Breaking the Cycle of Generational Conflict and Pain
I wrote Principles Worth Defending nearly 20 years ago. At the time, I was thinking of church leaders and ministers who were being exposed for their hypocrisy and sexual liaisons. There was also, as there always is, violence in the world, making daily headlines like today. Little did I know that, two decades later, these words would still resonate deeply with what I see happening.
Violence and Inherited bias are passed on from generation to generation, whether we recognize it or not. They seep into our families, relationships, and societies, often disguised as righteousness, self-defense, or love. As I look at the world today, I can’t help but see how the refusal to cede physical, emotional, or ideological space creates a cycle that keeps us locked in conflict. My poem explores this idea; unfortunately, we live it now.
Principles Worth Defending
What is this space we say we need
and to our neighbors refuse to cede
Our bodies willingly we’ll bleed
if our words they fail to heedSeeking love with heart sincere
a bloodied child sheds a tear
Our cause is just, the course won’t veer
such hypocrites, we have no peerFrom global wars to marriage spats
righteousness wears white hats
And just like hissing alley cats
soon throws itself upon the ratsThey say we live an age of reason
apparently there has been treason
But let us wait another season
before removing ego’s lesionReligious leaders take such pride
in claiming God is on their side
As human passions they seek to hide
in fear the flock finds they liedIf all is fair in love and war
then our poor world will heal no sore
And children raised on local lore
will also rot at the core
John Harper
The Space We Refuse to Give
“What is this space we say we need, and to our neighbors refuse to cede?” These lines come from a place of frustration. We are often quick to demand space for ourselves, our needs, and our beliefs but reluctant to make room for anyone else. I wrote this with personal relationships in mind—family, friends, even spouses—but it applies just as much to the more significant conflicts we see in the world. Whether it’s countries going to war over borders or communities tearing themselves apart over ideologies, the refusal to yield, to listen, or to compromise is at the root of the violence we see.
This inability to cede space doesn’t just play out on battlefields or political arenas. It plays out in our homes and relationships with those closest to us. How often do we dig in our heels, convinced that we are right, that our needs must come first, even at the expense of those we love? We may not realize it at the time, but in these moments, we are passing on a legacy of violence to the next generation. We’re teaching our children that conflict is a zero-sum game, that someone has to win, and someone has to lose.
The Legacy of Righteousness
“Righteousness wears white hats.” When I wrote this line, I thought about how we justify our actions, especially the harmful ones, by convincing ourselves that we are on the right side of the argument. This happens on the grand stage of history—leaders convincing their people that war is necessary, that sacrifice is required for a just cause. But it also happens in our everyday lives. How many of us have gotten into an argument and held onto our position, not because we were right, but because we felt we couldn’t admit we were wrong? That’s the ego at play, and it’s a dangerous thing.
The poem calls out religious leaders for claiming that God is on their side, hiding behind divine authority to justify human passions. We see this in current events, where political and religious leaders bolster conflict by invoking moral superiority. The issue is that when we position ourselves as righteous, we stop questioning the harm we might be causing. We stop seeing the other side as fully human. And when we stop doing that, we are capable of immense cruelty.
But it’s not just in the halls of power where this righteousness lives. It’s in our families. It’s in the stories we pass down to our children. When we teach them that defending themselves—at any cost—is a virtue, we are handing them the same weapons we’ve used, metaphorically and literally, to wound others. Whether in a marriage spat or a schoolyard fight, the lesson is the same: never back down, never yield, because to do so is to lose.
The Bloodied Child
One image from the poem that sticks with me is the bloodied child shedding a tear. I wasn’t referring to any specific event when I wrote that, but today, it feels like a haunting reflection of the countless children caught in the violence we adults create. Whether it’s children in war zones, children witnessing domestic violence, children growing up in communities where aggression is normalized, or children being murdered at school, they inherit our conflicts, our fears, and our unresolved wounds.
We don’t realize that we teach our children violence whenever we engage in conflict without working toward nonviolent resolution or mutual healing. We are passing on the tools of war, emotional or physical. And these children, in turn, grow up to pass on the same lessons. The line, “children raised on local lore will also rot at the core,” is a warning. The lore—the stories we tell about why we fight, why we cannot forgive, why we must always defend ourselves—is poisonous. It rots our humanity, generation after generation, until the conflict is all we know.
Breaking the Cycle
So how do we stop it? The poem asks if we will “wait another season before removing ego’s lesion,” but isn’t that the problem? We keep delaying, kicking the can down the road, sidestepping the hard work of confronting ourselves—our stubborn egos and our unwillingness to change like politicians who, after every tragedy, offer only thoughts and prayers instead of meaningful action. The cowardice perpetuates the violence, passing it down like a cursed inheritance. If we don’t act now, we’re dooming future generations to repeat the same mistakes, trapped in an endless cycle of suffering.
We can teach our children something different. Instead of passing down the mindset of conflict, we can teach them how to explore their positions and beliefs to find room for negotiation, inclusion, and change. We can model what it looks like to admit when we’re wrong, to cede space, to let go of righteousness in favor of compassion. It starts with small, everyday moments—the way we speak to our partners, the way we handle disagreements at work, and the way we engage with the world. These moments matter because they are the seeds we plant for the next generation.
A New Legacy
Looking at the world today, I see both despair and hope. The cycle of violence is still very much alive, but some are working to break it. I think about the lines from the poem, “If all is fair in love and war, then our poor world will heal no sore.” This resonates now more than ever. It addresses jealousy, envy, lust, desire, and war. If we continue to justify violence as necessary, we will never heal.
But if we choose differently—if we decide to teach our children not the lore of war but the lessons of openness, acceptance, and compassion—we can create a new legacy. One where healing, not harm, is passed down. One where our children inherit not our wounds but our willingness to heal them. It’s a choice we can make right now, and it’s a choice that could change everything.
It’s like someone who says, “Well, the world is too full of wars. What can we do to stop the wars and have more peace? We’ll strengthen our army, have more weapons, and that way we will have no more war.” It’s the same attitude which creates more division, more opposition, more war. How can you stop violence with violence? How can you stop the fight within you by going about it with fighting? You are strengthening the fighting part of you. You are strengthening the conflict. You are increasing the division. – Diamond Heart Book Two: The Freedom to Be
The Diamond Approach® was instrumental in my ability to recognize and understand the violent parts of me and to engage them in a way that allowed for transformation rather than suppression or projection. It gave me the tools to look at the parts of myself that were reactive, defensive, and combative and to see that these were not inherently wrong or bad but were responses born from fear, pain, conditioning, and unresolved conflict. Rather than passing these aspects down to others—especially those closest to me—I learned to engage them with curiosity and compassion. I began to see that the fight wasn’t outside me but internal.
One of the most profound insights I gained from the Diamond Approach was the ability to sit and work with my anger and my righteousness, not as a way to justify them, but to understand what was beneath them. My need to defend, be right, or win came from deeper insecurity, fear of vulnerability, and an unconscious desire for protection. Once I could see that, I realized that much of the violence I had experienced or perpetuated in my life was a response to a sense of inner threat. Through inquiry and self-awareness, I could dissolve the false belief that being soft or yielding equals weakness.
By engaging these violent parts of myself, I began to break the cycle of passing them on. It’s not a one-time thing and indeed not easy, but recognizing that this internal work is necessary for actual change is the first step. The Diamond Approach taught me that healing isn’t about repressing the parts of ourselves we don’t like but about recognizing, understanding, transforming, and integrating the transformation into daily life. Through this process, we can stop perpetuating the violence we’ve inherited and begin to pass down something far more valuable: the capacity for peace, understanding, and genuine connection.
Dr. Gabor Maté, a renowned expert in trauma and addiction, emphasizes the deep connection between generational pain and present-day behaviors. He explains, “In the very act of trying to protect our children from our pain, we pass it on to them unconsciously.” This idea highlights how unresolved emotional wounds—whether stemming from personal trauma, societal violence, or familial conflict—are often inherited by the next generation. Maté’s work underscores that the key to breaking this cycle lies not in suppression or denial but in confronting and healing our traumas. By doing so, we prevent the unconscious transmission of pain and violence, allowing for healthier relationships and a more peaceful future. His perspective aligns with the notion that healing is an individual process reverberating through families and societies, breaking the chains of inherited suffering.