Why Suppressing Emotions Sabotages Your Success

I'm annoyed by articles about emotions that have a "protagonist." Here he comes to work, here he gets criticized, here he freezes up and fails to ask the right question. Poor guy. Let's feel sorry for him and teach him how to live.

How about we don't.

Let's be honest: that protagonist is me. And you. And your boss who yells in meetings and then can't fall asleep at night. We're all protagonists here. We're all trying. We all sometimes react in ways that make us want to sink through the floor afterward.

And that's what I want to talk about — you and me. No comic strips.

Control is a myth

We were taught to control our emotions. Hold back anger. Suppress fear. Never show weakness. "Get it together." "Pull yourself together." "You're an adult."

Here's the thing: it doesn't work.

Well, it works — on credit. Every suppressed feeling doesn't disappear, it just moves into your body. Into clenched jaws. Into a lump in your throat. Into insomnia. Into a meltdown three weeks later when someone innocently asks "are you sure you'll make the deadline?" — and you explode.

Spinning out on the emotion isn't an option either. You know that state where you replay the situation over and over, come up with perfect comebacks, imagine putting everyone in their place? An hour later you're exhausted, the anger hasn't gone anywhere, and your nervous system just took the hit of an actual conflict.

Suppressing — bad. Spinning out — bad. So what then?

Notice. And let go.

Why this is so hard

Because the reaction feels like the only possible option. It's so built into us from childhood that it's almost part of our identity.

You're not just angry at injustice — you're someone who doesn't tolerate injustice. You're not just afraid of criticism — you're the one who always tries to be good. The emotional reaction has fused with how you understand yourself.

And when someone says "you could just not react" — it sounds like they're asking you to give up a piece of yourself. Like they're telling you: stop being you.

But here's the thing. The reaction isn't you. It's a habit. A very old, very familiar one, but still a habit. You learned it because it helped you survive — in your family, at school, in your first relationships. It was useful. Was.

Now you're in a different place. But the habit stayed. And it keeps firing automatically, even when it makes no sense at all.

What to do: deconstruction

When emotion hits — your prefrontal cortex is temporarily offline. This is physiology: the amygdala has taken over, and the rational part of your brain simply can't engage. So analyzing in the moment is pointless. You won't hear yourself.

The first thing that works — leave physically. Step out of the office. Out of the room. Outside. Change the space. Not to escape the conversation, but to give yourself a pause.

Then — don't think. Don't replay. Don't rehearse responses. Let thoughts pass without grabbing onto them. This is harder than it sounds because your brain will keep serving up "but here's something important" again and again. Don't take the bait.

And only when it's passed — when your breathing has evened out, when your shoulders have dropped, when your prefrontal cortex is back in the game — then you can think.

Ask yourself: where is this coming from? Why do I react this way? What is this reaction protecting? And most importantly: does this situation actually deserve this response? Or am I reacting on autopilot, to something old that isn't even here anymore?

Sometimes the answer is yes, it deserves it. Sometimes anger is appropriate. Sometimes fear saves you.

But often — no. Often you discover you're reacting to a ghost. To your dad's voice in your head. To the teacher from third grade. To an ex who's long gone from your life.

Letting go doesn't mean calming down

This matters. "Calm down" is violence. It's an order to feel differently than you feel. Get it together. Enough. Stop it.

Doesn't work. Or rather, works like a cork — temporarily and with consequences.

Letting go is different. It's not forcing yourself, it's allowing. Allowing thoughts to pass by without grabbing each one by the tail. Allowing your body to do what it's doing — shake if it's shaking, breathe ragged if that's how it's breathing. Not fixing yourself. Just being in it until it passes.

You don't have to snap back to normal instantly. Don't have to look calm. Don't have to meet anyone's expectations of how you're supposed to process this.

That's the hardest part, actually — giving yourself permission to not be obligated. Not to the situation, not to the people around you, not to your own image of the-person-who-always-handles-it.

You can not handle it. You can leave. You can stay quiet. You can say "I need five minutes." The world won't collapse.

The whole idea fits in one sentence: you can choose not to react.

Simple thought. So simple it seems like — what's new here?

Then you try it — and realize how hard it is. Because everything inside screams that reacting is necessary. That without a reaction you're a doormat. That staying silent means losing. That letting go means giving up.

That's not true. But retraining yourself takes time. It's not one therapy session and not one article you read. It's gradual, unhurried, without beating yourself up for setbacks. Notice. Acknowledge. Try to let go. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn't.

I don't know if there's a moment when this becomes easy. I suspect not. I suspect it just becomes a habit — the way the old reaction once became a habit.

Only this new habit doesn't destroy you from the inside.