On Anger, Acceptance, and the People Who Matter
Sometimes I notice a small fire living inside my chest. It shows up when I’m tired, or scared, or when things don’t go the way I hoped. That fire is called anger.
Fire can be useful. It can warm a house or cook a meal. But when it grows too big, it can burn things we love.
I am learning that if I don’t take care of this fire, it might hurt the people closest to me—the people who sit with me at the table, laugh with me, and walk beside me through my days. These people are very precious. They are not easy to replace, like toys or shoes. They are more like old trees. They grow slowly, year by year, and once they are gone, they do not come back.
As I get older, I know something important: In the end, what I will have is people. Not things. Not trophies. Not noise. Just people.
So the relationships I have now—and the few new ones I may make later—are like the bridges that will carry me into old age. I want those bridges to be strong.
That is why I feel a quiet urgency. Not a loud panic. But a soft voice inside saying, “Pay attention.”
I am learning that I cannot control everything in the world. I cannot control the weather. I cannot control traffic. I cannot control how other people act or what they think.
Life is a little like sailing on the ocean. I can hold the wheel and adjust the sails, but I cannot tell the waves what to do. If I try to fight the ocean, I will only get tired and angry.
So I am practicing something very brave and very hard: Accepting what I cannot change.
Acceptance does not mean giving up. It means seeing clearly.
I still try to make my life better. I still try to learn and grow. But I also understand that many invisible things—luck, timing, other people’s choices—help shape how things turn out. When I forget this, my peace of mind slips away.
What can I control?
I can control my actions. I can control my intentions. I can choose how I speak, how I listen, and how gently I treat others—and myself.
This is my responsibility.
So I am becoming a quiet observer of my own life. I watch for patterns, the way a birdwatcher waits patiently in a forest. I notice what makes my fire grow bigger. I notice what helps it calm down.
When do I feel most angry? When do I feel most peaceful?
By paying attention, I begin to learn. And by learning, I begin to change.
Not all at once. Not perfectly. But slowly, kindly, one breath at a time.
And maybe that is enough.
~ Bai, Saturday, January 31, 2026, NorCal