There is a good chance you’ve had an argument today. Perhaps it was with your partner over whose turn it was to empty the dishwasher. Perhaps it was with a colleague who “replied all” when there was absolutely no need. Or perhaps it was with the sat nav that confidently announced, “You have reached your destination,” while you were clearly parked outside a field.
But I’d wager the biggest argument you’ve had wasn’t with anyone else. It was with yourself.
Most of us carry on conversations in our heads all day long. We replay meetings, rewrite conversations and imagine future disasters with the creativity of a Hollywood scriptwriter. We tell ourselves we should have spoken up, stayed quiet, worked harder, worried less or somehow been a better version of ourselves. It is exhausting.
The interesting thing is that we often think the problem is the situation we’re facing. More often than not, the real struggle is the argument we’re having about how we feel about it.
The Problem With Telling Ourselves How We Should Feel
“I shouldn’t be upset.”
“I shouldn’t be anxious.”
“I shouldn’t care so much.”
“I shouldn’t still be thinking about this.”
Notice the word that appears every time: should. That tiny word carries an enormous weight.
There is an idea in Buddhist psychology known as the second arrow. The first arrow is the difficult thing that happens to us. We lose a client, receive disappointing news, someone criticises us, a relationship ends or life simply doesn’t unfold the way we’d hoped. Feeling hurt, anxious or disappointed is the first arrow. The second arrow is the one we fire ourselves by believing we shouldn’t feel that way in the first place. Very often, the second arrow causes more suffering than the first.
Why Fighting Our Feelings Rarely Works
It isn’t just ancient wisdom that points us in this direction. Modern psychology tells a remarkably similar story. James Gross, a psychologist at Stanford University, has spent decades researching emotion regulation. His work consistently shows that trying to suppress uncomfortable emotions rarely makes them disappear. Instead, suppression often increases stress, raises our physiological arousal and can even make it harder to connect authentically with other people. In other words, pretending we’re fine doesn’t convince our brain. It simply gives the feeling somewhere quieter to hide.
Perhaps you’ve experienced it yourself. You throw yourself into work. You clean the kitchen for the third time. You endlessly scroll social media. You binge-watch another episode because, well, you’re already here. You tell yourself you’re simply keeping busy, and sometimes you are. But sometimes you’re simply staying one step ahead of your own feelings. None of these behaviours are inherently bad. The problem comes when they become our only strategy.
Another fascinating piece of research comes from neuroscientist Matthew Lieberman. His studies suggest that simply naming an emotion can reduce activity in the amygdala, the part of the brain responsible for detecting threat, while increasing activity in areas of the prefrontal cortex involved in reasoning and emotional regulation. In simple terms, saying, “I’m feeling anxious,” is often more helpful than saying, “Everything is a disaster.” Naming isn’t fixing. Naming is noticing. And noticing creates just enough space for us to respond rather than simply react.
What Happens When We Replace Judgement With Curiosity?
This is where curiosity becomes so powerful. Judgement asks, “Why am I like this?” Curiosity asks, “What’s happening here?” Judgement says, “I shouldn’t feel this.” Curiosity says, “I wonder what’s underneath this feeling?” Those are two very different conversations, and they usually lead to two very different outcomes.
Think about how you’d respond if a close friend came to you feeling overwhelmed. You probably wouldn’t tell them to pull themselves together. You’d ask what had happened. You’d listen. You’d help them make sense of things. Oddly enough, we rarely extend the same kindness to ourselves.
I often think our emotions are rather like the warning light on a car dashboard. If a warning light appeared while you were driving, you wouldn’t simply cover it with black tape and congratulate yourself on solving the problem. The light isn’t the problem; it’s information. Our emotions work in much the same way. Anxiety may be telling us we’ve taken on too much. Anger may be pointing towards a boundary that’s been crossed. Sadness may simply reflect something that mattered deeply. That doesn’t mean every emotion tells the truth, but every emotion is worth listening to before deciding what to do next.
Then, of course, there is the famous two o’clock in the morning committee meeting. One voice says you’re overreacting. Another insists you’re underreacting. A third suddenly remembers something embarrassing you said at a barbecue twelve years ago. Somehow they all want the floor at the same time. Thankfully, morning usually reveals that none of them were particularly reliable.
Sometimes the Best Question Isn’t How Do I Fix This?
One of the reasons I believe coaching works is that it doesn’t rush to solve. It slows us down long enough to understand. If Myles were sitting with you during one of these moments, I doubt the first question would be, “How do we fix this?” It would probably ask something much simpler. “What are you feeling right now?” Then perhaps, “What makes that feeling understandable?” And finally, “If that feeling had something useful to tell you, what might it be?” Notice that none of those questions are trying to eliminate emotion. They’re simply inviting curiosity.
Life will always bring uncertainty. People will disappoint us. Plans will change. We will all make mistakes. None of that is optional. What is optional is whether we spend the next three days arguing with ourselves about having perfectly human emotions.
The Moment We Stop Fighting Ourselves
I’ve come to believe that clarity rarely arrives because every problem suddenly disappears. More often, it arrives the moment we stop fighting ourselves. When we pause, acknowledge what’s true and replace judgement with curiosity, something shifts. The noise quietens, our thinking clears and we begin to see possibilities that were hidden beneath the argument.
So the next time you notice that familiar debate beginning inside your own head, try something different. Pause. Take a breath. Name what you’re feeling. Then ask yourself one simple question:
“What might this feeling be trying to tell me?”
You may discover that the greatest argument you ever win isn’t with somebody else.
It’s the one you choose not to have with yourself.
One step at a time.
Myles
