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“There is a space between stimulus and response. In that space is our ability to choose our response.” ~Viktor Frankl
For a while, I forgot about the place.
When conflict entered my life—first with my employer, then with my insurance company—I did not react explosively. I did not stop the desperate email.
I did something that seemed much more reasonable.
I made the argument.
I construct careful, layered explanations. I mapped policy references, contextual details, and logical connections. I laid out what felt like a whole grid of ideas for my defense. If I could make my case airtight, I believe, it would be undeniable.
It seemed reasonable.
But it was not peaceful.
When conflict enters the body
Conflict didn’t just live in my inbox. It lived in my body.
I woke up rehearsing the argument. I reread messages after I send them, scanning for vulnerabilities I was also protecting myself in silence.
I had a tension in my jaw. A low hum of warning. A sense of being small inside a system that uses language more formally than I do.
Fear was there, though I didn’t name it at first.
Fear of being misunderstood. Fear of getting fired. Fear that if I leave a loophole in my argument, it will be used against me.
So I tried without leaving any gaps.
Tendency to over explain
As someone trained to think in systems, I instinctively look for structure. When something goes wrong, I examine how the pieces connect. I show the framework below the problem.
Under stress, that instinct is intensified.
The more concerned I became, the more thorough my explanations became. My emails weren’t emotional – they were complex. extensive Dense.
and tiring.
What I slowly began to see was that my need for wholeness was not just intellectual discipline.
It was anxiety in disguise.
If I cover every angle, I won’t be weak. But covering every corner doesn’t calm me down. It kept me spinning.
The power of pause
The change was not dramatic.
It started with obstacles.
Before sending specific emails, I started to create space. Sometimes that means getting away for a day. Sometimes that means reviewing my draft through an unbiased lens and asking simple questions:
Is this clear? Is it too dense? What results do I really want?
What surprised me was not the response.
It had to break itself.
Instead of adding more explanation, I started removing it.
Half of what I wrote was defensible – but unnecessary. I didn’t need to guess every counterargument. I didn’t need to prove the entire philosophical basis of my justification.
I have to be specific.
And the accuracy felt cool.
Clarity is stronger than volume
Power, I began to see, did not come from concentration.
It comes from clarity.
Not every supporting idea belongs in email.
There is no need to pre-argue every possible objection.
Not every detail needs to be protected.
Sometimes clarity means cutting your argument in half.
It was uncomfortable at first. It felt like surrender.
But it was not surrender.
It was refined.
When I summarized my responses, something else was also summarized – I guess. My body became soft. The inner courtroom fell silent.
Clarity reduces emotional charge.
How to advocate without extension
If you find yourself over-explaining in moments of conflict, here’s what has helped me:
First, write the full version in person. says it all Build whole castles if you need to.
Then move away.
When you go back, ask yourself:
- What specific results do I want?
- Which sentence directly supports that result?
- Which sentence am I trying to prove correct?
Cut what you’re trying to prove. Keep what you are trying to solve.
Replace abstract demands with concrete requests. Try “I request X by Y date” instead of “This is unfair”.
Notice how your body feels when you read the short version.
Often, it feels static.
and staying power.
Choosing dignity over fear
Finally, the dispute is resolved. Not dramatically. Not quite. But enough.
What was with me was not the result.
It was who I was.
Less responsive. Less tangled in overconstruction. Less fear that clarity requires total coverage.
I learned something I was never taught:
Advocacy does not require movement.
It requires attendance.
You don’t have to overwhelm anyone to stand your ground.
You don’t have to sacrifice your peace to protect your rights.
Fear tries to cover every corner. Dignity stands within a clear position.
When I moved from building intellectual fortresses to standing quietly inside what I needed, everything changed—not necessarily the system, but me.
And that was enough.
If you’re facing something similar right now—an email you’re afraid to send, a situation where you haven’t been heard—try to create space before responding.
This is the draft. don’t send Come back to calm eyes.
Choose transparency over coverage. Choose stability over urgency.
You can advocate for yourself without losing your peace.
I did set out to learn that lesson.
But I’m thankful that I did.
If sharing this helps even one person feel less alone in that uncomfortable place between self-defense and self-preservation, then the tension I went through has not been 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 from 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 documentary filmmaking, and shares personal essays about substacks of meaning, hope, and disability. Connect: substack.com/@iefilm | iefilm.com
