The Lens We Look Through

The Lens We Look Through

I've had many conversations over the years that have led me back to the same realisation.

No two people ever see the same situation in exactly the same way. What seems obvious to one person may never have existed in another person's world.

The longer I spend listening to people's stories, witnessing their struggles, observing my own responses, and trying to understand what makes us human, the more I realise that we are all looking through different lenses.

Every one of us is shaped by the life we've lived. The families we were born into, the experiences we've had, the beliefs we've adopted, the challenges we've faced, the love we've received — or perhaps didn't receive — and the lessons we've learned all influence how we see ourselves, each other, and the world around us.

And yet so much of our suffering comes from expecting other people to see life through the same lens that we do.

We assume that what feels true to us must also feel true to them. That they will understand, know what we need, respond as we would respond, and place importance on the things we consider important. Yet they are viewing the world through their own experiences, their own conditioning, and their own understanding of what is right, wrong, safe, or important. When those two realities collide, confusion, hurt, frustration, disappointment, and conflict often follow.

The older I get, the more I realise that what we often call truth is frequently conditioning. Not all of it, of course. But far more than we may like to admit. The rules we carry about relationships, friendships, family, love, communication, respect, loyalty, and even ourselves were often formed long before we ever consciously examined them.

Many of these beliefs were inherited, passed down through parents, grandparents, communities, cultures, religions, and life experiences. They were shaped by the circumstances people found themselves living through, by what they needed to do to survive, by what brought them comfort, and by what they came to believe about themselves and the world around them. Over time, those beliefs became woven into everyday life until they were no longer seen as beliefs at all, but as truth.

Perhaps a grandfather returned from war carrying experiences nobody ever spoke about. Experiences that taught him that survival mattered more than feelings, that strength was necessary, and that vulnerability could be dangerous. Perhaps a grandmother learned to keep going no matter what life placed in front of her. To put everyone else's needs first. To carry burdens quietly because that was simply what women did. Perhaps a parent learned that love was conditional. Or that conflict wasn't safe. Or that emotions should be hidden away rather than expressed. And perhaps what gets passed down through generations is not just what happened, but the meaning that was made from it. The conclusions drawn, the fears carried, the protections built, and the beliefs formed in response to life's experiences. Over time, those beliefs can become so familiar that we stop seeing them as inherited and start seeing them as truth.

None of this makes anyone wrong.

It simply makes us human.

What we often call personality is frequently conditioning wearing a familiar face. This is something I notice often when people talk about entitlement.

Not entitlement in the way we usually think of it — as arrogance or selfishness — but entitlement as a deeply conditioned response. The expectation that other people will somehow know what we need, see things as we see them, and behave in ways that feel right to us.

Most of us carry invisible agreements about how life should work. Unspoken rules. Expectations we may not even realise exist until someone breaks them. The interesting thing is that these expectations often feel like truth. Not preference. Not perspective. Truth.

"This is how a partner should behave."

"This is how a friend should respond."

"This is how a parent should act."

"This is how a child should behave."

Yet when we pause and become curious, we often discover that these truths were inherited long before they were examined.

Another thing I have come to realise is that two people can feel exactly the same emotion while having completely different experiences. Sadness is sadness. Grief is grief. Fear is fear. Anger is anger. The feeling itself is real. What created it may be entirely different.

One person may be devastated by the loss of a beloved hamster. Another may be devastated by the loss of a parent. One person may be heartbroken by the ending of a friendship. Another by the ending of a marriage.

From the outside it can be tempting to compare experiences and decide whose pain is more justified, more significant, or more deserving of compassion. But pain doesn't work that way. There is no competition. No universal scale measuring whose suffering counts more.

Each person experiences life through their own lens, their own history, their own nervous system, their own meaning-making. What matters is not whether someone else's experience seems bigger or smaller than ours. What matters is that, in that moment, it is real to them. Just as our experience is real to us.

Perhaps compassion begins when we stop comparing events and start recognising the humanity beneath them.

The older I get, the more I realise that many of the misunderstandings, hurts, disappointments, and conflicts we experience are fuelled by two things: assumptions and taking things personally.

We can be surprisingly quick to decide what someone meant, what motivated them, or what their actions say about us. The mind naturally fills in the blanks, creating stories from fragments of information and presenting them as truth. Before we know it, we are no longer responding to what happened, but to the meaning we have attached to it.

At the same time, we take things personally that may have very little to do with us at all.

Someone doesn't reply. Someone cancels plans. Someone seems distant. Someone speaks abruptly. Someone forgets. Someone says no. And before we know it, our mind has created an entire story around what that means.

For me, this is where awareness becomes so powerful. The moment we can pause and ask:

"Am I responding to what is happening right now, or am I reacting to something this situation reminds me of?"

"Is this feeling coming from the present moment, or is it touching an older hurt, an older fear, an older wound?"

"Is this today's reality, or is this muscle memory?"

Because often the feeling is real. Very real. The sadness is real. The anger is real. The fear is real. The disappointment is real. Our heart races. Our stomach tightens. Our chest feels heavy. Our thoughts begin searching for evidence to support the story. And in those moments it can feel as though the intensity belongs entirely to the present situation.

But sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes the inner child has been awakened.

The part of us that remembers what the mind has forgotten. The part that learned what rejection felt like. What abandonment felt like. What betrayal felt like. What not being seen, heard, chosen, valued, or understood felt like.

Those experiences become woven into us. Into our nervous system. Into our emotional memory. Into the very muscle memory of our bodies.

So when something happens in the present, we are not always reacting to the event itself. Sometimes we are reacting to every other time we have felt something similar. ~~Sometimes a delayed reply isn't just a delayed reply. It touches an old experience of being ignored. Sometimes a disagreement isn't just a disagreement. It touches an old experience of not being heard. Sometimes a boundary isn't just a boundary. It touches an old experience of rejection or abandonment.~~

The present moment lights the spark, but the fuel may have been gathering for years.

And what makes this even more fascinating is that the other person often has absolutely no idea.

The friend who didn't reply may simply have been busy, overwhelmed, distracted, exhausted, or dealing with something in their own life. The person who cancelled plans may have been struggling with their own emotions. The partner who spoke abruptly may have been carrying their own fears, worries, pressures, and conditioning into that moment.

Yet while all of that is happening for them, something entirely different may be happening within us. A wound may have been touched. An old story may have been activated. A younger part of ourselves may suddenly feel unseen, unimportant, rejected, or unsafe.

Not because that was the other person's intention. But because that is the meaning our system has attached to the experience.

Their action may have been innocent. Our reaction may have been genuine. ~~Both can be true.~~

This is also where conscious conversation becomes so important. Awareness is not simply recognising our wounds within ourselves. It is learning how to communicate them.

Instead of reacting, blaming, defending, withdrawing, attacking, or making assumptions, we create the opportunity for something different. We can say:

"When that happened, I noticed I felt hurt."

"When plans changed, something old was touched within me."

"When I didn't hear from you, I noticed feelings of rejection coming up."

Not because the other person caused those feelings, but because their action activated something that was already there. There is a huge difference. In one, we place the weight of our feelings onto another person. In the other, we acknowledge what is happening within us and share it honestly, without making it their responsibility to fix.

Sometimes we can even acknowledge that our reaction may be bigger than the situation itself. Sometimes we can recognise that what has been activated belongs to an older wound. And sometimes we can invite another person into that awareness.

Not so they can fix us. Not so they can walk on eggshells around us. But so they can understand us, and perhaps so they can gently reflect something back when they see us disappearing into an old story.

Because the reality is that we are all carrying something. We all have tender places. We all have experiences that shaped us. We all have stories that live beneath the surface. And sometimes two people's wounds meet in the same moment.

Sometimes one person feels unheard while the other feels criticised. One may experience abandonment while the other experiences control. One may withdraw to feel safe, while the other moves closer for exactly the same reason. Both are trying to protect themselves, yet neither may fully understand what is happening for the other. Neither is wrong. Neither is necessarily seeing the whole picture. Both are responding to what their system has learned.

This is why emotional intelligence is not about never being triggered. It is not about becoming so healed that nothing ever touches us. It is about becoming aware enough to recognise what is happening when we are. It is about becoming curious instead of certain. Compassionate instead of defensive. Responsible instead of reactive.

The goal isn't to stop triggering one another. Human relationships will always bring our tender places to the surface. The invitation is to learn how to meet those moments differently. To hold space for ourselves. To hold space for one another. To communicate consciously. To listen openly. To become curious about what sits beneath the reaction.

Of course, not everyone will be able to meet us in that space. Not everyone has the awareness, capacity, safety, or willingness to have those conversations. And that's okay too. People can only meet us from the level of awareness they currently have access to.

But even when someone else cannot hold that space, we can still hold it for ourselves.

We can pause. We can breathe. We can listen. We can sit with our inner child and ask what is really being felt beneath the reaction. We can choose awareness over assumption. Curiosity over certainty. Conversation over conflict.

And perhaps one of the most important things we can remember is this:

There is nothing to fix. There is only something to observe. Something to notice. Something to become aware of — not with judgement, not with shame, not with self-attack, but with curiosity, with compassion, with understanding.

Because maybe that is where healing begins. Not when we convince everyone else to see things our way. But when we become aware of the lens through which we see them ourselves.

Nyxie
Fire of the PhoeNyx ✨