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“Between stimulus and response there is a space. In that space is our ability to choose our response.” ~Viktor Frankl
For a while I forgot about that space.
When conflict began in my life—first with my employer, then with an insurance company—I did not react quickly. I didn’t send stupid emails.
I did something that made more sense.
I create arguments.
I create careful, layered explanations. I mapped policy indicators, contextual information, and logical connections. I put forth what felt like a complete reticulum of ideas in my defense. If I could get my case out of the way, I believed it would not be denied.
It seemed logical.
But there was no peace.
When Conflict Enters the Body
The conflict did not appear in my inbox. It stayed in my body.
I woke up practicing arguments. I reread the messages after sending them, scanning for weaknesses. I was defending myself even in silence.
My jaw tightened. Low alert. The feeling of having smaller internal systems that use the language more formally than I do.
The fear was there, although I didn’t say the word at first.
Fear of being misunderstood. Fear of being fired. The fear that if I leave one gap in my reasoning, it will be used against me.
So I tried to leave spaces.
The Instinct to Over-Explain
As someone trained in systems thinking, I automatically look for design. If something is wrong, I check how the pieces connect. I show the outline of the problem.
Under pressure, that instinct strengthened.
The more anxious I became, the deeper my explanations became. My emails weren’t emotional—they were sophisticated. Perfect. It’s crowded.
And it’s exhausting.
What I slowly began to realize was that my need for perfection was not just an intellectual discipline.
It was a concern to hide.
If I had covered all the angles, I wouldn’t have been in danger. But covering all the angles didn’t calm me down. It kept me wandering.
Suspension Power
The change was not dramatic.
It started with a distraction.
Before sending some emails, I started to create space. Sometimes that meant giving up a day. Sometimes it meant reviewing my drafts using a neutral lens and asking simple questions:
Is this clear? Is this too crowded? What is the actual result I want?
To my surprise, the answer was no.
It was a break in itself.
Instead of adding more meaning, I started removing it.
Part of what I had written was defensible—but not necessary. I didn’t have to expect all the arguments. I didn’t need to prove the whole philosophical basis of justice.
I needed to be precise.
And the precision felt calm.
Clarity Is Stronger Than Volume
Power, I began to see, does not come from density.
It comes from clarity.
Not every supportive opinion is in an email.
Not all potential objections need to be argued in advance.
Not all information needs to be protected.
Sometimes clarity means cutting your argument in half.
That was uncomfortable at first. It felt like surrender.
But it was not surrender.
It was a refinement.
When I shortened my answers, something else shortened—my expression. My body softened. The inner court became increasingly silent.
Clarity lessens the emotional charge.
How to Stand Up Without Climbing
If you find yourself explaining too much in times of conflict, here’s what helped me:
First, write the full version privately. It says it all. Build a whole castle if you need it.
Then you leave.
When you return, ask yourself:
- What is the exact result I want?
- Which sentences directly support that result?
- What sentences try to prove that I am right?
Cut out what you’re trying to prove. Keep what you are trying to solve.
Make clear claims instead of vague claims. Instead of saying “This is wrong,” try “I’m asking for X on Y date.”
Notice how your body feels when you read the short version.
Generally, it feels stable.
And resilience is strength.
Choosing Dignity Over Fear
Eventually, the disputes were resolved. Not significantly. Not completely. But enough.
What stayed with me was not the result.
It was who I was.
Working a little. A little confusing in the over design. A small fear that the clarity required a complete installation.
I had learned something I had never been taught:
Representation does not require agitation.
It needs to be there.
You don’t have to overpower someone to stand strong.
You don’t have to sacrifice peace to protect your rights.
Fear tries to cover every angle. The shadow stands in one clear place.
When I went from building castles of wisdom to quietly drying within what I needed, everything changed—not really the system, but me.
And that was enough.
If you’re going through something similar right now—an email you dread sending, a situation where you feel unheard—try to create space before you respond.
Draw it. Don’t send it. He came back with cool eyes.
Choose clarity over inclusion. Choose persistence over urgency.
You can speak for yourself without losing your peace.
I was not willing to learn that lesson.
But I’m thankful that I did.
If sharing this helps even one person feel less alone in that uncomfortable space between self-defense and defense, then the tension I went through was not wasted. That is my hope.
About Tony Collins
Edward “Tony” Collins, EdD, MFA, is a documentary filmmaker, author, educator, and disability advocate living with progressive vision loss due to macular degeneration. Her work explores presence, care, resilience, and the quiet power of small moments. He is currently completing books on creative scholarship and collaborative filmmaking and shares his essays on meaning, hope, and disability on Substack. Connect: substack.com/@iefilm | iefilm.com
