How Triggers Became My Teachers

Some lessons don’t arrive as whispers. They crash into your day with the voice of someone you love, the sting of being misunderstood, or the fire of your own past pain. Mine came in the form of an ordinary conversation — and the unexpected bite of a well-intended example that turned into a misunderstanding.

But behind the sting was a story, and behind the story was a shift.

This is not just a reflection. It’s a reckoning. And perhaps, it’s your story too.

When Words Travel Without You

I had simply wanted to teach my son about our values. About integrity. About standing for something without shaming others. In my mind, I was preparing a thoughtful example — a real-life moment to draw a line between actions and identity, between disagreeing and dishonoring.

But words, like curry, carry heat. And sometimes they travel further than you expect.

That example, shared at the dinner table, was passed along — child to peer, peer to parent, parent to me. It came back not as a teaching moment, but as a confrontation.

Suddenly, I was the one on the receiving end of suspicion. Accusation.

And just like that, something old woke up in me.

Why That Old Fear Still Knocks

I don’t like conflict. That’s the polite way to say it.

The more honest way? I fear it. Especially with those I care most about.

Growing up, authenticity often came at a cost. Speaking up, especially within close relationships, meant exposure — and sometimes, betrayal. My default became diplomacy. Surface-level harmony. Avoidance disguised as peace.

So when the misunderstanding came full circle, I didn’t just feel misunderstood. I felt threatened.

Not physically. Emotionally.

The child in me screamed, “This is what happens when you speak your truth.” The adult in me whispered, “Stay calm. Reflect. Don’t react.” But the leader in me — the one who wants to raise children with backbone and soul — sat quietly in the middle, deciding which voice to follow.

The Real Work of Leadership Happens in the Pause

There’s a Chinese saying: “人在暗我在明.” The literal translation is, “They’re in the shadows, I’m in the light.” When you lead, you’re often exposed — your intentions visible, your vulnerabilities even more so. It’s not just hard; it’s sacredly demanding.

You can’t lead authentically without being willing to be misunderstood.

And yet, you can’t lead wisely if you don’t steward your words with care.

In that moment of emotional turbulence, I paused. Not because I had mastered inner peace — but because I could feel the old fire rising, and I knew it wouldn’t serve me. Or them.

Fifteen minutes.

That’s all it took. But those fifteen minutes weren’t silence — they were transformation.

I realized something important: the energy of being triggered is neither good nor bad. It’s just energy. The question is where I place it.

What Curry Taught Me About Communication

Let me bring you to my metaphor — a pot of curry chicken.

Imagine you’re preparing a dish for your family. You know their tastes. You craft it with love. You add spice, believing it’ll bring out flavor. And then, without warning, someone takes that same curry and serves it to someone else — someone who’s allergic to spice. Someone who wasn’t meant to taste it.

They get hurt. Not because your intention was wrong, but because the serving wasn’t yours.

That’s what happened.

And I realized: as leaders, especially in families, we must not only be conscious of what we serve — but of how it might travel.

That doesn’t mean we water everything down. It means we discern: what truth is mine to share? What method is safest? How do I ensure that in teaching, I don’t unintentionally harm?

From Blame to Breakthrough: Changing the Belief Beneath the Trigger

I used to believe this: “If I’m honest, I’ll be attacked.”

That belief once kept me safe. But now, it was keeping me stuck.

Every emotional trigger was tapping that same old wound, reinforcing a narrative that was no longer true — at least not always. And unless I confronted that belief, every moment of friction would become a fight, or a flight.

So I asked a better question: What if my honesty isn’t what causes harm — but my unawareness of timing, tone, and trust?

That was the belief that needed to die: that honesty itself was the danger. In its place, a new truth was born:

“Honesty is a tool. Wisdom is the hand that wields it.”

Progress Isn’t Perfection. It’s Shorter Recovery Time.

A few years ago, this kind of conflict would have haunted me for months. I would have replayed every word, ruminated on every reaction, obsessed over every angle of defense.

Now?

Fifteen minutes. That’s all it took to return to calm. To process. To move forward — not by suppressing emotion, but by metabolizing it.

That’s resilience. Not the absence of triggers, but the presence of quicker peace.

We often judge our growth by how unbothered we can stay. But real growth is how fast we return to center after being thrown off. It’s how deeply we can reflect — without self-blame or self-abandonment — and choose better next time.

Changing the Recipe, Not the Values

From this experience, I learned to change my recipe:

• I no longer use real names when teaching lessons.
• I focus on the principle, not the person.
• I watch for my children’s readiness before serving deep truths.

Not because I want to dilute the message. But because the purpose is not to impress them — it’s to equip them.

When I think long-term, I don’t want just to teach them facts. I want to model how to hold truth with tenderness, how to love people even when we disagree, how to speak with courage without arrogance.

And for that, my delivery must match my depth.

What I Can Control — and What I Release

Here’s what I can control:

• My words.
• My posture.
• My reflections.
• My growth.

Here’s what I can’t:

• How others hear me.
• How they interpret my heart.
• How they respond when they feel hurt.

Trying to control the latter only leads to anxiety and blame. But focusing on the former — that’s where peace lives. That’s where leadership begins.

And in this sacred ground, I return to one quiet truth that roots me every time:

Let tomorrow worry about itself. I have enough to steward today.

The Soul’s Final Word: Leadership Is Love Made Visible

This isn’t a story about curry chicken, or even about conflict.

It’s a story about the sacredness of stewardship. Of raising souls — not just children. Of leading with clarity, not control.

If I do nothing else in this life, let it be this: that I learned to lead from a place of authenticity, not armor. That I stopped letting my past define my reactions. That I taught my children — and reminded myself — that growth is possible, peace is learnable, and love is always the better legacy.

Because in the end, I don’t lead for applause.

I lead because I believe — truly, deeply — that this world is shaped by the quiet, unseen decisions we make when no one is watching.

And when my children are watching? May they see a man not who never got it wrong, but who always made it right.