Chapter 2: The Second Arrow

Two Days Before the Holiday

Felipe is thirty-eight and has been looking forward to this holiday for a year. He and his partner have booked a week in the mountains, with long walks planned every day. Two days before they leave, he steps off a kerb awkwardly on the way to work and twists his ankle. By the afternoon, it is swollen and painful. A doctor tells him that it is a sprain, not a break, and that he should rest it. He will be able to walk, carefully, but long mountain walks are out of the question.

The pain in his ankle is real, and it hurts. But over the following hours, Felipe notices that something else is hurting even more. His mind will not stop. "Why did I not look where I was going? I am so stupid. Of course this happens to me, it always does. The whole holiday is ruined. We have wasted all that money. My partner will be disappointed and secretly angry with me. Everyone else gets to enjoy their holidays, and I always mess things up."

By evening, Felipe is in a dark mood, snapping at his partner and refusing to discuss alternatives. His partner suggests that they could still go, rent a car, visit the lakes and villages, sit in cafés, read and rest. Felipe says that it would not be the same. He lies awake half the night, replaying the moment on the kerb and imagining the walks he will miss.

In the morning, the ankle hurts a little less. But Felipe's mind is still full of blame, disappointment and gloom. He realizes, vaguely, that the twisted ankle is not the worst part of his suffering. The worst part is everything his mind has added to it. Some two and a half thousand years ago, the Buddha described exactly this situation with a simple image: being struck by two arrows.

The Two Arrows

In a short discourse called the Sallatha Sutta, which means "the discourse on the arrow", found in the Saṃyutta Nikāya at number 36.6, the Buddha speaks about how people respond to painful experiences. Here is the heart of it, in my own plain retelling.

When an untrained person is touched by a painful feeling, the Buddha says, they worry, grieve and lament. They beat their breast, weep and become distraught. So they feel two kinds of pain: the pain in the body, and the pain in the mind. It is as if a person were struck by an arrow, and then, right after, struck by a second arrow, so that they feel the pain of both.

But when a wise, trained person is touched by a painful feeling, the Buddha continues, they do not worry, grieve or lament. They do not beat their breast or become distraught. They feel the pain in the body, but not the extra pain in the mind. It is as if they were struck by one arrow, but not by a second.

The image is simple and powerful. The first arrow is the pain that life brings: an injury, an illness, a loss, a disappointment, an insult, a failure. We cannot always avoid it. It is part of being alive in a body, in a world that changes. The second arrow is what we add: the worry, blame, resentment, self-pity, catastrophizing and endless replaying that our minds pile on top of the first pain. The second arrow is often more painful than the first, and it can last much longer.

Felipe's twisted ankle was the first arrow. It hurt, and it would heal in a week or two. His thoughts, "I am so stupid, the holiday is ruined, I always mess things up", were the second arrow. They hurt more than the ankle, and they threatened to spoil the whole week, even though the injury itself left many good options open.

What the Second Arrow Is Made Of

If we look closely at the second arrow, we often find that it is made of a few familiar materials. Recognizing them can help us notice when we are firing the second arrow at ourselves.

One material is blame. When something painful happens, the mind often looks for someone to blame: ourselves, other people, bad luck, the world. "I am so stupid." "This is his fault." "Why does this always happen to me?" Blame may feel satisfying for a moment, but it usually adds anger and shame to the original pain.

Another is catastrophizing: imagining that the pain will lead to disaster. "The whole holiday is ruined." "I will never find another job." "This will be the end of our friendship." The mind leaps from the actual situation to the worst possible future, and then suffers as if that future had already arrived.

A third is comparison. "Everyone else gets to enjoy their holidays." "Other people do not have these problems." Comparing our pain with other people's apparent good fortune adds a layer of unfairness and loneliness.

A fourth is resistance: the feeling that this should not be happening. "It is not fair." "This should not be happening to me." Of course, it is natural not to want pain. But fighting against the fact that it has already happened, as if we could argue it out of existence, often adds a great deal of tension to the experience.

A fifth is replaying. The mind goes back to the moment of the first arrow again and again, as Felipe did with the kerb, as if by replaying it often enough we could change it. Each replay is a small new arrow.

None of these materials is evil or stupid. They are natural reactions of a mind that wants to protect itself. But they do not protect us. They wound us again. The Buddhist teaching suggests that, with practice, we can learn to notice the second arrow being drawn, and to put it down before we fire it.

The First Arrow Is Not a Failure

One of the most freeing parts of this teaching is the recognition that the first arrow is not our fault, in any deep sense. Pain is part of life. Bodies get injured and ill. People we love leave or die. Plans fail. Others treat us badly. These things happen to everyone, including the wisest and kindest people. They are not signs that we have failed at life.

Many of us carry a hidden belief that, if we were good enough, careful enough or clever enough, we would be able to avoid pain. When pain arrives, this belief turns it into a judgment: something must be wrong with me. That judgment is itself a second arrow.

The first of the Four Noble Truths, which we met in the last chapter, states plainly that life contains suffering. Ageing, illness, death, separation from what we love and not getting what we want are part of every human life. Accepting this truth does not make the first arrow stop hurting. But it can stop us from adding the second arrow of "This should not be happening to me."

There is also a kind of solidarity in this recognition. When we accept that pain is part of every life, we feel less alone in it. Our twisted ankle, our lost job, our grief, are not unique failures. They are part of the shared human condition. Many people find that this realization softens their pain and opens their hearts to others who are suffering.

It is interesting that the Buddha, in this discourse, does not say that the wise person feels no pain. The wise person is still struck by the first arrow. They still feel the hurt in the body. What changes is the response of the mind. This is an honest and realistic teaching. It does not promise a life without pain, which nobody can have. It promises something more modest and more achievable: a life with less added suffering.

The Arrow of Escape

The Sallatha Sutta contains another observation that is easy to overlook, but very relevant today. The Buddha notes that the untrained person, when touched by pain, often seeks escape in sensual pleasure, because, he says, they do not know any other way out of painful feeling except pleasure.

In modern terms, we might recognize this as the habit of running from pain into distraction or comfort: eating, drinking, shopping, scrolling, watching, anything that makes the pain go away for a while. A small amount of comfort in a painful time is natural and can be kind. But when we always run from pain into pleasure, we never learn to be with pain, and we can become dependent on our escapes. Sometimes the escape itself becomes a new source of suffering.

The Buddha's point is not that pleasure is bad. It is that there is another way to meet pain, besides fighting it with blame or fleeing it with distraction. That other way is to feel it, with awareness and care, without adding to it. This is the way of the person struck by only one arrow.

For Felipe, the escape might have looked like spending the holiday drinking and sulking, or refusing to go at all and spending the week in front of a screen. These would have numbed his disappointment for a while, but they would not have helped him meet it, and they would have cost him the real week he still had.

There is a gentle middle path here too. Sometimes, a short, kind distraction is exactly what a hurting person needs: a favourite film after a bad day, a walk with a friend after a disappointment. The question is whether the distraction is a brief rest that helps us return to our life, or a long hiding place that keeps us from ever meeting our pain. Noticing which one we are choosing is part of the practice.

Meeting the First Arrow

How, in practice, can we feel the first arrow without firing the second? The Buddhist tradition, and many people who practise it, suggest a few simple steps.

The first is to feel the first arrow honestly. If something hurts, let it hurt. Do not pretend it does not. Say to yourself: this is painful. Feel where the pain is, in the body or in the heart. Honest acknowledgement is not weakness. It is the beginning of meeting pain wisely.

The second is to notice the second arrow as it is being drawn. When thoughts of blame, catastrophe, comparison, resistance or replaying arise, try to recognize them: "Ah, here is the second arrow." You do not need to fight the thoughts. Simply seeing them for what they are often weakens them.

The third is to bring care to the pain. Instead of attacking yourself for being hurt, treat yourself as you would treat a friend who had been hurt. For a twisted ankle, that means rest and ice. For a disappointment, it might mean a kind word to yourself, a cup of tea, a conversation with someone who cares. The Buddhist tradition places great value on compassion, including compassion for oneself.

The fourth is to act wisely where action is possible. Meeting the first arrow does not mean doing nothing. If an injury needs treatment, get it treated. If a problem can be solved, solve it. If a relationship needs repair, work on it. The aim is not passive acceptance, but clear action without the extra suffering of the second arrow.

And the fifth is to look for what is still possible. Pain often narrows our view, so that we see only what we have lost. When the second arrow is set down, we can often see options we missed: the lakes and villages instead of the mountain walks, a new kind of job instead of the one we lost, a different kind of friendship instead of the old one.

Not Firing Arrows at Others

The image of the second arrow also has something to teach us about how we respond to other people's pain.

When someone we love is hurting, we sometimes, without meaning to, add a second arrow. "You should have been more careful." "I told you this would happen." "Other people have it much worse." "You need to get over it." These words may come from love, worry or frustration. But to the person who is already struck by the first arrow, they can feel like another wound.

A kinder response is simply to acknowledge the first arrow: "That really hurts. I am sorry." Sometimes, that is all that is needed. Later, when the person is ready, there may be room for practical help or gentle advice. But first, they need to feel that their pain has been seen, not judged.

This applies to how we treat ourselves as well. Many of us speak to ourselves, in moments of pain, far more harshly than we would ever speak to a friend. "You idiot." "What is wrong with you?" Noticing this harsh inner voice, and softening it, is one of the most practical ways of putting down the second arrow.

Children often learn how to treat their own pain from how the adults around them respond. A child who falls and hears "You clumsy thing, look what you have done" learns to add blame to pain. A child who hears "Ouch, that hurt. Let me see" learns that pain can be met with care. Many adults are still carrying second arrows they learned in childhood. Noticing this can be a first step toward offering ourselves, and the children around us, a kinder response.

Four Lives and Two Arrows

Nnamdi is twenty-six and has just been rejected for a job he very much wanted, after three rounds of interviews. The rejection is the first arrow, and it hurts. Within an hour, his mind has added more: "I will never get a good job. I am not good enough. Everyone else in my year is doing better than me. I should give up on this field." He spends the evening scrolling through other people's career announcements, feeling worse and worse. The next morning, a friend asks how he is, and Nnamdi says, "Terrible. I am a failure." His friend replies, "You did not get one job. That is painful. But you got to the final round, which means they thought you were good. Which part is the job, and which part is your mind?" Nnamdi thinks about it. He realizes that most of his pain is the second arrow. He allows himself to be disappointed, and then he writes to the company asking for feedback, which turns out to be encouraging.

Gloria is sixty and has lived with back pain for several years. She has seen doctors, follows their advice and does her exercises. The pain is real, and on some days it is severe. She has noticed, though, that on bad days her suffering is much worse when her mind adds thoughts like "This will never get better" and "My life is ruined." With the help of a pain management course run by her health service, she has learned to notice these thoughts as a second arrow, to breathe with the physical pain without adding to it and to plan small, enjoyable activities even on difficult days. Her back still hurts. But she says that her life has become much larger again.

Margot is eighty-one. On a busy morning, she loses her hearing aid somewhere in the house. She searches for an hour without finding it. At first, her mind fills with familiar arrows: "I am getting so forgetful. I am becoming a burden. Soon I will not be able to live alone." She sits down, exhausted and close to tears. Then she remembers something her late husband used to say when things went wrong: "One thing at a time." She takes a few breaths, makes a cup of tea and calls her neighbour to help her look. The neighbour finds it in the pocket of a coat. Margot laughs at herself. The lost hearing aid was a small first arrow. The fears about her future were the much larger second one.

Felipe, from the beginning of this chapter, finally sits down with his partner the next evening and admits that he has been making things worse. "My ankle hurts," he says, "but most of what is hurting is in my head." They go on the holiday. They rent a car and visit lakes, villages and a small museum. Felipe sits by the water with his foot up, reading and watching the light change. On the last day, his ankle feels strong enough for a short, gentle walk to a viewpoint. He says afterwards that it was one of the most peaceful holidays he has had, partly because he was forced to slow down, and partly because he learned to set down the second arrow.

Nnamdi, Gloria, Margot and Felipe each met a first arrow: a rejection, chronic pain, a lost object, an injury. In each case, the first arrow was real and could not be wished away. And in each case, much of the suffering came from what their minds added. By noticing the second arrow and setting it down, each of them found more space to deal with the first.

Practical Steps

First, separate the two arrows. When something painful happens, ask yourself: what is the first arrow, the actual event or pain? And what is the second arrow, the thoughts and reactions I am adding?

Second, know your favourite arrows. Notice which materials your mind uses most for the second arrow: blame, catastrophizing, comparison, resistance or replaying. Knowing your habits makes them easier to catch.

Third, acknowledge the first arrow kindly. Say to yourself, "This hurts," and treat yourself as you would treat a friend in pain.

Fourth, notice escape. When you find yourself running from pain into distraction, pause and ask whether you could stay with the pain for a few moments instead, with care.

Fifth, act where you can. Do what can be done about the first arrow: seek treatment, solve the problem, ask for help. Then let the rest be.

Sixth, do not fire arrows at others. When someone you love is hurting, acknowledge their pain before offering advice, and avoid words that blame or minimize.

A Short Practice: Counting the Arrows

This practice takes about fifteen minutes. It helps you see, in a recent painful experience, how much of the suffering came from the first arrow and how much from the second.

Think of something painful that happened to you recently, not the most painful thing in your life, but something moderately upsetting: a disappointment, a criticism, a small injury, a loss. Write it at the top of a page.

Draw a line down the middle of the page. On the left, write "First arrow". Underneath, describe the actual event and the pain it caused, as simply and factually as you can. For example: "I twisted my ankle. It hurt and swelled. I could not do long walks."

On the right, write "Second arrow". Underneath, write down all the thoughts and reactions you added: blame, worries about the future, comparisons, complaints, replaying. Be honest. For example: "I am so stupid. The holiday is ruined. I always mess things up."

Look at the two columns. Which one is longer? Which one caused more suffering? Which one lasted longer? Many people are surprised to find that the second column is much fuller than the first.

Now, for each item in the second column, ask: is this true? Is it helpful? Then write, next to it, a kinder and more accurate thought. For example, next to "The holiday is ruined", you might write "The holiday will be different, but there are still good things we can do."

Finally, take a few slow breaths. Imagine gently setting down the second arrow, as you would put down a heavy bag. Notice how it feels.

Questions People Often Ask

"Is all emotional pain a second arrow?" No. Some emotional pain is part of the first arrow. When someone we love dies, grief is a natural and healthy response, not a mistake. When we are treated unfairly, sadness or anger may be appropriate. The second arrow is the extra layer we add on top, such as blaming ourselves for grieving or telling ourselves that we will never be happy again. Honest feelings about real events belong to the first arrow and deserve care.

"What about chronic pain or serious illness?" If you have ongoing pain or a health condition, please follow the advice of your doctor and other qualified professionals. Many pain management programmes do include ideas similar to the second arrow, helping people notice and reduce the extra suffering that thoughts and fears can add. The physical pain is still real, and it deserves treatment.

"Can I really stop firing the second arrow?" Probably not completely, at least not at first. The habit of adding to pain is deep in all of us. But with practice, many people find that they notice the second arrow sooner, fire it less often and put it down more quickly. Even small changes can make a large difference to how painful life feels.

Chapter Summary

In the Sallatha Sutta (Saṃyutta Nikāya 36.6), the Buddha compared the response of an untrained person to pain with being struck by two arrows: the first is the painful experience itself, and the second is the worry, grief and lamentation added by the mind. A wise person feels the first arrow but not the second. The Buddha also noted that people often try to escape pain through pleasure, because they know no other way.

The second arrow is often made of blame, catastrophizing, comparison, resistance and replaying. The first arrow is part of every human life and is not a sign of failure. Meeting it wisely means feeling it honestly, noticing the second arrow, bringing care to the pain, acting where possible and looking for what is still possible. We can also avoid firing second arrows at others in their pain.

In the next chapter, we look at the truth that lies behind many of our first arrows: the fact that everything changes.