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“Between stimulus and response there is a space. In that space is our power to choose our response.” ~Viktor Frankl
For a while, I forgot about that space.
When conflict entered my life—first with my employer, then with my insurance company—I didn’t react explosively. I didn’t fire off reckless emails.
I did something that felt far more reasonable.
I built arguments.
I constructed careful, layered explanations. I mapped policy references, contextual details, and logical connections. I laid out what felt like a complete reticulum of ideas in my defense. If I could make my case airtight, I believed, it would be undeniable.
It seemed rational.
But it wasn’t peaceful.
When Conflict Enters the Body
The conflict didn’t just live in my inbox. It lived in my body.
I woke up rehearsing arguments. I reread messages after sending them, scanning for weaknesses. I was defending myself even in silence.
There was a tightness in my jaw. A low hum of vigilance. A feeling of being small inside systems that used language more formally than I did.
Fear was there, though I didn’t name it at first.
Fear of being misunderstood. Fear of being dismissed. Fear that if I left one gap in my reasoning, it would be used against me.
So I tried to leave no gaps.
The Instinct to OverExplain
As someone trained to think in systems, I instinctively look for structure. When something is wrong, I examine how the pieces connect. I show the framework underneath the problem.
Under pressure, that instinct intensified.
The more anxious I felt, the more thorough my explanations became. My emails weren’t emotional—they were intricate. Comprehensive. Dense.
And exhausting.
What I slowly began to see was that my need for completeness wasn’t just intellectual discipline.
It was anxiety in disguise.
If I covered every angle, I wouldn’t be vulnerable. But covering every angle didn’t calm me. It kept me spinning.
The Power of the Pause
The shift didn’t happen dramatically.
It began with interruption.
Before sending certain emails, I started creating space. Sometimes that meant stepping away for a day. Sometimes it meant reviewing my draft through a neutral lens and asking simple questions:
Is this clear? Is this too dense? What outcome am I actually seeking?
What surprised me wasn’t the feedback.
It was the pause itself.
Instead of adding more explanation, I began removing it.
Half of what I had written was defensible—but unnecessary. I didn’t need to anticipate every counterargument. I didn’t need to prove the entire philosophical foundation of fairness.
I needed to be precise.
And precision felt calmer.
Clarity Is Stronger Than Volume
Strength, I began to see, does not come from density.
It comes from clarity.
Not every supporting idea belongs in the email.
Not every possible objection needs to be pre-argued.
Not every detail needs to be defended.
Sometimes clarity means cutting your argument in half.
That felt uncomfortable at first. It felt like surrender.
But it wasn’t surrender.
It was refinement.
When I shortened my responses, something else shortened too—my rumination. My body softened. The internal courtroom grew quieter.
Clarity reduced the emotional charge.
How to Advocate Without Escalating
If you find yourself over-explaining in moments of conflict, here’s what helped me:
First, write the full version privately. Say everything. Build the entire fortress if you need to.
Then step away.
When you return, ask yourself:
- What specific outcome do I want?
- Which sentences directly support that outcome?
- Which sentences are trying to prove I’m right?
Cut what is trying to prove. Keep what is trying to resolve.
Replace abstract claims with clear requests. Instead of “This is unfair,” try “I am requesting X by Y date.”
Notice how your body feels when you read the shorter version.
Often, it feels steadier.
And steadiness is power.
Choosing Dignity Over Fear
Eventually, the conflicts were resolved. Not dramatically. Not perfectly. But sufficiently.
What stayed with me wasn’t the outcome.
It was who I had become.
Less reactive. Less tangled in overconstruction. Less afraid that clarity required total coverage.
I had learned something I had never been taught:
Advocacy does not require agitation.
It requires presence.
You do not have to overwhelm someone to stand your ground.
You do not have to sacrifice your peace to defend your rights.
Fear tries to cover every angle. Dignity stands inside one clear position.
When I shifted from building intellectual fortresses to standing calmly inside what I needed, everything changed—not necessarily the system, but me.
And that was enough.
If you are facing something similar right now—an email you dread sending, a situation where you feel unheard—try creating space before you respond.
Draft it. Don’t send it. Return with calmer eyes.
Choose clarity over coverage. Choose steadiness over urgency.
You can advocate for yourself without losing your peace.
I didn’t set out to learn that lesson.
But I’m grateful I did.
If sharing this helps even one person feel less alone in that uneasy space between self-defense and self-preservation, 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, writer, educator, and disability advocate living with progressive vision loss from macular degeneration. His work explores presence, caregiving, 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 meaning, hope, and disability on Substack.
Connect: substack.com/@iefilm | iefilm.com
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