The Voice in Your Head Isn’t Alone

When my son was about three years old, he had a very specific strategy for the playground—one that, to this day, I still don’t fully understand.

He would sprint through everything. Slides, ladders, tunnels—no hesitation, full speed, like he had somewhere important to be. But then he’d get to this one particular section, and suddenly… everything changed.

He’d slow down. A lot.

Then he’d crouch. Lower. Lower. Until he was practically crawling—quiet, focused, inching forward like a tiny lion stalking prey. (The prey, for the record, was absolutely nothing. Just playground equipment. Very dangerous, clearly.)

I used to watch him and think, what is happening right now? Why is this the obstacle that requires stealth, intensity, and a complete personality shift?

But in a strange way, that’s exactly what it’s like when we start going deeper into our own minds.

You can move quickly through a lot of things in life—surface thoughts, daily routines, distractions. No problem. But then you hit something. One memory, one fear, one uncomfortable truth—and suddenly, everything in you slows down.

You get quiet. Careful. Maybe even a little dramatic about it.

Because when you really start looking inward, you’re going to come across things that genuinely shake you. Things that feel overwhelming, disorienting—sometimes even physical. It’s not unusual to feel sick, anxious, or like you want to run in the opposite direction. Your body is reacting to something it doesn’t quite know how to process.

And honestly, that makes sense. The mind is built on patterns and protection. It puts up walls for a reason. It’s not trying to reveal truth—it’s trying to keep things familiar.

But if you’re serious about finding peace, you don’t turn around at that point. You don’t sprint away like you did with everything else.

You do what my son did, in his own strange, committed way—you approach it.

Slowly. Carefully. Maybe even a little awkwardly.

You sit with it.

You can talk to it, reason with it, try to understand it. (You might even give it a little speech, like you’re negotiating with a very stubborn toddler.) But the one thing you can’t do is force it to change. No one can.

The only real option is to face it—to look it directly in the eye—and stay there long enough for it to lose its grip. To let it fade on its own.

And then, of course, another one shows up. Because the mind has an excellent supply of “very important obstacles.”

And then another.

But over time, something shifts. You get better at this. Less reactive, less fooled by what shows up. You stop believing every dramatic performance your mind puts on.

Eventually, you move through it all with clarity.

You live unfooled.
You live undeceived.

And ideally… with slightly less crawling.