One of the things I’ve noticed about myself is that most of my problems don’t begin with what I do. They begin with a fight that happens inside my own head.
It’s not dramatic, and no one else can see it. It usually starts with a moment of discomfort, confusion, embarrassment, or insecurity, and then my mind immediately begins trying to manage it. I start explaining things to myself. I construct reasons why my reaction makes sense. I tell myself why what I said or did wasn’t really that bad. If I’m honest, I’m very good at this. I come from a family of thinkers, people who believe that if you just analyze something enough you can solve it. Thinking has always been our specialty, and it’s easy for thinking to turn into a kind of self-defense system.
What I’ve realized over time is that thinking can also become a way of avoiding the truth. The truth usually appears before the thinking begins. It shows up in that brief moment when something inside me says, “That wasn’t right”. Then the argument starts. My mind moves quickly to explain why I’m justified, why someone else caused the situation, or why it’s unnecessary to say anything at all. Within seconds, I can build a whole case for why I’m fine.
For most of my life, I tried to soothe the uncomfortable feeling that sits underneath those moments instead of listening to it. When something inside me feels unsettled: anger, confusion, embarrassment…I instinctively want relief. Alcohol used to be the obvious way that I got that relief, but sobriety has made it clear that alcohol was never the only soother I used. I can soothe myself by being right, by holding onto control, by making sure people see me a certain way, or by protecting my ego when it feels threatened. The form changes, but the instinct is the same: something inside me feels uncomfortable, and I want it to stop.
The longer I stay sober, the more I notice that the most important moments in my life aren’t the big dramatic ones. They’re the small moments when that internal fight becomes visible. Recently, I had one of those moments over a minor situation. I co-lead a Christian women’s group that hosts monthly gatherings. It’s a community in which I’ve invested a lot of energy, and for a while I’ve had the sense that it might be time for me to step back. My life is full, and it probably makes sense for someone else to take the lead and make it her main focus.
Still, I didn’t really want to let it go. If I’m honest, I liked holding the microphone. I liked being the one people looked to as a leader. I liked the sense that I had been a part of building a meaningful community for women in the Twin Cities.
When the woman with whom I lead the group asked me whether I really wanted to keep doing it, I felt my ego react immediately. I sent a text that wasn’t unkind, but it was defensive. It carried the message that I was already doing a lot, and that she hadn’t acknowledged that. Even before I sent the text, I could feel my ego in it, but, my thinking mind told me it was okay, she needed to know everything I had been doing behind the scenes. My thinking mind won, and I sent the text.
The uncomfortable feeling came almost immediately, but now, at least I know to pray. So, I prayed, and the situation became clear. I, indeed, had responded out of ego. A few years ago I probably would have dismissed that realization. I would have explained it away or convinced myself my response was reasonable. But five years of relationship with God has made my conscience more sensitive. When my conscience isn’t right, I feel it more quickly than I used to.
So, at the end of the day, when I talked to her on the phone, I told her that after praying about it, I did think it was time for me to step down after our last gathering in March and let someone else lead the group forward. I also admitted to her that I had been defensive and that in my earlier text, I had responded from my ego. I explained that I was wrong for showing up that way, and that I should have prayed before responding.
That conversation sounds simple when I describe it now, but what people don’t see is the internal debate that occurred in my head before I made the call. My mind generated all the usual arguments: maybe she didn’t notice the tone of the message, maybe bringing it up would make the call awkward, maybe admitting it would make me look worse. Those thoughts appeared quickly and convincingly.
What I have learned, though, is that confession ends that internal argument. When I say what is actually true, the energy I was using to defend myself inside my own head disappears. Most of the time the outcome isn’t dramatic at all. In this case, she laughed and said something like, “It’s okay, we all do that sometimes.” The conversation moved on.
What stayed with me afterward was the sense of relief. My conscience had settled. I didn’t have to keep managing the situation or replaying the conversation in my head.
I’m beginning to understand that letting go rarely looks dramatic. It usually happens in small moments when I stop trying to protect my ego and simply tell the truth. The more quickly I recognize the fight happening in my mind, the less power it has over me. When the fight ends, the urge to soothe myself with control or approval fades with it.
For most of my life, I thought freedom meant learning how to manage myself better. Over the past several years, I have come to realize that freedom actually means learning when to stop arguing with reality and to simply admit when I am wrong. And more than that, to recognize that when ego pops up, there’s usually truth lurking beneath it.
Before I ever received that text, some part of me already knew it was time to let go. If I’d paused to listen more closely, I might have been able to realize it sooner. But I’m grateful I eventually reached that realization, and for the reminder that freedom often begins with humility. Life keeps offering me chances to learn that lesson, and maybe that’s the real gift: that we get to keep learning, over and over again.
If you’re new here, I’m Dr. Lisa Stanton, and I want to welcome you to my writing home.
A bit about me: I write and teach about faith, recovery (not only from addiction, but also mental health, physical illness, the need for control…just about anything), and the process of unlearning the things that keep me from peace.
My publication is called The Unlearning Gazette, and my emails are simple: stories, reflections, and reminders that God hasn’t gone anywhere, even when life feels heavy or confusing.
So, welcome, or hello, it’s great to see you again!