The other day someone asked me an interesting question.
I’d just expressed a feeling—because I’m a sensitive, new-age guy who’s been through therapy and is working very hard to identify and name his feelings.
They asked, “How do you feel about feeling that way?”
At first, I wasn’t sure I understood.
“You mean,” I asked, “how do I feel about having that feeling?”
“Yes,” they said, before explaining that they were concerned it might not be right for me to feel that way.
Fortunately, this was a conversation I’d been preparing for.
I’m not a therapist, so this isn’t medical advice. It’s simply my understanding of what I’ve learned through therapy and how I’ve started putting it into practice.
“Two things can be true,” I replied.
“I can have a feeling, and I can also know that the feeling doesn’t have to control my thoughts or my actions.”
Then I paused.
“I accept that I have the feeling,” I said, “but I’m not sure acceptance is actually a feeling. I think it’s a choice.”
That conversation reminded me of something I learned in therapy called radical acceptance. It’s one of those ideas that’s incredibly simple to understand and incredibly difficult to practice.
The idea is straightforward. Accept what has happened. Accept the feelings that naturally arise because of it. Don’t pretend they aren’t there. Don’t shame yourself for having them. Don’t rush yourself into “getting over it.”
Once you’ve acknowledged reality and allowed yourself to feel it, then you can start asking the next question:
What happens now?
The Great Cranberry Juice Incident of 2003
Allow me to tell you about what I now call The Great Cranberry Juice Incident of 2003.
Near the end of college, I replaced my aging Gateway laptop with a brand-new HP Pavilion. Three years was an eternity in computer technology back then. The new machine was smaller, lighter, had more memory, a larger hard drive, and felt unbelievably fast.
I loved that laptop.
After graduation I moved in with my college sweetheart. She had already claimed the giant desk in our office, leaving room for my tiny Walmart flat-pack desk. (Yes, Walmart sold flat-pack furniture before IKEA became everyone’s favorite Saturday afternoon relationship stress test.)
On that little desk sat my new laptop, my Kenwood TS-440 amateur radio, and, unfortunately, one tall glass of cranberry juice.
I was getting ready to start my Internet radio show. I’d been broadcasting online since the late 1990s and had developed a routine. I liked having at least fifteen minutes before airtime to get everything ready.
For reasons I no longer remember, I didn’t have those fifteen minutes.
I rushed through my setup, started the intro music, and frantically opened programs while the music played. My mouth was dry. I reached for my cranberry juice.
Except…
…I didn’t grab it.
I knocked it over.
The entire glass emptied directly into the keyboard of my beautiful new laptop.
The microphone was already live, so my listeners heard me utter several words you’re definitely not supposed to say on the radio.
Then they heard silence.
I heard an even worse silence.
The cooling fan stopped.
The hard drive stopped spinning.
My laptop—still new enough to have that wonderful new-computer smell—was dead.
I went to bed furious with myself.
I spent the entire night replaying the mistake in my head, criticizing myself, wondering how I could have been so careless.
Eventually I accepted reality.
The laptop wasn’t coming back.
I still needed a computer. I still needed to look for work. I still wanted to produce my radio show.
I found an inexpensive used desktop computer. It wasn’t nearly as nice, but it worked.
Life moved on.
Unfortunately, my self-talk didn’t.
For a long time I kept punishing myself for making an honest mistake. I grieved a laptop I was still making payments on and couldn’t afford to replace. Looking back, I wish I’d shown myself a little more compassion.
Losing My Phone… Sort Of
Fast forward to this summer.
I started sailing, and I was eager to try everything—including climbing onto the bow to grab a mooring ball.
In my excitement, I forgot to remove my wallet and phone from my shorts pockets.
After successfully grabbing the mooring ball and climbing back into the cockpit, I noticed my phone was gone.
Instantly my mind flashed back to 2003.
I knew modern iPhones can survive some water, but not the deep lake beneath us. I assumed it was gone forever.
For a brief moment I was angry with myself.
But this time something was different.
I stopped.
I took a few deep breaths.
I acknowledged that I was angry. I may have even said it out loud.
Then I reminded myself:
“I made an honest mistake.”
“It could have happened to anyone.”
“If I have to replace my phone, I’ll figure it out.”
Instead of spending energy attacking myself, I started thinking about what came next. I’d head home, pick up my kids, catch the bus to the Apple Store, and somehow solve the problem.
While I was making that plan, another sailor suggested we call the phone.
I didn’t dismiss the idea.
Finding the phone would obviously be better than replacing it.
He called.
It rang.
The phone wasn’t at the bottom of the lake.
It was sitting safely on the bow of the boat.
I was relieved.
I was grateful.
And honestly?
Even if it had been lost forever, I don’t think I would have spent weeks punishing myself the way I did twenty-three years ago.
The Bigger Things
Those stories involve possessions.
They mattered to me, but they were replaceable.
Life gets much harder when what we’ve lost isn’t replaceable.
A relationship.
A dream.
Our health.
Someone we love.
When that happens, our emotions can become overwhelming.
Many people have heard of the five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Real life isn’t nearly that neat. We don’t move through them in order, and we don’t necessarily experience all of them. Sometimes we revisit the same stage over and over again.
In the middle of grief, it’s tempting to rush ourselves.
We tell ourselves we should be over it by now.
We tell ourselves we have responsibilities.
We tell ourselves it’s childish to cry.
We tell ourselves we’re weak for feeling angry.
We tell ourselves our feelings are wrong.
Ironically, trying to force feelings away often makes them stay even longer.
Instead, try something different.
Let yourself feel them.
Remind yourself that they’re normal.
Remind yourself they won’t last forever.
Comfort yourself the way you’d comfort a friend.
If your best friend came to you heartbroken, you probably wouldn’t tell them to “stop feeling that way.”
You’d sit beside them.
You’d listen.
You’d reassure them that they’ll get through it.
You deserve that same kindness from yourself.
Good Feelings Need Acceptance Too
Here’s something I hadn’t thought about until recently.
We often criticize our good feelings, too.
We tell ourselves we’re getting our hopes up.
We’re moving too fast.
We’re too excited.
We should calm down.
We should be more logical.
We act as though happiness needs permission.
But radical acceptance isn’t only about painful emotions.
It’s about joyful ones too.
If your best friend called to tell you they were deliriously happy, what would you say?
“I’ve very happy for you.”
“You deserve this.”
“I hope it lasts.”
You probably wouldn’t tell them they shouldn’t be so happy.
So why say that to yourself?
Celebrate your own joy.
Accept it.
You deserve that, too.
Feel First. Then Decide What Comes Next.
Having strong emotions doesn’t make you weak.
It makes you human.
If you’re capable of deep sadness, you’re also capable of deep joy.
If you’re capable of grief, you’re capable of love.
Your feelings aren’t the problem.
What matters is what you do after you’ve acknowledged them.
Accept the feeling.
Give yourself compassion.
Then ask the question that radical acceptance eventually leads us to ask:
What comes next?
Have you ever questioned yourself for having a feeling? What was it, and how did you deal with it?
Share your thoughts in the comments. If you’re subscribed to my email newsletter, you can simply reply to the email to join the conversation.
And if this essay resonated with you, I’d appreciate it if you’d share it with someone else who might need to hear it.
Many of you have told me how much you enjoy my writing. For a long time that compliment made me feel self-conscious.
I accept it now.
And I’m grateful for your encouragement—and your honest feedback.
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