Tao Te Ching – Chapter Thirty-One
Written by Lao-tzu – From a translation by S. Mitchell
Weapons are the tools of violence;
all decent men detest them.
Weapons are the tools of fear;
a decent man will avoid them
except in the direst necessity
and, if compelled, will use them
only with the utmost restraint.
Peace is his highest value.
If the peace has been shattered,
how can he be content?
His enemies are not demons,
but human beings like himself.
He doesn't wish them personal harm.
Nor does he rejoice in victory.
How could he rejoice in victory
and delight in the slaughter of men?
He enters a battle gravely,
with sorrow and with great compassion,
as if he were attending a funeral.
How I Read This Chapter
The Way does not glorify conflict.
It honours restraint, compassion,
and sorrow in the face of violence.
Even when force is necessary,
the wise person holds peace as the truest victory.
Recovery teaches me the same.
My battle was never truly with others,
but with fear, pain, and the shadows within myself.
When I do confront conflict,
I enter not as a warrior craving victory,
but as one attending a sacred moment of reckoning,
with empathy, humility, and care.
What This Means To Me
In my addiction, I was constantly at war—with the world, with others, and most of all, with myself. My defences were weapons: sarcasm, isolation, manipulation, blame. If I felt threatened, I attacked. If I felt pain, I lashed out or numbed it. But the Tao shows me another way: a way where peace is the highest aim, not power. Where gentleness is strength, and violence—internal or external—is a last resort, not a tool of control.
“His enemies are not demons, but human beings like himself.” That line humbles me. In active addiction, I made enemies of people who challenged me. I resented those who loved me enough to tell me the truth. I saw the world through the lens of threat and self-protection. But now, in recovery, I can see that most of the people I pushed away were just mirrors. They reflected the pain I hadn’t yet made peace with inside myself.
Even now, when I’m hurt or misunderstood, my old instincts rise: to fight, defend, prove. But the Tao reminds me that true healing doesn’t come from conquest. It comes from compassion. From the ability to look at someone—even someone who’s harmed me—and see their humanity. To know that they, too, suffer. That they, too, are just trying to make sense of their own pain.
I no longer celebrate being “right” if it comes at the cost of connection. I don’t need to win arguments. I don’t need to justify my past or prove my worth. I’d rather be at peace than be triumphant.
“Peace is his highest value.” In sobriety, I have learned that peace doesn’t just mean the absence of conflict. It means the presence of calm within me—regardless of what others are doing. It means walking away when I’m triggered. Taking a breath before I speak. Praying instead of punishing. Responding instead of reacting.
And when I do face a battle—whether it’s with a loved one, a painful memory, or a craving—I try to enter it “as if attending a funeral.” That is, with reverence. With sorrow, not rage. With hope for healing, not hunger for revenge.
Today, I don’t need to fight to survive. I don’t need to armour myself to feel safe. I can meet the world with openness, even when it hurts. I can honour the battles I’ve fought by refusing to start new ones. And I can walk in the world, not as a warrior—but as a person who has laid their weapons down.
Because peace is not the reward at the end of recovery—it is the path itself.
