On the quiet harm we normalize in the name of coping

For a long time, I couldn’t name what was wrong.
Nothing dramatic was happening. Life was moving. Work was getting done. Responsibilities were being met. From the outside, everything looked stable.

And yet, most mornings, I woke up tired in a way that sleep didn’t seem to fix.

I remember one evening in particular — sitting quietly after a full day, not exhausted, not distressed, just… hollow. I asked myself a simple question: If nothing is wrong, why does everything feel heavy?
That was the first time I sensed it — not as a problem, but as a truth I had been postponing.

I was living against myself.

Not rebelliously.
Not irresponsibly.
But politely, efficiently, and with impressive justification.

This kind of violence doesn’t announce itself. It doesn’t arrive as collapse or crisis. It enters through small, reasonable compromises — the ones we make in the name of maturity, duty, or stability. We override discomfort. We postpone intuition. We tell ourselves, this is temporary, this is how life works, I’ll adjust.

Over time, inner friction begins to feel normal.

Living against yourself rarely looks like chaos. It looks like endurance.
You keep showing up. You remain capable. You fulfil roles. You function well enough to convince yourself that nothing needs attention.

But beneath that competence, a quiet erosion can begin — not from effort, but from misalignment.

The most unsettling part is how convincing it sounds.

We call it discipline when it may actually be disconnection.
We call it responsibility when it might be self-neglect.
We call it resilience when it could be silent self-betrayal.

I’ve noticed that the body often speaks first. Through restlessness, irritation, unexplained fatigue, or a dull loss of enthusiasm. The mind follows — either racing endlessly or numbing itself. Even joy begins to feel scheduled rather than spontaneous.

None of this happens overnight.

That’s what makes it subtle.
That’s what makes it violent.

Because violence is not only about intensity — it is about repetition without repair.

When we live against ourselves long enough, the relationship with our inner world might begin to feel adversarial. We stop asking What feels right? and start asking How long can I tolerate this?

That shift deserves attention.

Overcoming this violence does not require dramatic exits or radical reinvention. More often, it begins with something quieter — a willingness to listen without immediately negotiating. To pause before overriding yourself. To notice the moments when endurance is no longer strengthening you, but straining you.

There is an important distinction here.

Stretching challenges us.
Straining diminishes us.

Alignment does not promise comfort. It offers coherence. Life may still be demanding, but it stops feeling internally hostile. Decisions become simpler, not easier. Energy returns, not because effort reduces, but because friction does.

Perhaps the discomfort is not asking you to cope better.
Perhaps it is asking you to stop being at war with something essential within you.

If you’re willing, sit with this question — without rushing to answer it:

Where in your life are you enduring something that quietly asks for honesty instead?

The moment you take that question seriously, the violence softens.
And something truer begins to take its place.

---

Letters for the Inner Journey by Pushkar