These days, I find myself straddling two worlds—the intimate, tender joys of raising small children, and the heartbreak of watching parts of the world unravel. One moment I’m reading bedtime stories, the next, I’m taking in news of climate catastrophe and genocide. The contrast can be dizzying.
Amid all this, I’ve been reflecting on patience—not as passive acceptance, but as a form of strength. The kind of strength it takes to meet the unbearable truths coming out of Gaza (or Ukraine, Sudan, Congo, Burma…) without shutting down. The kind that lets us grieve, stay present, and imagine another future.
A Quiet Power
Patience isn’t gritting our teeth and waiting for something to end. That’s all we can muster at times, but true patience is an inner softening that opens into spaciousness. It lays the foundation for real healing and transformation—within ourselves, our relationships, and across society. Like water slowly wearing down stone, patience is a quiet, powerful force that endures and shapes the world over time.
Patience is not passivity. It doesn’t mean standing by in the face of harm. Rather, it creates space for a clear, deliberate response—soothing the inner pressure to react and helping us choose how we show up.
In a culture of instant gratification and hyper-efficiency, patience is radical. It attunes us to the organic rhythms of life—like the steadiness of an ancient redwood abiding across centuries.
In relationships, patience is a form of love. It takes time to love—time to give our full attention, to slow down enough to truly connect. There's a world of difference between trying to get my toddler to follow my timeline, and engaging at his pace. Patience also supports skillful communication and helps us stay present through difficulty: bearing discomfort, noticing the urge to react, and dissolving tension with presence.
Patience in Times of upheaval
Bayo Akomolafe says, “The times are urgent; let us slow down.”
We may understand the value of patience with those we love. But what does it mean to be patient when the world is on fire—when danger is real and immediate?
I write with humility. I’ve never faced the kind of direct violence or persecution that so many have endured—throughout history and today. I speak not from experience of war or exile, but as a student of nonviolence, writing from principle, vision, and faith.
From that place, I’ve come to understand patience not as passivity, but as a form of resilience that sustains movements from the inside out. Inwardly, it soothes the flames of anger and hatred that can consume us or tear movements apart. Like the shore of a great lake, it holds a wide container for pain, reactivity, and inner conflict.
Outwardly, patience lends movements staying power by aligning us with the long view and nurturing depth when change is slow. The suffrage movement spanned decades of organizing, setbacks, and incremental wins before women gained the right to vote. Today, mutual aid networks sustain communities abandoned by public systems—offering support, care, and solidarity long after headlines fade.
Patience also gives vision time to ripen. As Nelson Mandela reflected, mistaking urgency for clarity can lead to wasted energy, missteps, and burnout. In movements for justice, as in our personal lives, we need time to listen deeply, to imagine, to discern. Patience makes space for wisdom to emerge, so our choices are aligned not just with what we’re against, but with the future we long to build.
And yet, the idea of patience can be misused. As Dr. King warned in his 1963 Letter from Birmingham Jail: “For years now I have heard the word ‘Wait!’...This ‘Wait’ has almost always meant ‘Never.’”
Dr. King didn’t reject patience; he called for discernment. Waiting can be a form of inertia, enabling harm. But there’s also a waiting rooted in moral clarity and determination. He advocated for what we might call healthy impatience—a fierce love that refuses to stay silent in the face of injustice.
I’m not offering any simple answers for how to respond to injustice. There are many roles to play, many forms of courage. But without patience, urgency can veer into reactivity or despair.
The Long Arc of Transformation
When rooted in vision and resolve, patience becomes a kind of spiritual stamina. It turns time into an ally—a force that strengthens us. Instead of feeling trapped by delay, time matures our efforts—like seeds resting in winter soil.
Nonviolent movements wear down injustice through sustained friction. Like making fire with a bow drill, it takes both suppleness and persistence. During the Vietnam War, monk and activist Thích Minh Đức reflected: “We did not think that by demonstrating we’d turn things around immediately… Today one inch, tomorrow another inch.” Patience meant staying with the struggle even when change felt impossibly slow—remembering that every inch matters.
In a culture of speed and performative outrage, how do we build the capacity to stay? Can we create collective conditions to slow down and center patience in our families, communities, and movements?
What if we practiced a screen-free day each week? Spent an evening by candlelight, attuning to our circadian rhythms? Or did something the slow way—growing food instead of shopping, knitting a sweater by hand?
These aren’t just nostalgic rituals. They build cultural muscle for long-haul change. Patience invites us to live in harmony with the natural unfolding of things—and reminds us there’s nothing we can’t endure, together.
Patience isn’t resignation—it’s steady presence imbued with love. So, I invite you to consider:
Where in your life do you sense the need for more patience? What kind of strength might emerge from slowing down? What becomes possible when we wait, listen, and stay?
These reflections are based on a chapter from Your Heart Was Made For This, and recent teachings at Clear Dharma Sangha.
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