Preface to Naikan Class 3
This reflection is part of a four-part series titled
Naikan in Four Movements, which explores the arc of relational practice through receiving, giving, harm, and vow.
Some harm is clear. Much of it is not.
In the third week we turn toward the traces we’ve left behind — things we did, or failed to do; moments that slipped past unspoken. Not to fix, or to be forgiven. But to acknowledge what remains.
Avowal is not the same as guilt.
It is the willingness to be in relationship with what has already happened.
With bows,
Dōmon 道門 Luu Pham
2025
Paying Full Price
There are times when I’ve made real effort — clear, sincere effort — and still caused harm because I couldn’t move differently in the moment I was in. Sometimes I saw it happening and couldn’t stop it. Other times, I only saw it later, when something in the relationship had gone quiet. The cost wasn’t always visible. But it was real.
Some of the harm I’ve caused didn’t register as harm in the moment. The other person didn’t say anything. We moved on — maybe even with a laugh, or a task to complete. It seemed resolved. But sometimes what looks like resolution is really just social smoothing: the restoration of flow shaped by habit energies. This kind of smoothing often stands in for repair. And so the moment passes — not metabolized, just added to the residue.
Later, when the urgency is gone and I’m not trying to explain or protect myself, I can feel the slight turn, the breath held, the place where I didn’t quite meet the other person. And I begin to realize: harm doesn’t always announce itself. Sometimes it disappears into agreement, and only comes back when we’ve stopped to see clearly.
Often, the harm I’ve caused came from overwhelm — when I didn’t know how to stay present while feeling cornered or exhausted. I’ve snapped at my daughters at the end of a long day. I’ve shut down mid-conversation with my wife when something was needed from me. And the person on the other end wasn’t wrong to feel it. My capacity was limited, and still, they bore the cost. That’s hard to see — especially when I felt like I was already doing my best.
There is no arrangement of practice, insight, or virtue that makes our presence harmless. We will hurt each other. Even those we love. Even when we’re trying. Especially when we’re trying too hard to be someone good. I’ve seen how quickly the need to be good becomes a way to avoid looking at what I’ve actually done — how easily it slips into explanation, or into spiritual language that soothes discomfort without truly seeing what happened.
I used to think owning harm meant explaining, or making amends. But lately I think the more important step is simply seeing it — quietly. Not as confession. Just witnessing, in myself. Sometimes that means noticing what I couldn’t say, or where I disappeared — like walking out of the room mid-conversation, telling myself I’d come back to it, but never really did. Sometimes it means saying out loud: I caused harm. Not because I wanted to, but because I was there, and I was human, and I couldn’t yet move differently.
Here’s a list of 10 ways I’ve noticed I cause harm on a fairly regular basis—
Often not by what I do, but by how I show up, or fail to show up, in relationship.
1. Snapping or speaking harshly out of overwhelm, even when the other person did nothing wrong.
(Often followed by guilt and justification.)
2. Withdrawing emotionally when someone needed connection — shutting down instead of staying engaged.
(Commonly interpreted as coldness or disregard.)
3. Over-explaining or defending my actions in the moment of tension, instead of listening.
(Turn attention away from the other person’s experience.)
4. Delaying presence — telling myself I’ll come back to someone’s need “later,” but not returning.
(Unintended abandonment.)
5. Interrupting or redirecting someone’s story because it didn’t match my internal pacing or emotional capacity.
(Often perceived as dismissal or non-recognition.)
6. Doing too much and growing resentful — then punishing others when it becomes too much
(Harm as a consequence of over-functioning.)
7. Assuming the other person is “fine” because they didn’t say otherwise.
(Passive neglect masked as respect.)
8. Holding onto righteousness — believing my intentions justify the outcome, even when someone was hurt.
(Defense masked as clarity.)
9. Being inconsistent in my attention or availability, leaving the other person unsure of where they stand with me.
(Often experienced as emotional unreliability or confusion.)
10. Making a loved one carry my dysregulation — through tone, mood, or presence — without ever naming it.
(The harm of invisible emotional burden.)
There’s an inescapable cost to our being alive. We receive more than we repay. We hurt people while trying to love them. We step on things we didn’t see. And it doesn’t mean we failed. It just means we’re part of a relational world with no clean lines. What matters, I think, is whether we’re willing to carry the weight of that — not as shame, but as an on-going form of care.
To pay full price for this life is to stop bargaining. To stop trying to earn our way out of harm, or prove we meant well. It’s not about fixing every mistake. It’s about not flinching from what we’ve touched. And when possible, letting that recognition make us more accountable, not less. We show up. We don’t disappear. We don’t excuse the harm simply because we meant well. And we start from there — not blaming but recognizing that being in relationship means leaving marks. To live in connection is to touch, and to be touched — even when it isn’t named or noticed.
There was a time I came to my teacher with urgency. My relational life — especially my marriage — felt fragile, and I hoped that receiving the precepts might steady what was coming apart. She saw that I was still holding practice as a kind of shield. And she declined.
But she did so gently — with a kind of warmth and compassion that held no punishment.
She said: “Just continue to practice. And pay full price to the universe.”
❧
I Now Fully Avow
All the harm I have caused, seen and unseen.
Not just the things I regret —
but the ones I never even noticed,
because we smiled and kept going.
Because silence passed for peace.
Because the conversation changed,
and the system restored itself.
The things I justified.
The patterns I inherited and passed along.
The words I used to stay in rhythm.
The silences I used to avoid disruption.
The care I withheld — not from cruelty,
but because I didn’t yet know how to offer it.
I now fully avow.
Not to be punished.
Not to be forgiven.
But to release the illusion
that I could pass through this life without leaving marks.
To avow is not to explain or resolve.
It is to be with what happened, without reshaping it.
This happened. I was there. And I am still here.
This happened — not in theory, not to someone else, not through misunderstanding.
I don’t need to minimize it, or explain it away.
I can say clearly: yes. This occurred. And I was part of it.
I was there — not just physically, but as a presence with impact.
Whether I acted out of fear, fragility, or habit,
I do not erase the fact of my involvement.
And I am still here.
Still alive, still practicing,
Not to prove anything — just to keep turning toward what is.
I have not disappeared into guilt.
I have not bargained for innocence.
I remain — with open eyes, and a willingness to carry what I’ve seen.
And in that seeing, something shifts in how we hold ourselves and one another.
With this seeing, there comes the possibility of generosity.
Compassion. Kindness. Patience.
The prayer below is one I began offering myself about a decade ago, during a time when I began to see how unprocessed harm from my early life — much of it invisible to others — was shaping both my inner life and the ways I caused harm. During that time, I found myself caught in moments of enragement — and sometimes that energy was directed outward, toward my little daughters. When that happened, it left me profoundly sad.
So I made a vow to protect them from it.
Like someone jumping on top of a grenade, I began turning that energy inward instead.
But eventually I saw: either way, harm was occurring.
Either way, someone was being hurt — myself, or those I loved.
And from that seeing, this version of Metta arose.
It doesn’t follow the traditional arc —
starting with self, and radiating outward toward all beings.
It helps for remaining in contact with what’s already here —
the places where harm occurred,
the parts of ourselves we might otherwise bypass,
the people closest to us whose suffering we sometimes overlook.
If we can stay with all of that —
then the prayer becomes an offering,
because presence has become wide enough
that no one is left out.
May I be allowed to be who I am.
May I know myself to be connected and a part of all of Life.
May I be at peace, and never need to negate anything in myself or in others.
May I know simple joy and happiness in this moment.
~ End ~
This Week’s Intention
This week, our intention is simple — but not easy:
To see where we’ve caused harm — intended or not —
and to keep showing up.
Not to fix it.
Not to explain it.
Not to collapse into guilt or soften it with good intentions.
Our vow is not to be harmless.
Our vow is to remain —
And carry what is true with steadiness and care.
And maybe, to let that seeing set the tone
for how we hold ourselves and each other in the days ahead.
Daily Reflection Practice
Each evening this week, if you wish, reflect gently on this:
“Was there a moment today when someone else might have felt the cost of how I showed up — even if it wasn’t said, and even if I didn’t intend harm?”
It might have been in your tone, a silence, a rushed answer, a distraction, or a withdrawal.
Even if the moment seemed to pass — and everything looked fine.
Let that awareness be the practice.
You might end by returning to contact with yourself — through this prayer:
May I be allowed to be who I am.
May I know myself to be connected and a part of all of Life.
May I be at peace, and never need to negate anything in myself or in others.
May I know simple joy and happiness in this moment.
Final Thought
Sometimes we come here hoping for stillness. Sometimes needing rest.
And those are beautiful needs.
But sometimes rest doesn’t come from quieting — it comes from seeing clearly.
Tonight’s practice isn’t about fixing or reliving anything.
It’s just about telling the truth to ourselves,
with compassion,
and without rush.
Curious to keep going?
The next reflection in
Naikan in Four Movements is:
•
The Rhythm of Vow ⧉
(Each piece stands alone. There’s no need to read in order.)
•
Noticing What Holds You ⧉
•
What Flows Without Return ⧉
•
What I Couldn't Undo ⧉
•
The Rhythm of Vow ⧉
For orientation beyond this page, you may enter through:
•
The Vibrating Thread: From the Field of Redibility
•
Naikan in Four Movements
•
Threadwork (or begin with
Threshold to Threadwork ⧉ for a gentler entry)
•
The Holding Vow Sutra (drawn from the arc of
Naikan: The Rhythm of Vow ⧉ , but arriving later)
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