Almost nobody’s life feels how they thought it would

CORE INSIGHT

I turn 50 today. Like a lot of people, I assumed that getting older would result in an internal experience of feeling more settled, more certain, and more satisfied. I had an idea of what my life would look like and feel like internally. In essence, I would “arrive” rather than perpetually being in a state of improvising and correcting.

Part of me thought I would lead a more conventional life. Partner, kids, predictable career trajectory. Because I didn’t follow that path, part of me believed that the uncertainty might be because I missed the exit on the highway to adulthood. But what I’ve come to understand is that almost nobody’s life feels the way they thought it would. Even the people who did take the more conventional route and checked the boxes they were told would make them feel complete can struggle with the discrepancy between what they thought it would feel like and what it actually does.

This doesn’t mean that something has gone wrong. It means many of us misunderstood what adulthood would actually feel like from the inside. The internal experience of being alive remains far more dynamic than most of us could ever imagine when we were young. Adulthood doesn’t arrive when we reach satisfaction and certainty, but when we become more capable of holding uncertainty, disappointment, change, and complexity without assuming we’ve failed at life.

“There is no arriving in this life.”

— James Baldwin

PATTERN REFRAME

Humans are prediction-making creatures. Your nervous system is constantly attempting to create safety by trying to imagine and control the future. Most of us carry some version of the belief that if we can just do life correctly, eventually we’ll arrive at a stable internal state where the self-doubt quiets down and things finally make sense. So when adulthood still feels uncertain or different than we imagined, we often interpret that as failure. The more useful question may not be “why don’t I feel the way I thought I would?” but “what expectations about adulthood and satisfaction have I been unconsciously measuring my life against?”

MY FIELD NOTES

​One thing I do when I fantasize about some alternate version of my life is not stopping at the fantasy itself. I take it a step farther where I imagine the hardships that might come with that life. Life contains tradeoffs and every path would come with its own flavor of suffering. When we fantasize, we usually compare the full reality of our lives against the imagined benefits of another one. I’ve found it grounding to remember that no alternate version of my life would have exempted me from uncertainty, self-doubt, disappointment, or difficulty. It simply would have asked different things of me.

LAB EXPERIMENT

This week, if you notice yourself fantasizing about an alternate version of your life, continue the thought experiment all the way through. Imagine the tradeoffs, limitations, responsibilities, disappointments, and griefs that parallel life might have carried too. And don’t forget to factor in the relationships, experiences, growth, and moments of meaning you would have had to forgo in order to live that other life.

The Stories We Tell Ourselves After Being Seen

CORE INSIGHT

Lately I’ve been stretching myself to be in new spaces and meet new people, and I’ve noticed myself vacillate between two very different reactions afterwards. Sometimes I leave wondering if I talked too much, came across strangely, or whether people actually liked me. My mind starts replaying interactions and finding all the possible ways I might have messed something up. I’ve started thinking of this as a kind of “vulnerability hangover,” the emotional residue that can come from feeling exposed around new people.

Other times, I notice myself going in the exact opposite direction. Instead of turning inward, I find myself dismissing the room entirely, thinking things like, these aren’t really my people, this wasn’t worth my time, or nobody here really gets me. What I’ve realized is that both reactions are often attempts to protect me from the same thing: the vulnerability of uncertainty, rejection, exposure, or not fully belonging.

"We don't see things as they are, we see them as we are."

— Anaïs Nin

PATTERN REFRAME

Your first reaction to a new social environment is not always intuition. Sometimes it’s protection. Our nervous systems are constantly trying to answer questions about safety, belonging, rejection, and social risk long before we consciously process what we actually think or feel. Sometimes we protect ourselves by turning inward into self-consciousness and over-analysis. Other times we protect ourselves by creating distance through judgment, superiority, or dismissal. Both are attempts to regulate the vulnerability of exposure. The question worth asking is not “was that room good or bad?” but “what was my nervous system trying to protect me from?"

MY FIELD NOTES

For many years I allowed the judgment of myself or others to constrain my life. I avoided unfamiliar people and environments and it shrank my life. I eventually learned that avoiding discomfort kept me exactly where I was. What I thought was my personality was actually a nervous system pattern. Once I started paying attention to these reactions, I was able to work with them and see them as the protectors they are. I've noticed this in myself so many times that I've learned how to not believe what my brain is telling me. Now when I catch it, I try to turn toward the part of me that felt exposed rather than away from it, which allows me to (often) stay open and keep showing up in unfamiliar places. Last Sunday I attended a workshop where, on paper, I was the odd one out. I noticed, for the first time, that I wasn't protecting myself against anything. I was just curious. I don’t expect that will always be how I feel, but it felt very significant.

LAB EXPERIMENT

This week, after any social interaction that leaves you with a reaction, try observing the thoughts your brain offers. Maybe it's "I talked too much" or "those weren't my people." Then ask: is this what actually happened, or is this my nervous system trying to keep me safe? You don't have to answer definitively, the question itself is enough. We can't work with what we won't look at.

The overwhelm is not your fault

CORE INSIGHT

I've noticed that all of the newsletters in my inbox are starting to really overwhelm me. I notice even the ones I like, spike my cortisol a bit, because it feels like another thing I'm "supposed" to do and failing at. 

Americans are spending an average of 7 hours a day consuming digital media. Besides the time suck that it is, it is also making us more anxious and less tolerant. Evolution wired us to pay attention to what's dangerous and media conglomerates are cashing in on this instinct. The only solution is to take back our attention. But not only in the media we consume, in our in-boxes as well. 

I realize the irony of pointing this out in a newsletter. But noticing something true and then pretending otherwise isn't really my style.

Which is why I'm revamping this newsletter to be as helpful, hopeful and succinct as I can make it. 

"Attention is the beginning of devotion."

-Mary Oliver

PATTERN REFRAME

Feeling overwhelmed by information isn't a focus problem or a willpower problem. It's a nervous system problem. Our nervous systems were designed to track about 20 meaningful variables at a time. We are now processing thousands. Your system was never designed for this volume, this speed, or this much manufactured urgency. When your inbox makes you anxious, that's not you being dramatic. That's data. The question worth asking is not "how do I get through all of this" but "what actually deserves my attention?"

I go deeper on this in Episode 2 of the Self Study Lab podcast: 

​You're Not Broken, You're Living in the Wrong Environment​

MY FIELD NOTES​

I've been experimenting with creating a master email account that all my other accounts forward to. It didn't solve my life, but it has led to a little more ease. If you try something similar, or have your own attention-management experiments worth sharing, hit reply. I read every one.

LAB EXPERIMENT

This week, notice one place where your attention is being spent rather than chosen. It might be a newsletter, a news app, a social media account, or a group chat. You don't have to delete anything. Just notice whether it's adding to your life or quietly draining it. We can't choose when we don't notice.

You Can't Passively Thrive — It's Going to Take Some Practice

As I’ve written before, most of us feel like we are living through a frenetic time. It feels hard (or maybe impossible) to meet all the demands of life. These modern pressures have led to a phenomenon social scientists call “languishing” — the middle ground between depression and thriving. The most recent surveys show that only one in six Americans describe themselves as “thriving.”

Since embarking on my own healing journey and spending thousands of hours working with clients, I’ve been deeply contemplating what it takes to truly thrive. There’s so much advice about how to live a “good” life, but most of it is reductive — focusing on isolated inputs: go to therapy, find purpose, make friends, exercise more, have better boundaries. While this is all good advice, we humans are complex — and truly thriving requires more.

The truth is, you can only thrive at the level your nervous system allows. Every practice, habit, or intervention that’s ever helped you — from therapy to exercise to meditation — has worked because it supported your nervous system.

Our systems were built for purposeful contribution, physical movement, restorative rest, and close relationship with the natural world — conditions our modern lives rarely provide. Recognizing this helped me connect the dots and create a framework that meets our most fundamental needs — the ingredients that make thriving possible.

Rest, Exercise, Social Connection, Touch Nature, Open to Curiosity and Play, Root in Meaning, and Engage with Awareness.

The beautiful thing about this framework is that you can engage with it at any level. A quick glance can remind you of what you might want to emphasize or newly incorporate into your life — or you can dive deep and systematically audit and address each category.​

The principles are universal, but the ingredients are personal. Thriving requires curiosity and intention — a willingness to experiment and a commitment to stay with your own unfolding.

Other People's Opinions of Me Aren't My Business?

I’ll be 50 next year — and the truth is, some insecurities don’t vanish with age. They just resurface in new ways.

If you’re reading this, you know I’m charting a new path with my coaching business. This path feels exciting — but also unfamiliar. My sense of competence is wobbly, and any major life change seems to stir up self-doubt. Add to that the fact that this work is exposing — my ideas, my voice, myself — to people I know and plenty I don’t. And guess what ancient hardwiring came roaring back? The need for approval. My inner critic has been very loud (and very mean) lately.

This isn’t new territory for me. In my early 20s I spent time with a very wise human who told me: “Other people’s opinions of you aren’t your business.” At the time, it was shocking. It’s taken me years to see the wisdom in that statement.

But of course, it’s not easy to live out — because the need for acceptance is one of the deepest features of our human wiring. Until very recently in history, acceptance wasn’t just about belonging; it was about survival. Those of us alive today owe a debt of gratitude to our forebears who were likable (or at least likable enough not to get kicked out of the tribe before reproducing, lol).

Anthropologist Robin Dunbar posits that the size of the human brain correlates with the number of social relationships we can track. For the first 200,000 years of human history, we lived in small bands of 20–150 people. The success of both the individual and the tribe was tied to cooperation and acceptance.

Fast forward to a world of 8 billion. Intellectually, we know we don’t need everyone’s approval. But evolution moves slowly. There’s no software update for this ancient hardwiring. Which means that even when we know better, the desire for approval still drives us — consciously and unconsciously.

I’ve built enough self-acceptance over the years that I can usually tolerate not being everyone’s cup of tea. Most days, I like myself enough to handle that. But when I’m stretched, vulnerable, or doing something new, those old circuits fire just as loudly as they ever did. I have to remind myself that what people think of me is outside of my control. What is within my control is whether I stay aligned with my values, how I show up, how I respond and the kind of person I choose to be.

That’s where nervous system awareness comes in. When my inner critic gets loud, I have to intentionally come back to my body — to notice the ways stress is showing up, to choose how I respond, and to regulate so I can act from alignment rather than reactivity. It’s not about never feeling insecure; it’s about knowing what to do when I do.

You Can’t Mean "Yes" if you Never Practice "No"

Each unexamined yes is a small loan against your energy, attention, values, and self-respect, with compounding interest.

-Dr. Ardeshi Mehran

We live in a frenetic time, with something urgent always demanding to be accomplished. Our nervous systems generally decide how we respond: either frantically jumping from one task to the next, or rebelling and shutting down in paralysis. The middle ground—intentionally pausing, weighing options, and choosing what to do next—is a much harder. It requires awareness and practice.

I’d like to say I’m good at this, but that wouldn’t be entirely honest. The truth is, I’ve learned to become skillful in some areas of life and still find myself challenged in others. For much of my life, my nervous system was dysregulated. Fear was running the show, and I defaulted to saying “no” to almost any personal request that wasn’t exactly what I wanted, while saying “yes” to nearly every professional one. (It was far better to be my boss than my partner!) I mistook my rigid personal boundaries for healthy self-care—when in reality they were avoidance of anything uncomfortable, unknown, or scary. And I mistook my lack of professional boundaries for dedication, when in truth it was people-pleasing and a deep fear of disappointing others.

Learning to tell the difference is the real work. Boundaries rooted in fear or over-accommodation keep us trapped in old patterns, even when they look responsible on the surface. Healthy boundaries, on the other hand, require slowing down, tuning into ourselves, and making intentional decisions. When our nervous systems are activated, we tend to react automatically—driven by the urgency of modern life and the survival strategies we absorbed early on.

It would be wonderful if boundaries worked like a one-time calibration—set them once and then move on with life. Unfortunately, that’s not how it works. Every new request, invitation, or demand on your time requires fresh discernment. Boundaries shift with your circumstances, your nervous system state, and your values in the moment. Treating them this way—less like rigid walls and more like ongoing conversations with yourself—keeps them flexible enough to serve both your well-being and your relationships, without tipping into avoidance on one side or self-sacrifice on the other.

You’re Probably More Afraid Than You Realize—And That’s Human

My guess is that many of you don’t actually realize how afraid you are. While the brain takes in 10 million bits of information per second, we can only consciously process about 50. It wouldn’t be sustainable to be aware of our fear at all times—but that doesn’t mean the mind and body aren’t constantly scanning for danger (and finding it).

Of course, most of us—at least those reading a blog on the internet—aren’t chronically in danger. But that doesn’t mean the body isn’t interpreting the data as a threat. Evolution is slow, taking millions of years. Our nervous systems weren’t built for the hyperstimulating, fast-paced modern world. (More on this in later newsletters.)

Organisms are actually built to handle short-term stress and even benefit from the right dose (a concept called *hormesis*). But chronic stress? According to the American Psychological Association and the American Institute of Stress, it impacts over three-quarters of the U.S. population.

This complex world takes a toll on all of us, leading to nervous system responses we often confuse for personality traits.

When we hear fight, flight, freeze, or fawn—the classic nervous system defenses—we tend to think of extreme behaviors. But they often show up in subtle ways:

**FIGHT** – Interrupting, talking over others, or feeling spikes of judgment and irritation

**FLIGHT** – Staying overly busy, doom-scrolling, or “taking the edge off” with alcohol

**FREEZE** – Delaying responses to texts, struggling to make simple decisions

**FAWN** – Minimizing your needs, saying yes when you mean no, overexplaining
​

These default responses are deeply wired, shaped by our history, and often unconscious.

And unfortunately, you can’t just think your way out of them—believe me, I tried.

Until we address our scared bodies, all the insight in the world won’t create real change.

You Can't Change What You Won't See

When I was in my thirties, I started reading the book You’re Not So Smart. I was only able to read the first few chapters before putting it back on my bookshelf because I found it so disturbing. The book effectively conveys how irrational we humans are. At the time, my ego just wasn’t ready to handle the truth. I preferred to believe that my memory could be relied on, my decisions were rational, and I wasn’t seeing the world through my own biased framework. So I closed the book and stuck my head back in the sand.

The problem is that you can’t work with what you’re not aware of.In fact, all of our growth and capacity to be who we aspire to be in our lives rests on our ability to be self-aware. Being self-aware requires a whole lot of courage and ego strength. Introspection does not come naturally to those who avoid pain—it requires turning toward our scared and dark parts, acknowledging our flaws and hypocrisies, admitting that sometimes we aren’t motivated by our higher parts.

As I see it, the necessary prerequisite of “looking within” requires knowing that you’re not defective—just a normal human with normal human foibles. Unfortunately, many of us, through our early life experiences and societal conditioning, learned to reflexively put ourselves and others into categories of good or bad. Besides all of the external pressures to categorize people (see current political climate), it’s also in our wiring to reduce complexity. Our brains are wired to conserve energy and avoid ambiguity. Dichotomous (black-and-white) thinking is a shortcut preferred by our brains and society at large. It takes intentional effort to look for the nuance that exists in ourselves and those around us. The truth is, we are all flawed—and the more we can embrace that, the more we can grow.

Self-awareness is like having access to your own user manual. The better you understand your own operating system—your needs, motivations, and patterns—the more effectively you can troubleshoot problems, navigate challenges, and make choices that align with who you truly are, rather than reacting on autopilot.

When I first started teaching many years ago, I came home completely spent with nothing left to give my partner at the time. I would unconsciously pick a fight with her, which would predictably lead to distance—resulting in the space I so desperately needed. It was a high-cost but effective strategy. At the time, I didn’t have the ability or the self-awareness to check in with myself. I didn’t realize I was using a very old and ingrained strategy to get my needs met. I didn’t even know that I had needs, let alone that it was my responsibility to advocate for them.

It would be awesome if I could write that I figured this all out and became a wonderful partner. The truth is that I still have to work hard to recognize what is going on for me in the moment and skillfully advocate for my needs. Observing my patterns over time has allowed me to be a far more proactive and skillful partner—but I do still regularly fall short. (Thanks, default mode network and limbic system—more on that in upcoming newsletters.)

Looking back, I see the truth in Elizabeth Gilbert’s words: “The greatest harm I’ve ever done to other people was through me not knowing how to take care of myself.” This hits hard because it’s true. The neglected parts of me were usually the ones that lashed out, withdrew, or built walls.

Because I have developed the ego strength to look at my flawed behavior, learn from my patterns and recognize my capacity, I’ve been able to be more proactive in my current relationship. Knowing that I have little to give after seeing clients on my long days, my partner and I have an understanding and a plan for these days. We have an explicit agreement (literally written) about our level of engagement on Tuesday and Wednesday evenings. I’ll happily greet her when I arrive home, and then I will retreat to another room with my dinner for a few hours of uninterrupted time. (I know this exact strategy won’t fit every partnership or household, but it’s a reminder that there are countless ways to design agreements that honor both people’s needs.)

The greatest gift you can give your partner is a calm, regulated nervous system. That gift, I’ve learned, requires consistent maintenance, honest self-assessment, and ongoing compassion for both myself and my partner. This solution would not have been available without self-awareness and honest reflection. And while my partner and I continue to have tension/conflict around other things, we have mostly avoided this particular trap. I recognize that many people don’t have the luxury of checking out—but my point remains: for there to be any hope of self-care, self-awareness must come first.

When you aren't at your best do you tend to lash out, withdraw, build walls or people please? What would be different if you understood what your nervous system was asking for in that moment?

You Suck at Predicting (And So Does Everyone Else)

For much of my adult life, I believed I knew myself. I think most people do. We assume we know how we’ll feel or act in a given situation. But that assumption often goes unchallenged. It wasn’t until I started deliberately paying attention to my internal world that I began to realize how often my self-predictions were off—and how misleading my inner dialogue actually was.

Psychologists call this affective forecasting: our tendency to mis-predict how future events will make us feel, and for how long. Even when we’re consistently wrong, we rarely revise our expectations. Despite clear patterns, we continue trusting our emotional predictions like they’re facts. This isn't a character flaw, it's a universal human feature.

This disconnect—between how often we’re wrong and how rarely we adjust—is what fascinates me. If I’m wrong nine times out of ten about how something will feel, wouldn’t it make sense to approach my next prediction with a bit more skepticism?

One area where this shows up clearly is in social situations. I’m an introvert. That doesn’t mean I dislike being around people—it means that socializing requires energy rather than giving it. I love spending time with others, but it’s effortful. I need solitude to recharge. So when I make plans, I’m usually excited—but when it’s time to leave the house, a big part of me resists.

Here’s the irrational part: 95% of the time, I’m genuinely glad I went. But that hasn’t reduced the resistance. If you ran an experiment a hundred times and got a positive outcome 95 times, you’d expect your brain to adjust. Mine doesn’t. I still have to override that same internal protest every single time.

This is part of a broader bias sometimes called the introspection illusion—the belief that we know our own minds better than we actually do. We assume our thoughts are transparent and our motivations are obvious, even though they’re often hidden, habitual, or context-driven. (More on this in upcoming blog posts.)

The human brain is a prediction machine. Every expectation is, at its core, a forecast. So every time we’re disappointed—or pleasantly surprised—that’s evidence that the prediction didn’t hold.

The point isn’t to eliminate expectations, that wouldn't be realistic. It’s to become a better observer of them. When we treat our misjudgments as data points instead of personal failings, we open the door to real insight. We shift from assumption to curiosity. From rigidity to experimentation. From illusion to clarity.

What’s one thing you keep expecting to feel a certain way about—even though your actual experience proves otherwise? What would shift if you trusted the evidence of your life more than the voice in your head?

What I had to Learn the Hard Way and Why I Coach Now

I am called to coach because this is the work I had to do. I’ve gone through the fire to be where I am now—finally grateful, healthy, and aligned at age 49. It’s been a long process, and I’m passionate about helping others find their way with more clarity and support than I had.

I spent much of my life in a perpetual state of nervous system activation—aka anxiety. Like most people, I didn’t realize this was the case or that there was an alternative. On paper, my life looked good, and I knew I should feel grateful—but my internal state didn’t reflect that. I battled cynicism, pessimism, and depression. Outwardly, I was “successful,” but the chatter in my brain told me I was defective, a disappointment, and just generally not a good person. I didn’t present as “miserable,” though. Most people—except my intimate partners—saw me as confident, capable, and well-adjusted.

“There are two kinds of suffering. There is the suffering you run away from, which follows you everywhere. And there is the suffering you face directly, and so become free.” —Ajahn Chah

An excruciating breakup in my mid-thirties finally woke me up. I felt more broken and defective than ever, wondering if all the effort of life was really worth it. The life raft the universe tossed me was the book Attached: The New Science of Adult Attachment. I learned that my feelings and behaviors weren’t the result of defectiveness, but of unconscious and deeply rooted attachment injuries. I felt seen, validated, and hopeful for the first time in my life. That book was the trailhead that eventually led me to become a therapist.

I delved deep into my own (and others’) psyches, tracing back the stories, beliefs, feelings, and behaviors shaped by our conditioning and complex histories. This knowledge is foundational to self-understanding and self-acceptance—a necessary part of growth—but it’s not sufficient for truly thriving.

Though I had begun to address my mind, I still wasn’t in my body. There were only fleeting references to the nervous system in my counseling program. The more I learned on my own, the more shocking that omission became. I often understood why I was triggered in a given moment but felt powerless to change my reactions. (Understanding your reaction doesn’t mean you can regulate it.) Cue: the nervous system.

Learning to work with my nervous system illuminated another truth: modern life is fundamentally misaligned with our biology. We evolved to live in nature, in tribal groups of around 150 people. Disconnection, isolation, overstimulation, and disembodiment didn’t exist until recently in human history. Understanding this mismatch clarified why my clients—and I—could achieve the trappings of a “good life” and still feel like something was missing. Deep connection to others and the environment isn’t a luxury—it’s a biological necessity.

Coming to understand my conditioning, history, nervous system, and needs as a human animal has been a long and experimental process. I continue to learn what it means to feel safe, whole, and fully present. I’m far from enlightened—but I’m grounded, content, and ever-learning.

This path—full of wrong turns, hard truths, and real breakthroughs—is the same path I now help others walk. Coaching allows me to bring together everything I’ve lived, studied, practiced, and integrated. It’s not about speeding up the journey for the sake of ease—it’s about offering a more direct trail to wholeness.