our own aliveness. And the third gateway is awareness, which is formless, pure consciousness. It’s always here, but we get so caught in our plans and worries, we forget the stillness that’s aware of sensation. So, these three gateways have different trainings that help us wake up to them. They’re completely interdependent and very practical.

[I]n chapter one of Radical Acceptance, you describe your ambition to become wiser and free, and how when you would ask your teacher, “What else can I do?” it would lead to your teacher telling you to relax. And it makes sense that giving up on becoming enlightened can lead to enlightenment, but how does one become spiritually enlightened without trying?

I love that question because in spiritual communities, one of the deepest inquiries is “What does it mean to make a wise effort?” I went into spiritual life in a competitive, achievement-oriented context, and it took a while to loosen up on that. But it takes a sincere longing to be who we are. It catalyzes us and keeps us moving when it’s difficult, in contrast to the kind of striving that says, “Something’s wrong with me,” which never works.

I’ll share the story of the Buddha’s most devoted disciple, Ananda. Ananda worked strenuously at becoming enlightened. [A]fter the Buddha dies, there’s this council of enlightened monks planning to hold council, but Ananda is not allowed to come because he hasn’t been enlightened. So, he decides the night before he’s going to practice vigorously. But in spite of his efforts, he makes no progress because he’s striving. [B]efore dawn, he’s exhausted. He decides to let go and relax, and as he lies back, he becomes liberated.

[T]he moral of the story is not simply lying back and resting, because he had to spend decades training. [H]e was very awake in many ways, but the final step was to let go of striving. I think we commit to training our attention because neuroscience is telling us we have neuroplasticity. We can create fresh pathways in our brain that lead to peace, happiness, and freedom. [T]he ultimate realization comes when we relax back into what we already are, not when we try to be different.

[L]oving life no matter what doesn’t mean we don’t truly grieve. It means we stay open to that grieving process, and in that openness, we sense something timeless.

I’m wondering what you think needs to change socially, culturally, or internally that would encourage seekers and non-seekers to stop looking for redemption outside of themselves, to be okay with who they are?

[W]hen I do a workshop on Radical Acceptance, I say, “Well, what stops you from accepting yourself as you are?” The most common response is fear that if I accept myself, I’ll never change. In fact, maybe I’ll get worse, be stuck being a defective, deficient self, and never be happy. [T]here’s this belief I need to be different to be loved. I think for most of us, the healing work has to do with seeing the belief we’re carrying about ourselves that something’s wrong, and to hold that pain with compassion. And we start getting how many life moments we’ve been deprived of because we believed something was wrong. We start sensing who we are beyond that.

[I]t reminds me of what I love most about psychotherapy, the moment somebody shines their own light of self-compassion on part of themselves they used to not like, and how healing it is to get that from one’s self. [O]ne of my teachers, Dick Schwartz, has said if you put aside judgment and witness a part of yourself with curiosity, you’ll discover the part has a positive intention. [R]egardless of the damage the part is causing, it’s been trying to help. I’m wondering in your work going to these deep places with others, if you’ve found all parts are fundamentally good in that sense?

I think Dick is right. The most basic equipment of our survival system—fight, flight, freeze—is so we can flourish, even when the parts get twisted. So rather than putting up boundaries when we need to, we’re constantly defending.

[I]n Radical Acceptance, I told a story of one woman who had been sexually abused by her father, and as part of her therapy process, had a fantasy of being this young child in a closet calling for help, terrified, and needing protection. This fairy appeared and said, “I can’t right now take away the pain, but what I can do is help you not feel it until you’re able to re-digest it, and then respond in a way that’s helpful.” So she disconnected from her body, and ended up having an eating disorder and a hard time with intimacy, and remembering that story helped her realize her eating disorder and shutting people out were coping strategies that were the best she could do as a young child dealing with intolerable pain.

I feel recognizing the positive intention is an essential part of seeing the truth of how we respond to wounding, and instead of adding blame for the way we deal with it, holding it with compassion.

I’ve always been fascinated with the duality between being attached to something we love, and trying to find that detached place, in terms of the Buddhist way. I wonder if you have any thoughts about how we can love something so much and know it’s not permanent, that what we feel will change and be taken away.

It feels natural we are profoundly attached to the beings around us. I think of my son. I want things to be good for him, and when things aren’t going well, I get upset. [T]here’s attachment, and also a mindfulness that watches the attachment, that forgives it for being there. [I]t’s important to forgive, to have our hearts not hold onto blame for our humanness. And there are many moments when I can sense this light of spirit that shines through him, and something in me knows no matter what happens to his bodily being, there is this timeless connection and goodness that can’t die.

All of life, all of learning and growth, all of healing follows a spiral path. We return over and over to a place of pain or suffering in order to master the lessons held therein. Each revolution of the spiral brings us more experience and perspective and skill, so that our path is smoothed and we become increasingly resilient and expansive. This sounds good, but in practice it can be quite difficult.

When we find ourselves repeating old patterns we thought we had gotten rid of, dealing with the same difficult people repeatedly, or turning into a teenager again after spending 15 minutes with certain family members, we may feel discouraged. When we are trying to change our behavior from something we dislike to something we like, or to something more functional from something less functional, it is hard to find ourselves in that familiar, rotten territory—all our hard-won awareness shines a blinding light on our foibles, while our bag of well-earned tools hangs loosely at our side, for all intents and purposes utterly empty. But these are actually opportunities for change, and so we can welcome them.

It isn’t easy to change how we do things. The older we get, the more years of habit we have keeping us in the familiar groove, whether or not it serves us. Those grooves were laid down very early on, when we were soft and spongy. Those tracks can be very difficult to obliterate or alter. But not impossible.

Fear not, and do not dismay. These seeming setbacks are natural, normal, and in fact necessary to the process of living our lives, healing our suffering, and moving along our life paths. If we can accept that we have certain lessons we need to learn, it becomes less onerous when they pop up repeatedly. Comprehending the spiral nature of self-healing and understanding the stages of change can help us recognize our successes and appreciate our own hard work.

Awareness
First, we develop awareness. We notice that something isn’t right. We aren’t happy in our relationships or we aren’t satisfied with the quality of our lives. We may search for understanding, in counseling or through contemplation or self-study, or simply wake up to what we are doing. This can be a very painful part of the process of change, but it is necessary. If we don’t know what we are doing, we can’t change anything. But at this stage, we can’t usually act differently.

If we cultivate a nonjudgmental observer’s point of view, a friendly curiosity about ourselves, we can gather a lot of information. This kind, detached attitude also helps us avoid triggering the old patterns, most of which evolved out of self-protection. Refraining from attacking ourselves when we see these patterns means we won’t aggravate them further. No salt in the wound.

Alternative
Once we understand how we get ourselves in trouble, we can choose an alternative, the next stage in the process of change. The general rule here is, “just do something different.” We are talking about change, not perfection. Doing something different is a success, even if it is not pretty or smooth. Learning to excuse ourselves to go to the bathroom instead of engaging in a habitual conflict is not the only strategy we will ever employ, but just breaking the momentum of a negative habit is a powerful experience.

Practice
The practice is up to us. This is the third stage. We have identified the problem, the alternative to it, and now we have to actually walk the path. We will not do it perfectly or have fabulous results every time. We will be clumsy and mess up. If we use our friendly awareness skills, we will notice that just practicing—whether it is meditating, thought-replacing, or lifting weights—is a reward in itself.

Practicing anything intentionally engages us with our lives. The more we practice the new action or thought, the less room we have for the old one. We realize that our work is paying off. We find ourselves automatically saying the new words, pausing where we might previously have rushed in, or stepping forward with confidence where once we might have hidden. We start to see that our work in one area spills over into other areas. Just as lifting heavy weights in the gym translates to ease in lifting grocery bags, children, furniture, and other previously immoveable objects, working consistently with our minds eventually brings more peace, more happiness, and less suffering to ourselves and those around us.

Please note that after the third stage—or any time, really—we circle back around to the first stage. There is no final stage where we win. The process never ends, but it gets easier with practice, so we might as well relax.

Most people would agree that having a compassionate stance towards oneself is desirable. But how do you cultivate self-compassion?

Let’s quickly define the term. In this article, “compassion” means tenderhearted recognition of pain or distress, coupled with a desire to alleviate it. Each component of this definition—recognition, tenderheartedness, and a desire to alleviate distress—offers opportunities for cultivating compassion. This article will look at how the skill of “recognition” can help you grow self-compassion.

The ability to recognize your pain or distress requires that you embrace your limits. Each of us has inherent human limits, as well as personal limits that are rooted in our personalities, life experiences, knowledge, skill levels, and more.

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For example, one obvious human limit is that everyone needs sleep on a regular and consistent basis. A less obvious human limit is that everyone needs some amount of play. Other examples may include the amount of money you need in your savings account in order to feel prepared for a “rainy day,” your tolerance for grumpy individuals, the patience you have for slow drivers, and more.

Some people have a difficult time accepting these human and personal limits. This desire to have no limits stems from a variety of sources. One common reason is that people confuse limits, which are neutral facts, with weaknesses. To put it another way, some people (falsely) believe that if they have limits, they are somehow flawed, weak, insufficient, or not capable of great things—therefore, they deny the reality of their limits. Denying your limits does not enhance your worth or value, but does block you from having genuine self-compassion.

By recognizing that you have limits, you can notice when you have been pushed beyond them, and then deem your ensuing emotions as legitimate. For example, if you know one of your limits is that you need a break every three or four hours of work, and you have to work a full day without breaks, you will know it is legitimate to feel exhausted.

Understanding this emotional distress as legitimate sets you up for the next component of compassion, which is tenderheartedness. In order for you to have compassion towards your distress, you must recognize your distress as legitimate: worth noticing, worth caring about, worth turning towards, and worth alleviating. It is by acknowledging, accepting, and allowing your limits to exist that you bestow legitimacy onto your distress.

Another piece of “recognition” is granting yourself permission to accept your limits as they are in the here and now. Your limits are not what you desire them to be or think they should be. Some limits, such as how much sleep you need, cannot be changed. Other limits, like patience for slow drivers, can be changed—but regardless of the flexibility of the limit in question, if you’ve exceeded your limit, you are beyond it.

While it is entirely appropriate, and a sign of maturity, to work on expanding limits, you can’t do that by denying that you have exceeded a limit. Instead, practice noticing when you have passed a limit and acknowledging it, instead of judging yourself harshly for having it in the first place. Rather than berating yourself for being exhausted at the end of a work day that had no breaks, recognize that you are bone-tired not because you are incompetent, but because you eclipsed your work-break limit.

Self-compassion is grounded in the ability to recognize that you are in pain or distress and that this pain or distress deserves and requires attention. Recognizing your limits as they are in this moment in time, personally and as a human being, allows you to acknowledge the legitimacy of your pain and the ensuing need to attend to your distress. You are entirely capable of growing into a person with more self-compassion, and I encourage you in this work. If you desire or need the guidance of a trained professional, do not hesitate to reach out.