Leaving the Room: An Advanced Course in OHR

OR How to Survive an Energy Pile-Up Without Losing Your Mind (or Your Manners)

I went to a lecture expecting a curated, objective knowledge exchange, not an adrenaline bomb. The Political Economy of U.S. Immigration Policy sounded respectable enough—the local college's 55+ Fall Lecture Series, a mid-morning crowd of polite retirees, plenty of silver heads with tweed and tote bags. My friend Sue came along for the intellectual adventure, notebooks in hand and curiosity matching mine. Yes,  notebooks, because I’m that kind of nerd: ready to learn, sip my water, and nod thoughtfully.

Instead, the speaker opened like a snarky late-night host. Before the slides even warmed up, he fired off passive-aggressive one-liners that drew whoops and applause from the crowd. When he smirked and said, “BUT, I won’t be talking about that,” the BOOOs started and the energy in the room hit DEFCON 2. My chest clenched, my gut twisted, and my inner alarm system—the Divine Magical Guidance System herself—started flashing red. It was the kind of shift you can almost taste—metallic, charged, like the air before lightning.

Fight-or-flight isn’t a metaphor when your body’s staging a full-scale evacuation drill. My hands were shaking. My pulse had its own drumline. I wasn’t angry; I was observing. Watching this human experiment in bias unfold while my nervous system screamed, GET OUT! It felt surreal—like standing outside myself, watching two parallel realities: the smug smile of the presenter and my body, quietly revolting.

Sue and I locked eyes. We’d both been scribbling notes, and when we glanced down, we’d written the same thing almost simultaneously: “I’m ready to walk.” “Let’s bail.” No dramatic sighs or eye rolls—just a shared, silent recognition that the space had tipped from intellectual exploration into witch-burning mob energy - righteous and ready to lay waste. We left quietly, grateful for our own dignity and each other’s company. As we walked back to the car, Sue named her feelings—angry and sad—while I tried to stay with the sensations roaring through me. My hands still trembled; my breath was shallow; my body was one big alarm bell. Even the sunshine felt distorted—too bright, too sharp—as if my senses were still vibrating at the frequency of that room. We talked it through on the walk, and every few minutes I could feel myself cycle through my OHR practice—Observe, Honor, Release offered momentary relief, then more waves. Lather, rinse, repeat.

The rest of the day became an emotional debrief in slow motion. Sue and I unpacked the experience over coffee—her heartbreak at how close minded and condescending people can be, my own fascination with how energetic and physical my own reaction was. It wasn’t about politics at all. It was about energy—how fast hostility can fill a room and how long it lingers in the body. It reminded me how contagious energy really is—one sarcastic remark can set off a chain reaction that hijacks an entire room of grown adults. Later, I called another close friend for feedback. “I’m tired of being so vulnerable, sensitive and porous,” I told her. “I can feel other people’s self-righteousness like static electricity.” And we both laughed, because naming it somehow disarms it. That’s when I realized the crowd bothered me more than the speaker—the mob vibe, the clapping and booing like a middle-school pep rally. 

I doubled down on my own emotional cleanup. I dialed another friend, specializing in freeing trapped emotions. She helped me trace the original trigger—no past-life bonfires required, though the “burned-at-the-stake” vibe was real. I don’t believe in energy armor or bubble-wrapped boundaries, but I do believe in letting emotion move. My goal isn’t to avoid energy but to metabolize it—to handle what flows through me without attaching and internalizing the poison. It’s a messy business, this emotional alchemy—equal parts science, surrender, and self-trust. Some days it feels like plumbing the depths with a teaspoon, but it works. This experience was a massive test, and honestly, I aced it.

The next day, the feedback survey landed in my inbox—oh boy. Here’s where the rubber meets the road, right? Time to turn all that emotional processing into actual words. I really put my practice into action—calm fingers on the keyboard, deep breaths between sentences, and a few well-timed eye rolls at my own rewrites. (How many drafts? Don’t ask.) It was the perfect test of being tactful, honest, and respectful all at once. In the end, my review simply said what needed saying: that the presentation felt dismissive toward differing perspectives, that the crowd’s cheers and boos deepened the divide, and that an objective, balanced conversation would have served everyone better. I closed by thanking the program and hoping my feedback would be taken in the spirit intended—as encouragement toward greater openness and inclusivity in future lectures.

No drama. No vitriol. Just truth on paper—a written act of OHR with a side of polish. The words became both mirror and medicine, reflecting the discomfort without feeding it. It wasn’t about being right; it was about being real. Writing it down turned a raw, reactive moment into something clear and useful—closure and contribution all at once. It felt strangely empowering to speak from the clean place beyond adrenaline, to honor the experience, and to trust that clarity—delivered calmly—can shift a current faster than anger ever will.

Here’s a few things I learned: careful what you wish for when you’re practicing healthy emotional processing—it’s not all lavender oil and enlightenment. Sometimes it’s a full-body roller coaster that demands every ounce of skill you swore you had. Powerful, visceral reactions are the pop quizzes of growth, and yesterday I got the midterm. Standing up and leaving isn’t weakness; it’s wisdom in motion. When the energy turns toxic, staying to prove I can “handle it” isn’t strength—it’s self-betrayal. My body knew first, and this time I listened. There’s no spiritual merit badge for sitting quietly in a room that makes your soul flinch. Talking about boundaries is one thing; walking out the door with your heartbeat in your ears, your dignity intact, and your intuition leading the way—that’s the real-world practicum.

By evening, gratitude had replaced the adrenaline. Gratitude for all of it—the presenter, the topic, the crowd’s reaction, for Sue, for our clean exit, for the ability to process instead of implode. Gratitude for the clarity that my sensitivity isn’t a flaw—it’s radar. Yesterday’s chaos became an invitation to trust my system, honor my body, and practice discernment in real time and on big, unapologetic waves of powerful shit (energy). And maybe, just maybe, that’s what all this inner work is really for—not to float above the mess, but to walk through it eyes open, heart pounding, with both flat feet on the bloody pavement if that’s what it takes.

Field Guide Rule #43: Bolt when you must. Walk when you can—awake, unarmored, compassionate and gloriously human.

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