Let Me Be an Instrument of Peace

The grocery store was crowded, a jangle of carts and stressed Saturday energy. I was in a hurry, of course, a long list clutched in my hand, my mind already three steps ahead, planning the evening meal, calculating the time until guests would arrive. I reached for a carton of oat milk on the refrigerated shelf at the exact same moment as another woman. Our hands brushed—a fleeting, incidental contact. But a jolt went through me, a current of pure, unadulterated irritation. A sharp, hot feeling flared in my chest, utterly disproportionate to the moment. My oat milk. The thought was fierce, possessive, and deeply, embarrassingly automatic.

She pulled her hand back, her eyes widening slightly, startled by the energy that must have radiated from me in a palpable wave. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she murmured, quickly grabbing a different carton. I stood there for a moment, my own hand frozen, clutching the cool cardboard of the container. My heart was beating a little too fast, a frantic little bird against my ribs. The heat in my chest slowly began to cool, replaced by a familiar, hollow ache. The ache of my own reactivity. It’s a tricky business, being human. We long for peace, for connection, for a sense of graceful flow in our lives, and yet… a simple carton of oat milk can turn us into territorial beasts on the verge of a primal dispute.

I’ve thought of that moment many times over the years. It was such a small thing, a non-event, really. But it was a perfect and unflinching mirror. A mirror for the thousand ways we are triggered into opposition, into a state of subtle or not-so-subtle war with the world, and even with ourselves. In those moments of internal friction, the ancient, beautiful words of the prayer attributed to St. Francis feel like a distant shore I can’t quite reach.

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace…

How many of us have whispered those words, or some version of them, in a quiet moment of longing? It is a deep, soul-level yearning. To be a force for calm in a chaotic world. To bring love where there is hatred, to sow light where there is darkness. But what I have learned, over thirty years of working with the sacred architecture of the human body and spirit, is that we cannot be an instrument of peace in the world until we have cultivated that peace within our own precious, complicated, and often-misunderstood internal systems.

The Geography of Your Inner Peace

Here’s a very good thing to know: your body is already wired for peace. It is a native state, a factory setting. We have this incredible, intelligent system woven into our very cells called the parasympathetic nervous system. It’s often called the “rest and digest” system, but I like to think of it as the “heal and restore” system. It is the graceful, essential counterpoint to the more famous “fight or flight” response of the sympathetic nervous system.

Think of the sympathetic system as the body’s accelerator pedal. It’s the surge of adrenaline and cortisol that floods you when a car cuts you off in traffic, when you receive a stressful email, when you have a difficult conversation, or even when you reach for oat milk in a crowded store. Your heart rate increases, your pupils dilate, your muscles tense, your focus narrows to a pinpoint. It’s a brilliant and necessary survival mechanism. It has kept our species alive for millennia, preparing us to face down a saber-toothed tiger or flee from a forest fire. The trouble is, in our modern world, this accelerator is often stuck in the “on” position. The perceived threats are no longer tigers, but deadlines, social pressures, and a relentless barrage of information.

But the parasympathetic system… that is the brake. It’s the gentle, steadying hand on the tiller. When it’s activated, your heart rate slows, your breathing deepens and settles into your belly, your muscles soften and release their stored tension. Your body can finally get to its important work of healing, of restoring, of integrating your experiences. This is the neurological home of peace. It’s not a lofty, abstract spiritual concept; it is a biological, tangible reality. Peace is a frequency your body knows how to play, a song it yearns to sing.

The profound question, then, is how do we learn to access it? How do we learn to consciously apply the brake? How do we move from the jagged, reactive state of a chronically activated sympathetic system to the calm, responsive, and open-hearted state of a regulated parasympathetic one?

For me, the journey began not with a grand technique or a complex practice, but with a simple, radical act: I started to notice. I started to pay exquisite attention to the felt sense of my own reactivity. I began to track the heat in my chest, the clench in my jaw, the frantic, looping story my mind would spin to justify the feeling. For so long, my response to my own reactivity was… more reactivity. I would judge myself for feeling irritated, shame myself for being ungenerous, and try to intellectually force myself into a state of calm. Which, of course, is like trying to put out a fire with gasoline. It only adds more layers of stress and activation to the system.

True transformation, the deep, lasting kind, began when I learned to simply be with the fire. To not run from it, or try to extinguish it, but to offer it the gift of my presence. To feel the heat, the discomfort, the raw, untamed energy of it, without judgment. To bring a gentle, loving awareness to the young part of me that was feeling so unseen, so threatened, so in need of that specific carton of milk. This is the work. It is not about becoming a perfect, serene robot who never feels irritation. It is about developing a conscious, loving, and deeply intimate relationship with all of yourself. The prayer attributed to St. Francis has felt like a distant shore to me more times than I can count, and there is a lovely close reading of the prayer of St. Francis for anyone who has whispered those words in longing.

From Reactivity to Radiant Response

When we can stay present with our own inner storm, something truly miraculous happens. The energy, which felt so solid and overwhelming, begins to shift. It softens. It loses its charge. The simple, courageous act of compassionate observation is, itself, a powerful activation of the parasympathetic nervous system. It sends a clear and loving signal to the frantic, animal part of our brain—the amygdala—that is screaming “DANGER!” The signal says: You are safe. I am here with you. We are not going to be overwhelmed by this feeling. I can hold this. This is the essence of self-regulation. It is mothering ourselves.

This practice is the very heart of neuroplasticity—the brain’s incredible ability to change and rewire itself. The old, well-worn groove of reactivity—the trigger, the immediate emotional spike, the unconscious, automatic action—starts to lose its power. It’s like a path in the forest that is no longer used; it slowly becomes overgrown. In its place, we begin to carve a new channel in our neural landscape. A channel of awareness. A pause. A sacred, spacious moment between the stimulus and the response.

In that space, we find our freedom. In that space, we find our power. In that space, we can choose to be an instrument of peace.

And here is the most beautiful and often-overlooked part: this inner work is not selfish. It is the most generous and potent offering we can make to the world. When you are in a state of inner calm, of parasympathetic regulation, that energy radiates from you. It is not an idea; it is a physical frequency. People can feel it. Animals can feel it. You know this to be true. You’ve walked into a room where someone is holding a quiet, steady center, and your own system has responded without a single word being exchanged. Your shoulders drop just a little, your breath deepens, you feel a sense of ease you didn’t have a moment before. That is the power of co-regulation.

Your regulated nervous system becomes a gift, a tuning fork for every other nervous system it encounters. Your calm becomes a co-regulating force for your children, your partner, your colleagues, and even the stranger in the grocery store. You don’t have to do anything. You simply have to be. By tending to your own inner garden, you create a sanctuary for others. You become a walking, breathing invitation into peace.

Imagine returning to that grocery store aisle. The hands brush. The jolt of irritation happens—it still might, we are gloriously, messily human, after all. But this time, there is a pause. A conscious breath that travels all the way down to the belly. An awareness of the familiar heat in the chest. A silent, internal whisper of compassion for the part of me that feels rushed and territorial. Ah, there you are, my old friend. And in that space, a new response becomes possible. A soft smile. A genuine warmth in the eyes. “Oh, please, you go ahead.” A small gesture, yes. But the energy is entirely different. It is an energy of peace, not of war. It is a tiny, shimmering thread of light woven into the fabric of a stressful Saturday afternoon.

This is how we become instruments of peace. Not through grand, heroic gestures or by solving the world’s problems, but through the quiet, courageous, moment-by-moment work of tending to our own hearts, our own bodies, our own beautiful, sacred nervous systems. It is the most profound and practical magic there is. It is the beginning of everything.

With infinite love and support on your journey, Susan