What If We're Not Angry? What If We're Scared?

And why the things we fight about may not be what we're really fighting about.

I was reading a novel recently when I came across a sentence that stopped me.

Fear makes us selfish.

The character was describing research suggesting that when people are reminded of death, they become more protective of their possessions, beliefs, religion, country, and the people they identify with.

More suspicious of outsiders, more intolerant, more tribal.

I remember thinking:

Wow, is that what's happening to us?

Look around - families are divided over politics, friendships end over elections. Someone expresses an opinion online, and within seconds we've decided they're not just wrong, they're a terrible person.

And I find myself wondering how we got here. How people who love their families, care about their communities, and genuinely want a better world can end up feeling so far apart.

Meanwhile, we're surrounded by reasons to be afraid: war, climate change, shootings, pandemics, political instability, economic uncertainty. We carry all of this in our pockets, yet most of us wouldn't describe ourselves as terrified.

We're making dinner, answering emails, picking up kids, living ordinary lives.

But what if underneath that normalcy, our nervous systems are receiving a different message?

Something is wrong, something bad might happen. Protect yourself.

And what if some of the division we're witnessing isn't really about politics?

What if it's about fear?

A Strange Experiment

Psychologists have actually studied this. In experiments involving something called mortality salience, researchers remind people that they're going to die, then observe what happens.

Often, people become more protective of their beliefs and identities, favoring those who share their worldview and reacting more negatively toward those who challenge it.

Suddenly, that sentence from the novel made sense, except I think it missed something important:

Fear doesn't necessarily make us selfish, it makes us protective.

And that feels like a much more compassionate way to understand ourselves and each other.

Think about the last time you were genuinely scared. Maybe your child was sick, your job was uncertain, or a doctor wanted to run more tests.

Did you suddenly become wonderfully open-minded? Did uncertainty feel delightful?

Probably not. You wanted answers, certainty, someone to tell you that everything would be okay. And who could blame you?

When someone or something we love feels threatened, of course we want to protect it. 

That's what frightened nervous systems do, they try to keep us safe.

And when we don't feel safe, our world gets smaller. We become more vigilant, more controlling, less tolerant of uncertainty, and sometimes desperate to identify who's responsible.

Now consider where each of us has learned to find safety.

If it's money, we may cling more tightly to money.

If it's religion, we may defend our religion.

If it's political identity, we may become more entrenched in our political group.

And if it's being right, well, you can imagine what happens there. Suddenly, disagreement isn't simply another perspective.

It's a threat to something we depend on to feel safe.

Maybe that's why two intelligent people can discuss immigration, vaccines, climate change, or politics and within minutes behave as though the other person's existence is offensive.

They're not necessarily just defending an idea, they may be defending their sense of safety. And underneath all that certainty and defensiveness may be something surprisingly human.

Someone who's afraid of losing what matters to them.

You Can't Argue Someone Into Feeling Safe

This is something Matt and I encounter constantly in our work.

When someone feels threatened, we often respond by trying harder to explain our perspective, hoping that if we just find the right words or offer enough evidence, they'll understand.

Surely if I explain myself one more time, only louder and with better data, they'll understand.

Anyone who's ever argued with someone they love knows how well that works!

The more I push, the more you defend. The more you defend, the more threatened I feel. So I push harder.

Before long, two nervous systems are standing in the kitchen arguing about how the dishwasher was loaded as though civilization itself hangs in the balance.

The dishwasher isn't the problem anymore, safety is.

So what might a different approach look like?

Imagine your partner comes home later than expected and hasn't responded to your messages.

Your worry might come out as criticism: "Where were you? Why didn't you answer my calls or messages?"

They respond defensively, and suddenly you're arguing about phone etiquette.

But what if instead you approached them with curiosity and care?

"Hey, when I didn't hear from you, I started getting worried. I'm really glad you're home. How are you?"

The goal isn't to find out why they didn't respond, it's to reconnect with the person you were worried about.

And once you've reconnected, you might say, "Would you be willing to send me a quick text when you're running late? It would help me feel more at ease."

Because curiosity isn't just asking a different question, it's coming from a different intention.

And I wonder what might change if we brought that same intention into our conversations beyond our homes. Because right now, on a much larger scale, we often do the opposite.

We shame, ridicule, and attack people whose beliefs frighten or frustrate us, then wonder why they become even more entrenched.

But shame is a threat, humiliation is a threat, and exclusion is a threat.

And adding more threat to someone who's already protecting themselves may simply make them build the wall higher - which is heartbreaking when you think about it.

Because so often, what we really want is to be heard, understood, and respected. Yet the very ways we try to protect ourselves can push those things further away.

Now imagine millions of us doing this at once, while algorithms continually feed us frightening headlines and reasons to distrust one another.

We become a little more vigilant, a little less curious, and increasingly convinced that everything would be fine if those people would just wake up.

A frightened world becomes a divided world.

Not necessarily because people are inherently selfish or cruel.

But because they're searching for safety.

And Then Comes the Plot Twist

Here's what I find especially fascinating - being reminded of death doesn't always make people more selfish or defensive.

Sometimes it makes them more generous, compassionate, and committed to helping others.

Why?

Because fear doesn't simply make us grab things, it makes us reach for what matters to us.

If safety means having more than you, fear may make me hoard.

If safety means being right, fear may make me rigid.

If safety means belonging to my group, outsiders may feel dangerous.

But what if I've learned to find safety somewhere else?

In relationships, in community, in knowing I can survive disagreement, and in trusting that I can hear your experience without losing myself.

In connection.

Then fear has somewhere different to go, and maybe that's where some real hope lives.

Because while we can't always control what frightens us, we can begin to change where we turn when we're afraid.

Maybe This Is Why Connection Matters So Much

We often treat connection as something nice but optional. Call your mother, hug your kids, have dinner with friends.

But connection can do something far more important.

It tells our nervous system: You don't have to face this alone.

Imagine receiving frightening news by yourself. Now imagine receiving the same news with someone you trust sitting beside you, holding your hand, saying:

I'm here. We'll figure this out together.

The circumstances haven't changed, but your experience of them may have. And sometimes, in our most vulnerable moments, knowing we're not alone changes everything.

When we feel safe enough, we don't have to protect ourselves quite so fiercely.

We can listen, become curious, tolerate uncertainty, and disagree without needing to defeat one another.

And perhaps most importantly, we can stay connected to someone without requiring them to become more like us first.

Imagine how different our relationships, our families, even our world might feel if we could offer one another just a little more of that safety.

The Question I've Started Asking Myself

I've stopped asking only, Am I afraid?

Because most of the time, I wouldn't describe myself that way.

Instead, I'm asking:

What do I do when I don't feel safe?

Do I control? Criticize? Withdraw? Work harder? Search desperately for certainty? Need everyone to agree with me? Find someone to blame?

And what happens to my capacity for connection when I do?

I don't love all my answers, but I'm trying to meet those answers with curiosity rather than judgment.

Because I'm beginning to realize that the parts of me that become controlling, critical, or defensive aren't necessarily the parts I need to fight. They're often the parts of me that most need reassurance, and I suspect I'm not alone in that.

We're never going to eliminate uncertainty.

There will always be another frightening headline, another diagnosis, another person we love growing older.

Eventually, we all confront the same truth.

We are vulnerable, we cannot control everything, and our time here is finite.

And maybe that's part of what makes being human both so frightening and so precious.

We have so much to lose because we have so much to love.

Maybe the goal isn't to become fearless. Maybe it's to learn that when fear arrives, we don't have to build a wall.

We can build something that actually helps us feel safe, and perhaps that's where connection begins.