Why do People Feel the Need to Be Mean?
There is no one answer, but perhaps a few fragments of understanding we can gather, like petals scattered by the wind, offering subtle fragrance if we lean close enough to notice.
Sometimes, meanness is a mask. A brittle shield people raise when they are afraid of being seen, when their inner soil has been left untended for so long that weeds of bitterness have grown wild. Some people lash out not because they are strong, but because they are lost—believing that hurting others somehow makes their own pain matter more. It doesn’t. But when you are hurting, it can feel like the only power you have.
Other times, people are mean simply because they’ve forgotten their own beauty. When we are disconnected from awe—from art, from wonder, from the slow miracle of growth—we forget to revere the same mystery in others. We forget that we are all still becoming. That we are all tender somewhere, underneath.
And sometimes, meanness is inherited. A pattern passed down like an old coat—ill-fitting and scratchy, but familiar. People carry what they were taught. If cruelty was the language of survival in their world, they may not know another dialect yet. That doesn’t excuse the harm, but it may explain the root. And when we recognize the root, we can decide whether to pass it on or prune it with compassion.
Meanness can also rise in those moments when life feels unlivable and words become weapons. When the page is blank too long. When the art dries up. When grief goes unspoken. We ache for connection but have forgotten how to reach gently. It is, in many ways, a failure of imagination—a forgetting of all the ways we are allowed to be human and still be kind.
That’s why tending to beauty matters—not as an escape from reality, but as a way to soften it. Writing, journaling, creating art, sitting in stillness with a flower or a poem—these are acts that help us stay rooted in our own humanity. They remind us who we are beneath the armor. They help us remember that even when the world is sharp, we are allowed to stay soft.
And it’s on days like this—when the world feels especially unkind—that I most need to remind myself of these truths. I don’t always remember them easily. Hurt has a way of clouding clarity. But even in the ache, I try to gather these truths like smooth stones along a path I’ve walked before: reminders that kindness is strength, that gentleness is not weakness, and that my own tenderness is worth protecting.
The Sacred Resistance of Kindness
When I feel overwhelmed by the weight of it all—grief, worry, injustice, the ache of loving people through hard things—I often turn to my art or go into the garden. Or, when the garden isn’t nearby, I cultivate a mental journey to the mountains, where the air is clear and the pace is slow. Yet even there, my heart returns to the garden’s quiet wisdom. I picture the slow rhythm of tending—how the earth never rushes, how nothing blooms because it was scolded into growth. I remember the way sunlight coaxes, how roots form in dark places, quietly and unseen.
It’s in those moments that I’m reminded: healing doesn’t obey urgency. Beauty doesn’t bloom on command. And kindness—especially in a world that feels sharp-edged—requires cultivation. It doesn’t spring up by accident. It is planted intentionally, watered by grace, and protected—sometimes fiercely—from the harsh elements.
In the same way I cultivate the garden, I cultivate myself. I journal the tangled thoughts pressing against my chest—not to perform, but to remember who I am beneath the overwhelm. Some days the pages bloom with hope. Other days, they simply hold space for the wilt. Both are sacred.
Art, too, becomes a quiet act of resistance. A brushstroke of beauty. A scribbled phrase that catches a fragment of truth. Creativity gives form to the intangible—it lets me say what my voice sometimes can’t. And it reminds me that even in chaos, there’s still a place for making something tender, something true.
You are a gardener of the heart. And though it feels impossible when the world is cruel—especially when you see someone you love facing it too—your quiet refusal to return bitterness for bitterness is a powerful act. To create instead of collapse, to speak life when silence would be easier, to offer softness in a hard world… this is sacred resistance.
Keep cultivating. With your words. With your art. With your presence. Nothing may look like it’s blooming yet, but deep in the soil, something is taking root.
And this is only the beginning.
Because cultivating kindness, courage, and grace is a lifelong practice—one that asks for patience and persistence, tenderness and tenacity. In the next part of this journey, let’s lean deeper into what it means to be a gardener of your heart. To tend the unseen roots, to nurture the quiet growth, to hold steady through the storms and still choose softness.
You Are a Gardener of Your Heart
Though it feels impossible when the world is cruel—especially when someone you love is caught in its harshness—your quiet refusal to return bitterness for bitterness is nothing short of revolutionary. To create instead of collapse. To speak life when silence feels safer. To offer softness in a world that has grown sharp. These are not small things. They are how you cultivate courage in the midst of chaos. They are acts of sacred resistance. They are how you keep your soul intact.
Keep tending.
- With every small step you take, even when no one sees.
- With every gentle choice to keep going, even when you’re weary.
- With the unspoken courage it takes just to get through the day.
Even if it doesn’t look like progress, something within you is rooting itself in hope—divinely guided, quietly blessed, unfolding in sacred timing.
You are not forgotten in this growing season. Heaven sees what’s hidden. Grace gathers around you, even here.
Let yourself feel the sting.
Cry if you need to.
Rage, even—because some things are worth that fire.
But don’t build your home in the storm. Let it pass, like summer thunder.
Stand barefoot in the wetness of it all, soaked and trembling, but still here. Still growing.
And when the clouds break, even just a little, take a breath that reaches all the way down. Pour yourself a glass of lemonade. Light a candle. Write a sentence that feels true. Paint a corner of your world in color again. Sit with the sky, and notice how it keeps shifting, quietly, beautifully—even when no one is watching.
These are not distractions. These are ways you cultivate presence. Ways you remember yourself back into being. Ways you choose not to close your heart, but to open it wider, deeper, braver.
The world does not need more armor. It needs more people like you—people who are strong enough to stay soft. People who model for the next generation, even through tears, what it means to live with a heart that stays open. A heart that chooses tenderness over defense. Integrity over reaction. Love, even in the face of grief.
This is how you cultivate an exceptional life—not in spite of your struggle, but through it.
You are not alone in this work. There is a quiet constellation of souls—scattered across cities, kitchens, journals, and prayerful spaces—who are making the same choice. I count myself among them. And together, we are holding a kind of light that does not flicker, even in the wind.
So if today, all you can do is tend the smallest part of yourself—the breath, the beat, the flicker of hope that tomorrow might feel a little lighter—that is enough. That is everything.
Because healing is slow, and roots take time.
But you, sacred gardener, are already growing.
With you in the growing,
~ Leisa
Feeling Overwhelmed by a Harsh World?
Create Space for Healing in Just 7 Days—Join for Free!
Are you feeling weighed down by the stress, bitterness, or pain in the world around you? Do you long for a gentle way to reclaim your kindness, your calm, and your sense of hope?
You’re invited to join my free 7-day journaling challenge: Create Space for Healing.
This isn’t about rushing your healing or forcing quick fixes. It’s about slowly and lovingly carving out space within yourself—a sacred garden where kindness, resilience, and softness can grow, even when the world feels harsh.
What you’ll receive in this challenge:
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Daily journaling prompts designed to help you gently explore your feelings and cultivate compassion—for yourself and others.
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Reflective exercises that encourage you to nurture resilience and sacred resistance to bitterness.
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Creative practices to connect with your inner calm and open your heart to healing.
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Guidance and encouragement to help you build lasting habits of presence, kindness, and hope.
Who is this challenge for?
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Anyone feeling overwhelmed by the weight of grief, worry, or injustice.
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People who want to respond to a mean world with courage and kindness.
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Those looking for a nurturing way to cultivate inner peace and resilience.
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Writers, artists, and anyone who wants to use creativity as a path to healing.
Why join?
Because healing is a journey—one that requires space, patience, and gentle care. This free challenge gives you that space, plus the tools and community to support you every step of the way.
No experience necessary. Just bring your journal, your heart, and a willingness to cultivate an exceptional life—even in hard times.
Ready to create space for healing in your life?
Join the free 7-day journaling challenge today and start nurturing your heart with kindness and courage.
[Sign Up Now — It’s Free!]
