I. Two Postures of a Person
There are people we meet — the more we talk, the more we sense they live in a separate world full of misfortune. Every story has wronged them, every suffering of theirs is greater than anyone else's, and every kindness they receive is taken as a given. And then there are those on the opposite end — always listening, always understanding, always carrying the weight for everyone around them, until they collapse and no one notices, because they have become so used to being the support that no one thinks to support them.
These two postures, at first glance, seem very different — but both are suffering. One suffers because the self is so vast it occupies all the space, leaving no room for anyone else; the other suffers because the self is so empty no one can fill it.
It is tempting to view these as two extremes that have nothing to do with us. But in truth, we may also be living somewhere between these two appearances without realizing it. When something happens, we lean to one side; another time, we lean to the other, just to feel ourselves. This is very human, very biological — our brain prefers suffering to happiness. It really does prefer entanglement to peace.
But according to the Buddha's teaching on the cessation of suffering, there is one meaningful practice we can take up to find a real anchor after every storm of life — namely:
II. Why Should the Heart Face Outward?
In Alfred Adler's individual psychology, the central task of a human life is the cultivation of community feeling. Adler believed that real happiness lies not in satisfying the ego, but in the capacity to see oneself as part of something larger. Only when we give do we receive something that self-gratification can never reach.
Modern neuroscience has confirmed part of that idea. When we help someone — not because we are forced to, not to be recognized — the brain releases endorphins, producing a state researchers call the helper's high. A gentle, healthy buzz, the kind of "happiness from having done something good." Alongside this, the sense of being valuable to someone else nourishes self-esteem — the question "is my life worthy?" gets answered by a quiet certainty that needs no argument.
Turning the heart outward, simply put, means being ready to connect: to listen to a friend's story, to understand a colleague's worries, to be moved by the joys and sorrows of those close to us. Compassion is like a vitamin for the soul — the more you share, the healthier others become, and you yourself grow more resilient against the negativity that breeds stress.
Two small exercises can serve as the first anchor.
The first is the emotional "check-in": each day, take a few minutes to ask yourself, "What was I most happy, sad, or worried about today?" Write it down in a notebook. This act of recording gradually builds a chart of your own emotions, so you know when your heart is still warm and when it has gone cold.
The second is the practice of gratitude: according to research in positive psychology, those who regularly write down three things they are grateful for each day tend to be happier and less depressed. Gratitude nourishes a warm heart, while resisting the tendency to darken one's life.
Neither of these exercises teaches you to love someone. They teach you to remember that you have a heart — the first step before opening it.
But if there is only a heart and nothing to hold it, where does that water flow?
Love faces outward like a stream brimming with life. But we are not an inexhaustible spring meant to make every flower bloom across the world. Wisdom is the channel that ensures that water flows gently to the right place.
I once watched an interview with the Vietnamese cải lương artist Bạch Tuyết. She said: "The first foolishness is to give when no one needs it; the second foolishness is to expect them to be grateful." Neither foolishness comes from a lack of kindness, but from a lack of wisdom. Kindness without observation, without awareness of timing or recipient, can become a burden for both giver and receiver.
True compassion in Buddhism is surely more than mere kindness — it is a vast and pure love that seeks no return. To step toward compassion, we need to learn to love properly. Here, wisdom is the embankment that guides the stream of love — whether it is a small brook or a surging river.
In psychology, "wisdom" is understood to include reflection, self-awareness, and critical thinking. When we turn it inward, we observe the flow of our emotions and gently ask: What gave rise to this feeling? What am I trying to prove? Does this behavior come from real kindness, or from a wish to be praised? These inner questions help us avoid impulsive decisions, recognize our limits, and identify the core values that anchor a life.
Carl Rogers called the ideal model the "fully functioning person" — someone willing to receive every emotion of theirs, even the uncomfortable ones, while maintaining a high level of awareness about them. This is a skill, not innate. Nor does reading a book make one a saint overnight. It is like going to the gym — daily persistence, sometimes sore muscles.
Two corresponding small exercises.
The first is the pause technique: before you shout in anger or click "buy" on something far beyond your means, stop, take a deep breath, and count down five seconds. Psychology suggests that emotional surges fade after about ninety seconds, unless we attach meaning to them. That five-second gap can sometimes save you from a decision you would regret for a month.
The second is learning to say no: turning the heart outward does not mean nodding yes anywhere, anytime. When something feels wrong, beyond your capacity, or against your personal values, refuse with steadiness. This is the moment when inner wisdom speaks up to protect you from becoming a slave to other people's expectations.
A heart without wisdom gets lost. Wisdom without a heart grows cold and lonely.
But what causes this balance to break?
Here, an old conceptual frame can help us see the underlying mechanism more clearly.
In Sigmund Freud's psychoanalysis, the human psyche can be divided into three parts: ID — instincts; Ego — individual awareness; and SuperEgo — moral standards and social expectations. Among them, the Ego floats between ID and SuperEgo, shaping each individual's sense of self.
The Vietnamese word for "human" — con người — is a metaphor close to Freud's frame. Con ("animal") is the ID — the animal instinct. Người ("person") is the SuperEgo — where moral values and community expectations are reflected. When we speak of growing up, we use the philosophical phrase làm người ("becoming a person"). When we hit hard times, we console ourselves: chỉ là con người mà thôi ("we are only human") — a way of accepting the imperfection of humanity.
You will not find a vegetarian lion lecturing on stoicism in the wild. ID is the same — it carries a set of instincts including selfishness, aggression, combativeness, like every other animal. ID always lives in you, and cannot be eliminated. Whenever the world is in upheaval, suffering will push the Ego back toward ID rather than toward SuperEgo. This is the mechanism behind the person who shrinks into "the universe of me" — not because they are evil, but because the pressure of survival has pushed them back to instinct.
Conversely, if the Ego fully assimilates with the SuperEgo, we suffer no less — through the denial of self in the mold of dogma. This is the mechanism behind those who strain to be everyone's daughter-in-law. They don't naturally want to sacrifice — most of them are children who grew up with narcissistic, avoidant, or critical parents. They learned that to be loved, they had to be useful, well-behaved, and unobtrusive. Their self-esteem is low, so they trade sacrifice for self-worth.
Seen through this frame, "heart outward" and "wisdom inward" are not two pieces of moral advice. They are matched antidotes for two specific kinds of imbalance. Those who lean toward ID need to learn to turn the heart outward — not to become a good person, but so that the Ego has another anchor besides instinct. Those who lean toward SuperEgo need to learn to turn wisdom inward — not to become more selfish, but so that the Ego realizes it exists independently, without having to swallow dogma in order to live.
So, when you meet someone with a large ID, don't rush to judge or blame. Surely there are times when we too get caught up in the universe of our own self. And when you meet someone who always sacrifices, don't rush to praise it as if it were the right thing. That sacrifice may be a wound dressing itself up as morality.
There will be many moments when you meet people whose souls feel like a desert — no matter how much you water them, it does no good. You have to be subtle enough to recognize the hollow thank-yous — because most people, when they receive things easily (such as love), assume them to be self-evident. The lesson here is this: love wholeheartedly so that you can be indifferent when needed. You don't need too much guilt when removing such people from your life — but neither should you confuse their ID and Ego with your own.
However, before labeling someone a "desert," perhaps we need to pause for a beat. Most of what we call "having loved with all my heart" is, in truth, just the level we are willing to give until it starts to hurt too much. Self-protective emotion is a very subtle thing — it knows how to disguise itself as kindness or understanding already exhausted, in order to mint the dry conclusion: "I have done my part."
Jung called it the shadow — the part of us we don't want to see in ourselves, but which still needs a way out. And the easiest way out is to project it onto others. The other person may indeed be dry land that cannot be watered. They may be temporarily dry, and we are not patient enough to feel the underground stream beneath. The hardest one to recognize, and usually — they may be reflecting back the very part of us we fear most: the selfish part, the exhausted part, the part that doesn't want to keep going but feels denied.
Not every time we leave is a mature decision. Sometimes, it is an escape dressed in the robes of wisdom. Recognizing the difference between these two is perhaps the very moment when wisdom truly begins to turn inward.
Each time you carry water across these cold and selfish wastelands — whether they are the wastelands of others or of yourself — what you receive is the forging of a stronger heart and mind. And only when that reaches a certain limit do you meet those willing to tend, alongside you, gardens full of fruit and flower.
Viktor Frankl, after surviving four concentration camps, wrote a sentence that I pondered for a long time when I first read it:
"Freedom without responsibility is mere arbitrariness."
He proposed that the Statue of Liberty on America's East Coast be complemented by a Statue of Responsibility on the West Coast — because freedom alone is not enough to make a person. Freedom from social pressure, freedom from narcissistic parents, freedom from one's own ego — that is only half. The other half is the freedom to take responsibility for loving rightly, to stop when stopping is needed, to look at one's own shadow rather than only seeing it in others.
Each day, if you can, before going to sleep, examine yourself — the pains, the joys, the emotions you have walked through. With deep gratitude for both the love and the lessons received in this human life. You will come to believe in a future where you reach the most wonderful thing of this journey — freedom.
