I Thought I Knew How to Observe My Emotions

I’m sitting here writing this thinking I understand what it means to “observe” your emotions.

That if I just notice what I’m feeling—step back a little—I’ll feel better. Like there’s a method to it.

Like I know how to do it.

But after this week—after everything I’ve been feeling—I can say this pretty clearly:

I don’t know what the hell that actually means.

What does it even look like to observe your emotions?

It started small. Or at least it seemed like it would be.

I had just finished dinner and took my dog to the park. I called a friend I hadn’t talked to in a while. She mentioned my ex was arriving the next day—moving to the same city she’s in.

And just like that, my mind went somewhere I thought I had already left behind.

I knew who he’d be staying with.

And before I could stop it, everything came back. Fast. Layered. Heavy.

Not new pain.

Old pain—finally asking to be felt.

That’s the part no one really tells you:

Emotions you don’t feel don’t disappear.They wait.

At the same time, there was something else underneath it.

A different feeling I hadn’t been able to name all week—something tied to someone new.

Not clear enough to understand. Just strong enough to feel.

Hope. Confusion. Anticipation.

The kind of feeling where every interaction seems like it might mean something—but you don’t know what.

So now it was all there at once:

The past.The maybe.The uncertainty.

Layered on top of each other.

After I got off the phone, it hit harder.

I was alone with it now.

No distraction. No buffer. Just me, my dog—Luna—and everything I didn’t know what to do with.

So I did what I always do.

I put my AirPods in and played a song that matched the mood. The kind that makes you feel sad and hopeful at the same time.

Because when something feels uncomfortable, there’s this instinct to lean into it—but still control it.

To feel it… but on your terms.

We walked out of the gate, and Luna—being the border collie she is—took off after a squirrel.

So I ran with her.

And for a moment—while everything in my head was loud—everything outside of me got quiet.

Cloudy sky. Cool air. The city stretching out in front of me.

I took a breath and told myself:

“Just observe what you’re feeling. Everything will be okay.”

And immediately after:

What the hell does that even mean?

Because observing your emotions isn’t as simple as people make it sound.

It’s not “notice and move on.”

If it were, I wouldn’t be standing there questioning everything I thought I understood about myself.

Awareness isn’t control.

It’s contact.

It’s staying long enough to actually feel what’s there—without trying to fix it, solve it, or escape it.

And when you actually stay…

It doesn’t feel peaceful.

It feels like chaos.

My mind kept firing:

Is this real? Why does it feel real? Why do I still care? Am I trusting my intuition—or just telling myself I am?

“Caleb. Look up. Breathe.”

And this is where something clicked for me:

Observing your emotions isn’t about making every feeling valid or meaningful.

It’s about deciding which ones deserve your attention.

Because not every feeling is truth.

Some are just echoes. Old patterns. Fear dressed up as intuition.

And if you don’t learn how to separate that, everything feels important.

Everything feels urgent.

Everything feels real.

I walked past the glass building near my apartment—the one that just stands there, reflecting everything around it.

And that’s when it hit me.

Maybe observing your emotions is more like that.

It doesn’t hold on to what passes through it.

It reflects it.

Clearly. Honestly.

Without attachment.

There’s a big field next to it where I always take Luna.

I ran out into the grass with her and just… dropped.

Flat on my back.

Looking up at a sky with no stars—just clouds.

Which felt about right.

Luna was running in circles around me, completely present. Completely free.

And I was laying there thinking:

Maybe observing your emotions isn’t about understanding them right away.

Maybe it’s not about fixing them.

Or labeling them.

Or even trusting them.

Maybe it’s just this:

Letting them be there without immediately trying to do something about them.

Feeling the wave—without becoming the wave.

Not pushing it away. Not drowning in it. Just letting it move.

Because the truth is—

I didn’t actually want to observe my emotions.

I wanted them to go away.

And those are two very different things.

So what does it actually look like?

It looks like staying.

Staying when your mind is loud. Staying when nothing makes sense. Staying without turning every feeling into a story about what it means.

It looks like noticing the thought—without immediately believing it.

It looks like realizing that just because something feels intense…

doesn’t mean it’s important.

Because maybe observing your emotions isn’t about clarity.

Maybe it’s about capacity.

How much you can feel…without needing to escape yourself.

And laying there, staring at a sky with no stars,

I realized something:

Not that I’ve figured it out.

Not that it suddenly got easier.

But that for the first time—

I didn’t run.

And maybe that’s where it actually starts.