“We don’t see things as they are, we see them as we are.”
It sounds like one of those quotes you nod at, perhaps share with a knowing expression, and then move on from before the kettle has boiled. But if you sit with it for a moment, it starts to explain quite a lot about how we experience the world. It explains why the same late reply can feel completely different depending on the day you are having. On one day, you barely notice it. You assume the other person is busy, distracted or buried under the usual avalanche of life. On another day, perhaps when you are tired, anxious, low in confidence or carrying an old worry, the same silence can feel like the beginning of a personal crisis.
“They are annoyed with me.” “I have said something wrong.” “They are losing interest.” “I knew I was not important to them.” The event itself has not changed very much. A message has not been answered yet. But your experience of it has changed completely. That is because we do not simply receive the world as a set of neutral facts. We interpret it. We give it meaning. Our mood, energy, memories, expectations, fears and past experiences all quietly influence the story our minds build about what is happening.
This is not because we are irrational or broken. It is because we are human. Our brains are constantly trying to make sense of incomplete information. They notice patterns, predict what might happen next and fill in gaps quickly. That is useful. It helps us make decisions, spot risks and navigate relationships without having to analyse every conversation as though we are leading a public inquiry. The trouble is that when information is ambiguous, the mind can become a rather enthusiastic storyteller.
A look across a room can become disapproval. A short email can become criticism. A cancelled plan can become rejection. Someone seeming distracted can become evidence that we do not matter. The story can feel so convincing that we forget it is still a story. It is our interpretation, shaped by what we are carrying in that moment. It may contain truth, but it may also contain fear, memory, fatigue, insecurity or a generous helping of unnecessary drama added by a brain that thinks it is helping.
This sits at the heart of psychological research on appraisal. Appraisal is simply the meaning we give to what happens. Two people can experience the same event and have very different emotional responses because they interpret it differently. Imagine two people being asked to give a presentation. One sees it as an opportunity to share something useful and perhaps feel proud afterwards. The other sees it as a situation in which they may be judged, embarrassed or exposed. The event is broadly the same, but the meaning is different, and that meaning shapes the emotion that follows.
One person may feel energised. The other may feel threatened. Neither response is necessarily ridiculous. Both make sense in the context of the story each person’s mind has created. But the difference matters, because the story we tell ourselves affects what we feel, what we notice and what we do next. When we are anxious, we are more likely to scan for signs of threat. When we are feeling rejected, we may notice every pause, hesitation or change in tone. When we are low in confidence, we may give greater weight to criticism and less weight to praise. When we are tired or emotionally stretched, we may have less capacity to hold uncertainty lightly.
Much of this happens quickly, before we have had time to stop and question it. You may walk into a meeting and sense that something feels off. Perhaps someone does not smile in the usual way. Perhaps they are quieter than normal. Before you know it, your mind has reached a conclusion. They are unhappy with you. They do not value what you have done. You have somehow got it wrong again. But perhaps they are worried about something at home. Perhaps they have had a difficult call. Perhaps they are simply concentrating. Perhaps they are thinking about lunch, which, in fairness, has ruined many a facial expression.
The point is not that your first interpretation is definitely wrong. It may be accurate. The point is that it is not automatically the only explanation. That is a subtle distinction, but it can change the way we move through difficult moments. You do not need to argue with your feelings or force yourself into a positive spin. “They have not replied, therefore they must be delighted with me” is not emotional intelligence. It is just optimism wearing a paper hat. You also do not need to let the first feeling become the final verdict.
There is a space in between. In that space, you can notice what is coming up and ask yourself a few useful questions. What actually happened? What meaning have I given it? What am I feeling right now? What evidence do I have? What else could this mean? What might I be bringing from my past into this moment? These questions are not about dismissing instinct. Sometimes your instincts are picking up on something real. They may be noticing a pattern, a change in behaviour or a situation that deserves attention.
But instinct works best when it is allowed to be information, not an unquestioned instruction. There is a difference between saying, “Something about this feels uncomfortable,” and saying, “I know exactly what this means.” The first creates curiosity. The second closes it down. Research on interpretation bias is useful here. Interpretation bias describes our tendency to make particular kinds of meaning from ambiguous situations. Someone who tends towards negative interpretations may be more likely to see uncertainty as threat, silence as rejection or a neutral comment as criticism.
This does not mean they are choosing to be negative. It may reflect previous experiences, stress levels, personality, anxiety or patterns learned over time. The important point is that interpretations can become habits. If you have spent years expecting disappointment, you may become very good at finding it. If you have learned that people can be unreliable, you may become alert to every sign that someone might let you down. If you have often been criticised, you may hear criticism even in feedback that was intended to be neutral or helpful.
The mind is trying to protect you. But protection can sometimes become overprotection. It can make the world feel more hostile, relationships feel more fragile and ordinary uncertainty feel heavier than it needs to. This is where a pause can become powerful. Not a huge pause involving incense, a mountain retreat and a handwritten letter to your inner child. Just a small pause. Enough time to notice that your mind has formed an interpretation before you treat it as a fact.
You might say to yourself, “I am having the thought that they are annoyed with me.” That sounds simple, but it creates a little distance. You are no longer completely inside the story. You are observing it. You might then ask, “What else could this mean?” Perhaps they are busy. Perhaps they are tired. Perhaps the message needs a proper reply and they have not had time. Perhaps they have seen it and forgotten. Perhaps there is something going on for them that has nothing to do with you. Perhaps they are annoyed with you. All of those possibilities can sit on the table until you have more information.
This is not about becoming passive or pretending that difficult dynamics do not exist. It is about responding to evidence rather than reacting only to fear. Sometimes the right next step will be to ask a direct question. Sometimes it will be to wait. Sometimes it will be to set a boundary. Sometimes it will be to notice that you are tired, hungry, stressed or emotionally depleted, and that today may not be the ideal day to make a major decision about the future of a friendship, job or marriage.
We often underestimate the effect of our current state on how we interpret events. A difficult day does not just make us feel worse. It can change what we notice, how we remember and what we believe something means. A familiar example is reading an email late at night. A message that seemed manageable at 10am can feel like a professional catastrophe at 11.30pm when you are exhausted, irritated and one biscuit away from declaring war on the world. The email has not changed. You have. That does not make your response invalid. It simply makes it worth holding lightly until you have more rest, more perspective or more information.
One of the most useful skills we can develop is not certainty. It is flexibility. Psychological flexibility is the ability to remain open to our thoughts and feelings without letting them dictate every response. It means we can acknowledge, “I feel anxious,” without deciding that we must avoid the thing making us anxious. We can notice, “I feel rejected,” without immediately withdrawing, apologising or trying to earn reassurance. We can think, “This feels difficult,” without concluding that it is impossible.
That is different from suppressing emotion. Suppressing emotion says, “I should not feel this.” Flexibility says, “I do feel this. Now what is the most helpful next step?” This is where cognitive reappraisal can be useful. Reappraisal is not about forcing ourselves to think positively. It is about considering whether there is another interpretation of a situation that is realistic, useful and less driven by automatic fear.
For example, you might move from, “They have not replied because they do not care,” to, “I do not know why they have not replied yet, and I can wait for more information before deciding what it means.” You might move from, “That feedback proves I am not good enough,” to, “This feedback may be uncomfortable, but it could contain something useful without defining my worth.” You might move from, “They looked annoyed, so I must have upset them,” to, “They may have been annoyed, but I do not know whether it was about me.” None of these responses asks you to deny reality. They simply give reality more than one possible explanation.
Over time, this can create a gentler way of moving through the world. A little less reaction. A little more curiosity. A little less certainty about the worst case scenario. A little more room for evidence, conversation and perspective. You still trust yourself. You still pay attention to what feels wrong. You still take your emotions seriously. But you hold your first interpretation with slightly less grip.
That can be especially useful in relationships. Many arguments begin not with what someone actually said, but with the meaning we attach to it. A partner goes quiet and we decide they do not care. A colleague challenges an idea and we decide they do not respect us. A friend cancels and we decide we matter less to them than we thought. Sometimes those conclusions are accurate. But sometimes a conversation would reveal something very different. “I have been overwhelmed.” “I was distracted.” “I did not realise how that came across.” “I am sorry.” “I thought you were upset with me.”
A great deal of unnecessary distance can grow in the space between what happened and what we assumed it meant. That does not mean all misunderstandings can be fixed with a better question. Some relationships genuinely lack care, safety, respect or honesty. Some instincts are warning us about behaviour that should not be minimised. Curiosity is not a reason to ignore patterns of disrespect, manipulation or harm. But in everyday life, where information is often incomplete and emotions are often running ahead of the evidence, a pause can be a very kind thing to offer ourselves.
This is one of the reasons reflective check ins can be useful. When something feels off, instead of immediately asking, “What is wrong with them?” or “What is wrong with me?”, we might ask, “What story am I telling myself right now?” Then perhaps, “What else could this mean?” That question does not make life perfectly clear. It does something more realistic. It reminds us that we are always seeing through the lens of our own experience.
And perhaps that is the point. We do not need to see everything perfectly. We never will. But we can become a little more aware of the lens we are looking through. We can make room for the possibility that our feelings are real, our perspective matters, and yet there may still be more to the story.
That is part of why Myles exists. It is not there to tell you what to think, dismiss your instincts or insist that everything has a cheerful explanation. It is there to offer a place to think out loud, notice the story you are building and explore what else may be true. Sometimes clarity does not come from finding the perfect answer. Sometimes it comes from realising that your first answer may not be the only one.
One step at a time.
