Some people never seem to be at peace with themselves
Some years ago, I had a friend—let’s call him William.
He was a quiet soul, the kind of person who sat on the edges of a conversation rather than stepping into its center. We were both part of a Bible study for young single adults, a time in life when most of us were brimming with hope and energy. But William always seemed cloaked in a shadow of sadness.
One summer, some of us attended a religious conference. I offered William a ride. I imagined two hours of lighthearted talk on the road—about our hopes, our faith, even a few laughs about the trivial things young people often discuss. I made a venture with that approach. But soon, the tone shifted.
William began speaking of his troubles.
What poured out of him was not simply a passing mention of hardship but a flood—like a slow-moving tornado that pulled everything into its spiral, drawing me down with it. He told me about his years in therapy, about the wounds he carried from his childhood. His parents, he explained, had made many mistakes in raising him and his siblings. The disharmony at home had planted seeds of insecurity and pain.
I felt a pang of compassion. Family strife can indeed leave deep scars. For my part, I thought — as Christians, aren’t we called to bear one another’s burdens? To listen patiently, to offer comfort? So I let him continue.
But as the miles stretched on, so did his monologue. There was no pause, no opening to talk of anything beyond his own pain. The conversation was a one-way street, lined with his grievances, his loneliness, his despair.
Pleading for Relief
After an hour, I found myself silently pleading for relief. I wanted to roll down the window and let the wind sweep me away. I longed to talk as friends normally do—about sports, plans for the future, even about politics or girls. We were in our twenties, after all—young, full of life, eager to take on the world. Yet here I was, trapped in a two-hour confessional that left no room for mutual sharing, no space for the ordinary warmth of friendship.
It was clear: William was closed in on himself. He saw the entire world through the lens of his wounds.
Yes, his pain was real. And yes, the therapist had likely traced much of his suffering back to his parents’ failings. But sometimes, therapy—while helpful—can also unintentionally encourage a person to remain focused inward, circling endlessly around the question, “Why am I this way?”
And therein lies a danger.
Because self-focus, even in the name of healing, can become its own prison.
It is always delicate, even treacherous, to walk alongside someone wrestling with mental illness or deep depression. It is just as treacherous to face our own darkness alone.
Thomas à Kempis
Centuries ago, a wise and devout man named Thomas à Kempis wrote a book called The Imitation of Christ, a spiritual classic second only to the Bible in its influence. It is not a textbook on mental health, but it offers timeless insights for anyone seeking peace in a restless world.
One of Kempis’ reflections could have been written for William—or for any of us when we become absorbed in our troubles:
“Some people live at peace with themselves and with their fellow men. But others are never at peace with themselves, nor do they bring peace to anyone else. These latter are a burden to everyone—but they are even more a burden to themselves. Few finally live at peace with themselves and seek to restore it to others.”
How true that is. When we turn our gaze endlessly inward, even the smallest difficulty grows large. Our restlessness breeds suspicion, discontent, emotional volatility. We become like a storm cloud, heavy with rain that never falls.
But Thomas à Kempis offers another path—one not of self-absorption but of self-forgetfulness:
“All our peace in this miserable life is found in humbly enduring suffering rather than in seeking to be free from it. He who knows best how to suffer will enjoy the greater peace, for he is the conqueror of himself, the master of the world, a friend of Christ, and an heir of heaven.”
There is a paradox here. The more we clutch at relief, the more restless we become. But when we humbly accept our suffering, when we step outside ourselves and lift our eyes toward God and others, peace begins to settle—quietly, gently—like dew on the grass.
Humility loosens the grip of self-preoccupation. Endurance—patiently borne—becomes not a curse, but a teacher.
In the end, the path to peace is not paved with endless self-examination. It is found in the surrender of pride, the softening of the ego, the willingness to suffer without bitterness.
Climbing Out of the Pit
I don’t know what became of William. Did he ever find someone who could truly help him out of his despair and toward a hope-filled life? Did he meet a friend—or perhaps a mentor—who could gently turn his gaze away from his pain and toward something greater? I pray he did.
But his story lingers in my mind because it echoes a struggle I’ve seen in others, especially among the elderly. When you are alone—when your world grows smaller, when friends and family die or drift away—your thoughts can begin circling like a bird trapped in a room. Loneliness can drive even a healthy mind inward, toward endless self-reflection, until the smallest troubles feel like mountains.
Many older people silently face this. The quiet of an empty home, the long stretch of hours with no one to talk to, can make a person feel like William did on that car ride—stuck in the tunnel of their own pain, unable to see the light beyond.
And yet, Thomas à Kempis reminds us that peace is not found by endlessly revisiting our wounds, but by humbly bearing them, by softening our hearts to God and to others. This is why companionship and compassion matter so deeply—not only for the young and restless, but for the elderly whose loneliness can so easily turn into despair.
Reaching Out
This is why companionship and compassion matter so deeply—in a way so commonly seen among the elderly whose loneliness can so easily turn into despair.
So let us look around. Who in your life might be quietly suffering, waiting for a kind word, a listening ear, a simple visit? A small gesture of friendship can be like opening a window in a stuffy room, letting in fresh air and light. Reach out. Call the neighbor who lives alone. Visit the relative who seems withdrawn. Even the smallest act of care can help someone take a step away from self-absorption and toward hope.
For in lifting another, we ourselves find peace. As Thomas à Kempis says,
“Those who love God much do much, and those who do a deed well perform it for the common good and not to please themselves.”