As I begin yet another conflict management course, a requirement for a communication major- a major I chose solely for the emphasis on writing and sheer ratio of girls to guys- I’m reminded of just how much I used to argue. It seems that the entirety of my adolescence consists of bouts of silent treatments and hateful words slung from and towards me.

There is no doubt that I was a spoiled and entitled brat as a kid. The only difference now being that I’m a slightly diluted version of my past self. There were years where I felt incapable of having a conversation with anyone that didn’t directly involve me searching for a mispronunciation or flaw in logic to pounce on. I was addicted to conflict and entirely convinced of a nonexistent superior intellect. As I recall these formative years it takes everything I have not to cringe and I’m glad that enough time has passed that the embarrassing details elude me.

At moments, during battles of feigned wit and vitriol, it occurred to me that my passion was for nothing and that what I was so fervent about didn’t really matter. However, as stubborn as I was, I never let those thoughts unsteady my momentum. It’s a miracle that my mom has any love left for me at all, let alone the will to look at me with compassion, after the awful times I put her through.

After gradual maturation, coupled with a few years of counseling, I somehow managed to pull myself together. It’s hard to say exactly what changed in me because it’s not as if I learned some grand lesson that unlocked the ways of the world to me but I can say one thing with some tentative certainty in hindsight. It is a very rare occasion that the things that upset us are worth being upset over.

Every tragedy I’ve encountered, no matter how menial or devastating as it may have seemed at the time, is something I’ve stopped caring about. It requires a great deal of effort to hold a grudge and despite what research says I’m convinced it’s bad for the stomach. To be able to step back and survey a situation is an invaluable skill. To let go of feelings of ill will is even greater, and of course, a much harder thing to do indeed.

Sometimes the heat of the moment feels like an inescapable trap; a burning house in which your agoraphobic mind refuses to let you leave, despite your carnal fibers begging you to run for your life. Part of understanding how to move on from bad habits like the ones I faced is to recognize that you and everyone else are flawed. And in doing so, knowing that flaws aren’t inherently bad because they are the very idiosyncrasies that define us and make us humans with which others can empathize.

Also, we must practice constant introspection and examine ourselves if we are to ever begin to comprehend one another. I have the tendency to assume that I’m in the right because- well why else would I be arguing, right? By being aware of this flaw I can better communicate because I not only understand others’ frustration with me but I know the root of their frustration. From there all I have to do is acknowledge the error in my behavior and reconcile in a meaningful way.

I’ve lost too many good people to my desire to put others down in order to feel smarter or better than them. And all for what? To avoid facing the fact that maybe I’ve never felt that bright and that at a young age I found out how to disguise cowardice as intellect by hiding behind big words.

We all either argue from a standpoint of logic or emotion and it’s in the choice to wrestle these two, not always mutually exclusive, terms that sets precedence for the direction and argument is going to go. What separates us from the monkeys and jungles, besides hopefully not slinging feces at one another, is our capacity to see ourselves in others. We know how it feels to be hurt and we all damn sure know how it feels to do the hurting. It’s just a matter of knowing that we’re all going to die and be forgotten and realizing that that finality is what makes time so precious. Our fears, our love, our passion- that is who we are.