I Am Large, I Contain Multitudes

Re-defining what it means to be a good person through radical love.

Hello dear reader,

How are you this week? Did you find yourself containing the whole universe?

Sunset over a River Landscape (early 1840s) by Francis Danby (English, 1793-1861)

“Do I contradict myself? Very well then, I contradict myself. I am large, I contain multitudes.”

— Walt Whitman

Holding both the "dirty" and the "pristine" in recognition of the ultimate sacredness of both—and all that lives in between—is something I have been observing closely these past months.

A great part of my inner work revolves, therefore, around this effort: bringing into awareness that which had been outcast from the well-groomed lands of my self-image. An ideal formed largely around being not only a “good person” — but a “good girl” — as my therapist says, poking at my deeply held fears that I may turn out to be everything else but that.

It is a particular, upending kind of discomfort to sit with these two opposites at once and realise that neither defines anything. Both the so-called “good” and “bad,” whether relating to ourselves or external events and other people, are a simple yet profound testimony to how things just are—a part of nature, a wholeness.

What does it mean to be a “good person”?

In the natural world, everything belongs and all things inter-are, regardless of how we perceive them. We might shiver at the thought of the daily murders that occur between predator and prey, the natural disasters claiming thousands of lives big and small, or the sight of a decaying animal body, already partially reunited with its ecosystem.

“Nature uses devastation to stimulate new growth, slowly but persistently healing her own wounds,” wrote Parker J. Palmer in A Hidden Wholeness. Whether we like it or not, all of it has its place and an important role to play in the greater whole. That is because nature is a nonjudgmental, life-giving and life-taking container in which all expressions of life cyclically come into being and fade without clinging, unbound by our definitions but truthful to their own innate wisdom.

This is our predicament too. We are meant to be fluid, spontaneous, playful, attentive, bright, and wise with the wisdom that comes from the vital force throbbing deep within us—not only the intellectual scaffolding of it.

It took me a while to come closer to this state. For most of my life, I was a helpless empath, endlessly attuned to the emotional states of those around me. I thought it was a feature I was equipped with because I was meant to help everyone—as I, of course, thought I should want to do. I’d often sacrifice myself for the sake of that effort. A good girl wouldn’t say no, would she?

I was defining my strength by how much I could carry in my little hands without dropping a single thing, as if self-sacrifice were proof of moral worthiness. Such a conviction, coupled with high sensitivity, resulted in me primarily getting involved in abusive relationships with the hope of “saving” the boy or man I was dating, believing their salvation was my responsibility.

It may sound impossible to some of you, but I didn’t even know what my needs were, how to name them, or what boundaries were for. Though I convinced myself that I was tasked with saving others, in a trickery of life, I became the one overpoweringly dependent on them.

While I could always sense the undercurrent power and force of the “good” within me—and perhaps I even thought at times that it was also meant for my benefit—I held a particular idea of how “goodness” manifests in life, which made me function through it as if it were my weakness. In other words, instead of utilising it, I was giving away this power.

My therapist told me once that sexual abuse is not as much a gender struggle as it is one of power and control. Until then, I hadn’t realised how automatically I surrendered both whenever I tried to be “good.” A good person—a good girl—I believed, shouldn’t be rigid, assertive, or argumentative. Above all, she must never risk making anyone angry. Deep down, I was horrified that by attempting to choose myself, I’d make others very, very angry with me.

The process of unearthing and untying these tightly woven knots has been long and tender, as it is ongoing. I’ve learned about my needs, about boundaries and their purpose. I’ve learned that it is okay to set them, that others’ anger doesn’t deem me a bad person. What’s more, I discovered that I am allowed to get angry too, and that doesn’t mean that either I or the person who upset me are terrible, unlovable people. To my initial horror, I began to understand that I can be selfish, narcissistic, unwilling to offer help, unappreciative of others’ support, and so on. A nightmare of mine was becoming a reality: I am a “bad” person too! Or so it would seem.

In welcoming back the elements I have considered as belonging to a “bad girl,” I learn that I am neither. Another layer of narrative falls away to allow for a greater intimacy with what is. And as I uncover it, I sense fear swelling within me: how much more is there still to unearth? How many times will I become undone to the core so that I can be truer? That fear of uncertainty and suffering, which arises as we come closer to truth, needs to be surrendered and held with care-full equanimity, just like everything else that occurs in us as a result of this inner work. There has never been another way, after all—and I know you know it. My mentor told me the other day that the challenge with people like me—like us, may I say—who seek the truth, is that we get what we ask for. It is always bittersweet to see clearly what you are made of.

Facing the discomfort of seeing those parts of myself I had rejected, I am careful not to label them too tightly, holding an impartial space for those suppressed expressions of me to unfold steadily instead of forcing change or banishing those that feel “wrong.” In this space, transformation happens naturally, unforced, and without judgment or clinging. In other words, I invite nature to do its thing, and I let loose the idea of what a predator is and whether it all makes me prey.

Jack Kornfield writes, “To let go does not mean to get rid of. To let go means to let be. When we let be with compassion, things come and go on their own.” The revolutionary realisation of mine was that what I considered to be the dark, bad parts of myself are actually the very conditions which allow me to set boundaries and protect my wellbeing. That, frankly, I need the “bad” to be “good”—not just to others, but also (importantly) to myself. It is a wild idea indeed, which I held deeply in my heart, that being a good person meant being good to others—but somehow not to myself. How could I believe that I am wholly good while excluding myself from that plenty? I do not know.

In Buddhism, compassion begins with recognising and respecting one’s own limits. Without boundaries, compassion for others can easily turn into self-neglect, and true generosity becomes impossible. Reclaiming these parts of myself has given me a clarity I lacked before—a deeper sense of when to act, when to step back, and when to simply hold space.

The more I see the full spectrum of what resides within me, integrating the shadow parts, the more I understand that we all hold parts that make us act in all the variety of ways—some of which we might label as “bad,” while others we’d happily welcome as “good.” I would have assumed such a realisation should make me even more lenient and accommodating of others. And yet, most of the time, the trajectory is inverted—rather than opening up more to the outside world, I am widening my reckoning of what’s within me. And I guard it.

I grow more selective about when and how I engage with others. At first, I was afraid I was becoming desensitised (and, yes, a bad person), which is true to some extent. I no longer feel an automatic responsibility for the emotional states of those around me. Instead, I let them hold their power as I reclaim mine, trusting in their own innate wisdom and agency. If asked for help, I offer it freely, within my means. But I no longer overextend myself in an attempt to prove my “goodness.” This shift has created space—for others, certainly, but also for myself.

I see now how clinging to an identity of goodness made me unaware of its true essence: the spaciousness of being fully present, without judgment, to whatever arises.

Being present with the darkness of others

As always, I strive to find parallels between my personal experience and that of a collective. I believe we are in a particular time and mindset where most of us feel overburdened by the endless stream of terrifying news flowing our way from all directions, yet tired of the narratives attempting to prettify our fractured reality.

Some of us resort to numbing behaviours, while others stand on the brink of mental and emotional collapse—desperate for authenticity but frightened by what we might find if we truly look. As Pema Chödrön once wrote: “Only when we know our own darkness well can we be present with the darkness of others. Compassion becomes real when we recognise our shared humanity.”

In the poetry course I am attending now, Nadia Colburn, the facilitator, asks: "How can we take in the difficulties, the suffering of the world, and still find and promote peace?" The question points directly to the tension I have been navigating. How do we hold the world’s horrors, as well as its beauty, without succumbing to rage or despair? How do we remain sweet, soft, and compassionate, as opposed to bitter, rigid, and divisive when there is so much fear and suffering around us? How do we hold it all together, when it feels like everything, including ourselves, is about to fall apart under the pressure of the age-old struggle of good and bad, the dirty and pristine?

The answer lies in what

Dr. Jaiya John

calls “freedom work”—a process of “personal and collective liberation from oppressive forces,” and what Francis Weller describes as “soul activism”—an inside-out reckoning of the ever-present good.

Many of us live in a tension between wanting to act “right” and with integrity while learning to let go of the need to be “good.” In Buddhism, clinging to any identity, including that of being a “good person,” is generally seen as an aggregate of suffering, not a liberation from it. This attachment can easily become a craving for approval or pride, and a tendency to judge those who don’t fit our definition of “good”—neither of which leads to true freedom.

My own efforts to maintain a “good girl” ideal often came from a desire to be validated rather than an authentic expression of care. It eventually left me feeling inadequate, lacking, and insufficient. At the same time, it caused me to hold others to the same unrealistic standards, creating divisions that were at odds with the very values I believed myself to embody.

Freedom work for each of us can mean liberation from our own tight grip. Loosening our attachment to the idea that we must always appear good, we become freer to respond skilfully to whatever arises. This is the essence of upaya, or skilful means: goodness is not fixed but contextual, emerging from sincerity and presence rather than rules or roles.

In letting ourselves be, we invite our innate wisdom to come forth, making itself known in relation to the context we find ourselves in. An act of kindness may take many forms depending on the circumstances; sometimes it might be soft and accommodating, and other times firm and unyielding. Goodness, I’ve come to understand, is not rigidly tied to who or what we are, but to how we meet each moment. Instead of clinging to the identity of a “good person,” as I have long tried to do, it encourages sincerity in one’s intentions and a willingness to act from a place of awareness rather than attachment.

Radical love

I have been wondering, then, why goodness matters at all. What is it we are really striving for? And, as usual, I reach to Buddhism for support. I am reminded that being “good” is not the ultimate goal but a means along the path to awakening. True liberation comes from seeing beyond dualities—good and bad, self and other—and resting in the spaciousness of what simply is.

The more deeply and trustingly I engage in this work, the more I sense that my efforts to integrate my shadow parts, set boundaries, and act compassionately toward both myself and others are meant not just for my personal healing but lend themselves to a kind of wholeness that transcends me.

By gaining a broader understanding of what it might mean to be a “good” person—and perhaps even experimenting with letting go of that ideal—we can discover a new quality of energy, previously consumed by fighting the expressions of “bad” in ourselves and others. And while it might sound defeatist to some, I believe it is helpful to remember that fighting anger with anger or hatred with hatred will only ever birth more of the same.

Joanna Macy reminds us, “The heart that breaks open can contain the whole universe.” This breaking open—though painful—is what allows us to expand our capacity to hold it all together. The act of surrendering to the truth that we contain the same parts as those who frighten, upset, or frustrate us is an act of courageous willingness to see things wholly as they are. Which, of course, can only begin within.

We truly step into the service of others when we stop trying to be “good.” Then, we become ready to embody radical love, a concept taught by Satish Kumar, a peace-pilgrim, lifelong activist, and former Jain monk, who has been inspiring global change for over 50 years. In his 20s, he undertook a pilgrimage for peace, walking for two years without money from India to America for the cause of nuclear disarmament. Now in his 80s, he has devoted his life to campaigning for ecological regeneration, social justice, and spiritual fulfilment.

Kumar speaks of a love that is both kind and radically transformative, that does not shrink from the world’s pain but engages with it wholeheartedly. He distinguishes between “moderate love,” which only extends to those who love us back or agree with us, and “radical love,” which embraces even those who oppose or offend us. Such love transcends identity politics and societal division, reminding us that we are one humanity—and that love without expectation is the thread that weaves us together.

In his own words:

The idea of radical love comes from Jainism because, in our world, either you’re a loving, kind, and beautiful person, but you think radical activism—demonstrating and protesting—isn’t useful, so you stay away from it. Or, you’re a radical activist—Extinction Rebellion, Stop the Oil—you protest against anything, but there’s no loving heart in it. In my book Radical Love, I argue that you need to be both a loving, kind, compassionate person and a radical, transformative change-maker.

For example, Mahatma Gandhi was very much influenced by Jainism. One of his teachers was Jain, and his mother was half-Jain. This idea of combining radicalism and activism with a loving heart, compassion, and kindness is crucial. They are not opposites; they go together. That’s one aspect of radical love: combining these two.

The second aspect is that there are two kinds of love: moderate love and radical love. Moderate love is when you love somebody you like, someone who agrees with you, or someone who loves you back. That’s good love, moderate love. We all try to practice it as much as we can. Even moderate love is not easy—love between husband and wife, boyfriend and girlfriend, between parents and children, teachers and students, love between doctors and patients—it’s not always there. These relationships are often practical but lacking in love. However, radical love is about loving someone you don’t like, someone you don’t agree with, or someone who doesn’t love you back. It’s love without expectation, and that’s radical love.

In our modern world, we need to practice radical love. Technology has advanced so much—on your smartphone, you can connect with the world, with many speakers, teachers, music, and books. But while technology has moved forward, humanity has not. We’re still fighting wars, like the one in Ukraine. There’s still animosity between countries, and so much narrow-mindedness. Blacks don’t like whites; whites don’t like blacks; Hindus and Muslims don’t get along. So much narrow-mindedness. Our world desperately needs radical love so that we can realize we are one humanity.

Can we all speak together? “The whole cosmos is my country. The whole planet is my home. Nature is my nationality. Love is my religion.”

That is radical love.

Holding hatred, fear, injustice, selfishness, and anger in one hand, and acceptance, trust, justice, selflessness, and peacefulness in the other, we bring our palms together, uniting opposites in a gesture of reverence. When we bow to the entirety of our being—the beautiful and the unsightly—we honour the fullness of humanity.

This act of surrender, of seeing things as they are, is not defeat but liberation. It is the work of freedom, the work of love. And in the spaciousness it creates, we indeed come closer to a gentle truth: to let go of goodness is to finally hold it.

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A question to you, dear reader:

What makes you a good person?