The Buddha didn’t say, “Don’t care.” He said, “Don’t cling.” The Middle Way is about finding that sweet spot between holding on and pushing away. Not hovering above it all like some spiritual robot, but standing in it, in the heartbreak, in the joy, in the mystery, and learning how to breathe. Equanimity doesn’t mean you stop loving. It means you stop controlling in the name of love.
By George Cassidy Payne
We’re told in Buddhism that suffering comes from attachment and aversion.
Sounds simple enough. But let’s be honest, how does that hold up when you’re watching your kid walk into the world without you? When everything you’ve poured yourself into disappears almost overnight?
This isn’t just spiritual theory. It’s life—messy, beautiful, terrifying life.
I remember counseling a woman who had spent the last 20 years raising her kids. That was her whole world. She didn’t work. She didn’t socialize much. She didn’t take time for hobbies or passions. Her job was being a mom, 24/7, for two decades straight. And she was good at it—committed, loving, selfless.
But when her youngest went off to college, everything collapsed. She showed up a wreck, sobbing, numb, lost. She wasn’t just empty-nested. She was identity-less. “I don’t know who I am anymore,” she said. And she meant it.
That kind of pain doesn’t get fixed with affirmations or breathing techniques.
It made me think of something Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche taught, this idea that even our most sacred identities can become forms of spiritual materialism. We collect them. We wear them. We even worship them. Not like statues or saints, but like mirrors reflecting back our worth.
Mother. Teacher. Seeker. Healer. Enlightened One. Pick your mask.
Trungpa’s warning was clear: the ego will use anything, even our pursuit of awakening, to puff itself up. And when that identity gets threatened or taken away, we panic. Because who are we without it? The woman I worked with wasn’t suffering because she didn’t love her children enough. She was suffering because she didn’t know how to love herself without being their mother.
That’s attachment—not love, but clinging. And it’s sneaky. It wraps itself in virtue and tells you it’s holy. It tells you that your suffering is noble. But the truth is, it’s just another way to stay in control.
On the flip side, there’s aversion, our deep resistance to the unknown, to loss, to discomfort. It shows up in parenting all the time. We fear our kids’ pain. We dread their failure. We try to protect them from life, not because we’re bad parents, but because we’re scared too.
The Buddha didn’t say, “Don’t care.” He said, “Don’t cling.”
The Middle Way is about finding that sweet spot between holding on and pushing away. Not hovering above it all like some spiritual robot, but standing in it, in the heartbreak, in the joy, in the mystery, and learning how to breathe.
Equanimity doesn’t mean you stop loving. It means you stop controlling in the name of love.
That woman who came to me? Her healing didn’t come from finding a new label or rushing into a hobby or job to fill the void. It came from grieving the role she had outgrown and getting curious about what remained. She had to sit in that raw, identity-less space and ask, “What now?” Not as a demand, but as a prayer.
This is the razor’s edge: to show up fully, love fiercely, and still let go.
And here’s the kicker, wanting to be more spiritual can be its own trap. Trungpa called it out decades ago: spiritual materialism. The tendency to turn the path into a trophy case. We start chasing enlightenment like it’s some kind of upgraded self-image. But real transformation? It’s usually not Instagrammable.
Sometimes it’s ugly crying in your car. Sometimes it’s sitting in silence when every part of you wants to fix or flee. Sometimes it’s saying, “I don’t know who I am anymore,” and letting that be okay.
The Middle Way doesn’t give us clean answers; it gives us presence. A grounded, open-hearted awareness that doesn’t flinch from life but doesn’t try to conquer it, either.
It’s a rhythm. A returning. A willingness to meet each moment without grabbing for control.
We’re not here to win at parenting. Or healing. Or enlightenment. We’re here to move, with grace, humility, and just enough humor to know we’ll never get it perfect.
So if you find yourself unraveling, good. That means the old story is dying. That means something real might finally begin.
Photo: Pixabay
Editor: Dana Gornall
Did you like this post? You may also like:
Comments
George’s essays have appeared in publications such as The Good Men Project, The Buffalo News, The Rochester Democrat & Chronicle, and many more. A poet at heart, his work often blends memoir, philosophy, and theological reflection, rooted in the belief that language can be both a balm and a spark.
Whether reflecting on the writings of Marcus Aurelius, the parables of Jesus, or the mindfulness of a Jain monk sweeping the ground before them, George writes to make space for wonder, doubt, and dialogue.
He joins The Tattooed Buddha as a regular columnist to explore themes of death, inner peace, activism, grief, and contemplative life in a world on fire—and to ask, again and again: How can we live as if everything we do matters?
- Learning to Hear the Need Beneath the Words - April 10, 2026
- What Happened to You? A Radical Approach to Compassion, Prevention and Trauma-Informed Care - March 20, 2026
- Struggle and Ill Will: The Peace That Doesn’t Strive - March 12, 2026
