Ash’s Struggle for His Own Heart
I stood at the crossroads of my career, my heart pounding with both dread and determination, as I realised the only way forward was to confront an age-old battle within myself. My emotions had always been my greatest strength and my deepest weakness. They fuelled my passion but too often erupted like a volcano, leaving scorched relationships and missed opportunities in their wake. Today would be different. Today I had to master the internal war.
I stared at the evaluation report lying on my desk, already dreading Jonathan's review fortnight from now. "Exceptional potential, yet..." Those three cursing words had haunted my career path for what felt like an eternity. My mentor's wisdom echoed: "Controlling your emotions isn't simply suppressing them, Ash. It's about awareness. About recognising the battle before the first shot is fired."
The team meeting would start in ten minutes. Ordinarily, I'd charge in with my twelve-point strategy, ready to dismiss any challenge. But today, I paused. Breathed. Located the tension already building in my chest.
The Battle Within
"Just keep it together today," I muttered to the worn-out face in the bathroom mirror. At thirty-four, I'd ascended halfway up the corporate ladder through pure resolve, only to repeatedly hack away the rungs beneath me with my explosive temper. Six years at Meridian Tech, three promotions, and innumerable moments of brilliance – all eclipsed by emotional eruptions that left victims scattered in their aftermath.
The shower couldn't wash away the knot in my stomach. Two weeks remained before my performance review with Mr. Greene would determine everything. My trembling hands struggled with my tie as I rehearsed responses to inevitable criticisms. The coffee burnt my tongue, but I barely noticed, mentally cataloguing projects I'd championed and targets I'd hit. And, like my LinkedIn profile, claiming credit for a few choice morsels.
Maya glanced up from her desk as I entered the office, then immediately returned to her computer screen. That silent dismissal said everything. Leon offered a cautious "Morning," before quickly retreating to the safety of his cubicle. The atmosphere shifted palpably – conversations hushed, postures stiffened. Three months since my last outburst when Maya questioned my strategy, and the wounds still festered.
I placed my briefcase on my desk, noticing my hands were shaking. Mr. Greene's office door remained closed, but I could feel his presence like an approaching storm. Nine years of management experience, and I still felt like an imposter awaiting exposure.
The morning commute used to be dead time, just me and my thoughts spinning in ever-decreasing circles. Today, I had sought distraction in "The Insiders" podcast.
"Emotional awareness isn't mystical," the host explained, "it's recognising that internal struggle before it manifests externally. Think of it as an early warning system."
My fingers tightened around the steering wheel.
"We all have competing voices inside," the guest continued, "the reactive self that wants immediate satisfaction versus the thoughtful self that considers consequences. The key is recognising which voice is speaking and why."
I nearly missed my exit, absorbed in their words about neural pathways and how recognising patterns was the first step toward changing them.
"It's that ancient battle," they concluded. "Knowing what's right but feeling pulled elsewhere."
Sitting in the car park, engine off, I couldn't move. The words resonated with something half-remembered from church - Paul's lament in Romans. "I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do."
That was it exactly. I knew how to lead. I understood the importance of listening, of measured responses, of creating psychological safety. Yet in crucial moments, something else took control - a reactive, defensive force that undermined everything I believed in.
"Do you understand what's happening in these moments, Ash?" Ms. Powell leaned forward, her gaze penetrating yet kind. The HR advisor had invited me to her office after hearing about my performance review tomorrow.
"I know I react too strongly," I admitted, staring at my hands.
"It's deeper than that. Jung called it the 'shadow self'—the part of us we don't want to acknowledge. When you feel that surge of emotion, there's a battle happening between what you desire in that moment and what professional behaviour demands."
She pulled a leather-bound journal from her drawer and slid it across the desk.
"This is for you. Each day, I want you to document three things: what triggered you, what you wanted to do, and what you actually did. The gap between those last two—that's where growth happens."
I ran my fingers over the embossed cover, remembering Ms. Powell's words from our last session about neuroplasticity and retraining emotional responses.
"This will help you recognise the battle before it begins," she added.
The journal triggered a memory from last month—Maya questioning my project timeline in front of the team. I'd wanted to defend myself, to maintain control, to be seen as competent. Instead, I'd snapped, "If you'd been paying attention instead of taking extended lunch breaks, you'd understand the timeline!"
The room had fallen silent. Maya's face had flushed red, her eyes glistening. In that moment, I'd won the argument but lost something far more valuable.
The journal sat open on my desk, with three columns I'd labelled "Trigger," "Desired Reaction," and "Actual Response." Four days of entries revealed uncomfortable patterns—whenever my competence was questioned, I lashed out. When I felt overlooked, I interrupted. When deadlines tightened, my temper shortened. The awareness was uncomfortable but oddly freeing.
"You look different today," Leon observed, leaning against my office doorframe. "Less... tense."
"Working on some things," I replied, gesturing to the journal. "How's the Donovan project coming along?"
"Actually, that's why I'm here. The timeline seems a bit aggressive."
My chest tightened—the familiar flash of defensiveness. I took a breath, recognising the battle. I swallowed the rising tension. "Tell me your concerns."
We discussed the timeline calmly for fifteen minutes. No eruptions, no cutting remarks. When Leon left, I felt a quiet triumph.
That afternoon, Maya stormed into my office, clutching printouts. "The Wilson proposal is late," she said, voice tight. "I needed your sign-off yesterday."
"It can't be late," I said, scanning my calendar. "The deadline's next week."
"No, it was moved up. I emailed you twice about it."
Heat rushed to my face. That same storm gathered inside me, but this time I saw it forming. "That's impossible, I would have—"
"Well, you didn't," she interrupted. "And now we might lose the account."
"If you'd properly flagged the importance instead of burying it in twenty other emails—" My voice escalated before I could catch it.
"There it is," Maya snapped, eyes flashing. "Always someone else's fault." She turned and walked out, leaving my door open for everyone to hear.
I slumped in my chair, the journal mocking me from my desk. Recognition wasn't enough. The battle was constant, and I'd just lost another skirmish.
I trudged back to Ms. Powell's office the next morning, feeling like a fraud. The journal clutched in my hand felt heavier than before, weighed down by yesterday's failure.
"I blew it," I admitted, sinking into the chair across from her. "One challenging conversation with Maya and I was right back where I started."
Ms. Powell's expression remained calm, almost expectant. "Did you think decades of emotional patterns would vanish after four days of journaling?"
"No, but—"
"Ash, recognition is only the beginning. You're noticing the battle now, which is progress. But awareness without community rarely leads to transformation."
Her words caught me off guard. "Community?"
"The people around you need to be part of your journey. Have you told Maya and Leon what you're working on?"
I hadn't. The thought of admitting my struggles felt like exposing a weakness.
"Got a minute?" I asked, hovering at Maya's desk later that day.
She glanced up, wariness evident in her expression. "What is it?"
"I want to apologise for yesterday. And... for a lot of days before that." I placed my journal on her desk. "I'm working on my emotional regulation. It's been a problem for a long time, and I'm trying to change."
Maya's expression softened slightly. "What's this?"
"My battle map. Ms. Powell is helping me recognize when I'm about to react poorly." I swallowed my pride. "I need your patience. And maybe your help."
Leon appeared beside us. "Help with what?"
"Ash is trying to grow up," Maya said, but without the usual edge.
"About time," Leon smiled. "What can we do?"
Before the client call that afternoon, I sat at my desk with my eyes closed. Ms. Powell had suggested visualising successful interactions—seeing myself responding calmly to challenges, breathing through tension.
"Picture yourself navigating the conversation with awareness," she'd advised. "Your brain can't distinguish between vivid imagination and real experience. You're literally creating new neural pathways."
I envisioned myself listening intently, acknowledging concerns without defensiveness, leading with curiosity rather than certainty. The mental rehearsal felt strange but grounding.
When my phone rang, I opened my eyes and picked up with a steadiness I hadn't felt before. The battle wasn't over, but for the first time, I wasn't fighting alone.
Mr. Greene's office always felt ten degrees colder than the rest of the building. As I sat across from him, his face was impassive while scanning my personnel file.
"I've noticed changes in your approach lately," he began, not looking up. "But I've seen this before, Ash. Short-term improvements followed by spectacular relapses." His eyes met mine. "Remember the Telford presentation? Or the development team meeting last quarter? You reduced Sarah to tears."
My chest tightened. The old familiar heat crept up my neck.
"Your technical skills are exceptional," he continued, "but your emotional volatility makes you a liability. I'm not convinced two weeks of journaling changes that fundamental issue."
I gripped the armrests, feeling the battle rage inside. The defensive voice screamed for release: He doesn't see how hard I'm trying! He's already decided against me!
Instead, I took a deep breath, recognising the voices competing within me.
"You're right to be doubtful," I said, astonishing myself with my composed voice. "I'm already realising that these patterns have lived inside me for quite some time. And they certainly won't be corrected in the blink of an eye. Might you pinpoint particular actions you'd need to observe steadily transform before you'd trust my ability to lead?"
Mr. Greene blinked, clearly not expecting this response.
"I'm genuinely committed to improving," I continued. "I'd value your perspective on priority areas."
He leaned back, studying me with new interest. "Your interrupting habits, for one. And your tendency to personalise feedback as attacks."
I nodded, taking notes rather than defending myself.
Three months later, I sat across from Mr. Greene again, awaiting his final verdict. My probationary period had been the most demanding professional challenge I'd ever faced — not because of workload, but because of the constant self-monitoring. My journal now contained dozens of entries documenting triggers, battle moments, and outcomes that gradually showed improvement.
"I've been observing you closely," Mr. Greene said, reviewing his notes. "Your team's feedback indicates substantial changes in how you communicate under pressure." He looked up. "Maya specifically mentioned your handling of the client complaint last week."
I nodded, recalling that moment clearly — the familiar surge of defensiveness when Maya questioned my approach in front of the client, the split-second recognition of the battle, and the choice to respond with curiosity rather than hostility. The internal war still raged, but I was choosing my responses more deliberately.
"What's most impressive," Mr. Greene continued, "isn't the absence of emotion, but your awareness of it."
The Jenkins project became the ultimate test of my transformation. With impossible deadlines, resource constraints, and a demanding client, it was precisely the type of situation that would have triggered my worst behavior previously.
"We can't possibly deliver this by Friday," Leon said during our strategy meeting. "The testing alone will take three days."
I felt the familiar tightness in my chest but recognised it immediately. Pause. Cause. Choose.
"That's a valid concern," I replied. "Let's break down what's absolutely essential for Friday and what can follow in phase two."
Maya looked at me with something approaching respect as we reconfigured the deliverables together. Throughout the grueling week, I maintained the practice Ms. Powell had taught me — morning visualisation of successful interactions, midday check-ins with my emotional state, and evening journaling.
When we delivered a scaled-but-solid version on Friday, the client was impressed not just with our work, but with the collaborative approach.
"I'll be direct, Ash," Mr. Greene said, closing my file. "I didn't think you could sustain this change."
The old me would have felt vindicated, even smug. The new me simply nodded, acknowledging both his skepticism and my own journey.
"But you've proven me wrong," he continued. "What impresses me most is your commitment to the process. You haven't just changed your behavior; you've changed your approach to leadership."
He slid a formal review across the desk. At the top, in bold letters: "Exceeds Expectations."
"You still have work to do," he added. "This journey doesn't end. But you've demonstrated the most critical leadership skill of all — the ability to recognise and manage the battle within."
As I drove home that evening, I considered how far I'd come. The strange comfort of Paul's words in Romans resonated more deeply now: "I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do." That ancient struggle between intention and action had been my constant companion, yet naming it had somehow diminished its power. The wisdom wasn't in winning every battle, but in recognising there was a battle at all.
My journal sits on my desk each morning now, a silent accountability partner. I've begun inviting team members to share their own emotional awareness journeys during our development sessions. "The battle within is universal," I tell them. "Recognising it is the first step toward transformation." Some look skeptical—as I once did—but others nod in recognition, seeing their own struggles reflected in my story. The path to better leadership, I've discovered, begins with acknowledging the war inside.
Questions for Reflection
* How have my desires influenced my behaviour and decisions at work?
* What steps can I implement to practice better introspection and emotional awareness in my daily life?
* How can I leverage the support of my team and mentors to navigate the internal conflict between desires and necessary actions?
