Why we get offended so easily—and what it costs our inner peace.
It was such a small moment. Barely a sentence.
But somehow, it stayed. Like a thorn beneath the skin—tender, disproportionate, persistent.
I’ve often wondered: why do we allow such moments to hijack our inner climate? Why do we hand over the keys of our emotional sanctuaries to the careless words, glances, or silences of others?
Taking things personally has become a modern reflex. A quiet epidemic of our emotional times. And I confess, I too have been its frequent host.
The world is increasingly curated by approval—likes, hearts, thumbs ups, validations. One misplaced word, one overlooked gesture, one delayed response and suddenly, the self contracts. We feel slighted. Misunderstood. Unseen.
But underneath this fragility often lies something deeper. A tender, unmet need. Sometimes it’s the ancient ache to be enough. Sometimes it’s the unresolved story of not being heard, or seen, or accepted for who we are. And sometimes, it is simply ego—hungry for significance.
And so we become easily bruised. Not because others are always offensive, but because our boundaries between what is about us and what is not have thinned.
But here’s the truth: not every comment is a critique. Not every silence is rejection.
Most people are wrapped in their own storms. Their tones, moods, distractions—they are weather systems we often misread as personal forecasts. And in doing so, we drown ourselves in rain that wasn’t even meant for us.
Why, then, do we carry it all?
Perhaps because being offended gives us a temporary illusion of control. Of moral high ground. Of self-importance. But in reality, it cages us. We become overly attuned to outer noise and increasingly deaf to our inner stillness.
The healing, I’ve learned, begins with detachment—not indifference, but discernment.
There’s a quiet power in asking: Is this truly about me? Or is this about something in them?
There’s dignity in deciding: I do not need to react to every ripple in someone else’s sea.
And there’s freedom in realizing: Peace is not the absence of discomfort, but the ability to remain undisturbed within it.
If we could carry fewer offenses and more perspective, we might walk lighter. If we could allow others their moods, without internalizing them, we might breathe freer. If we could remember that the world doesn’t orbit around our sensitivities, we might finally find rest.
There’s a kind of maturity that isn’t loud. It doesn’t win arguments. It doesn’t need the last word. It simply knows what to keep—and what to release.
There’s a phrase I keep close these days: “Don’t pick up what isn’t yours.” Offense is offered often. But it’s ours decision to accept—or refuse.
I’m learning, slowly, to refuse.
Letters for the Inner Journey by Pushkar
