The Limits of Knowledge and the Pursuit of Composure

I have often wondered why people who are trained to understand the depths of the human psyche sometimes behave just as emotionally as anyone else. Psychologists and psychiatrists, with all their learning, are often expected to embody the proverbial wise man: calm, reflective, and restrained in every situation. Yet, in reality, I have seen them lose composure, at times in ways that surprised me. This paradox has stayed with me and led me to reflect on the difference between knowing the workings of the human mind and actually living in harmony with that knowledge.

One incident stands out clearly. While translating in an evaluation session, I observed an experienced psychiatrist assessing an asylum seeker from Pakistan who was a heroin addict. To any layman, the man showed unmistakable signs of mental disorder. After the session ended and the accused walked out, the expert suddenly burst out emotionally, lamenting the patient’s ingratitude, his behavior, and the fact that people like him were living at society’s expense. He went so far as to say that such people should be thrown out of Germany immediately. I was taken aback. Here was a highly trained professional, whose entire work rests on psychological insight and emotional regulation, reacting in a way that seemed more characteristic of an irritated layman than a seasoned psychiatrist.

At first, I could not help comparing his reaction to my own state. I had been able to remain calm and detached throughout, despite witnessing the same provocations. Why was I, with no clinical training, better able in that moment to maintain emotional distance than a specialist? The answer, I realized later, lies not in superior self-control but in the different roles we occupied. As a translator, I was a facilitator, a bystander to the process, not burdened with the responsibility of diagnosis or judgment. The psychiatrist, by contrast, bore the weight of professional responsibility, accumulated frustration from years of similar cases, and perhaps even disillusionment with a system that cycles endlessly through the same problems. His outburst was less a failure of knowledge than a reminder that knowledge alone cannot erase human vulnerability.

This distinction made me reflect on traditions outside of modern psychology, where the cultivation of composure is not just a professional skill but a way of life. The Stoics, for example, trained themselves daily to accept misfortune calmly, practicing negative visualization and self-reflection so that equanimity became part of their character. Buddhist practice goes further, teaching detachment from the self through mindfulness and compassion, until emotions like anger or resentment are experienced without being allowed to dominate. In Sufi practice, the struggle is against the ego itself, with constant remembrance of God and acts of humility intended to weaken pride and cultivate patience. Unlike psychologists, who learn to regulate emotions mainly in their professional role, these traditions aim to reshape the entire self, so that restraint and calmness are lived realities rather than situational techniques.

It strikes me that the difference between psychologists and sages, between modern training and ancient cultivation, is this: psychologists are taught to understand and manage emotions, while Stoics, Buddhists, and Sufis train to transform their relationship with emotions altogether. The former ensures composure in the consulting room, but the latter aspires to composure in every aspect of life. That is why even the most qualified professional can lose patience, while a monk, a mystic, or a philosopher may display unshakable calm.

I do not fault the psychiatrist I observed. He was human, as we all are, and his outburst was perhaps the safety valve of accumulated stress. But the incident left me with a deeper appreciation for the fact that wisdom is more than knowledge. It is a discipline, a lifelong practice of aligning one’s inner state with one’s ideals. And perhaps, even as a layman, I too can borrow from those ancient traditions: a Stoic reflection at night, a Buddhist mindfulness of breath in tense moments, or a Sufi pause to question whether my reaction comes from ego or patience. These are small steps toward becoming not only someone who understands emotions but someone who embodies composure in the fullest sense.