Who Is Driving the Bus Today?

There are days when I am absolutely convinced I need to get a job.

Not eventually.

Immediately.

I need a steady paycheck. Benefits. Security. A plan.

There are other days when I think getting a traditional job is the last thing I want to do. I have businesses I want to build. Ideas I want to explore. I finally have some control over my time, and I don't particularly want to hand it back.

Then another voice joins the conversation.

You should be spending more time with your mother.

Followed closely by:

You need to start building your own life.

And somewhere in the back:

What are you doing about money?

It's quite a crowd in there.

For a long time, I treated whichever voice was loudest as though it represented what I actually believed.

I'm beginning to realize that's not necessarily true.

Sometimes a passenger has just gotten hold of the steering wheel.

The Passengers on the Bus

Years ago, I learned a metaphor that has stayed with me: imagine that your life is a bus.

You're the driver.

But you're not alone.

There are passengers riding along with you, and every one of them has an opinion about where you're going.

I've also found a similar idea in Internal Family Systems, a therapeutic model that describes us as having different "parts." These parts can carry different beliefs, fears, desires and ways of protecting us.

I don't need to understand every piece of the psychology to recognize myself in it.

I have parts.

Oh, do I have parts.

There's the responsible one.

She would like everyone to calm down, make a spreadsheet and follow the plan.

There's the anxious one.

She would like to know exactly what will happen for approximately the next 30 years.

There's the entrepreneur.

She thinks we should stop messing around and see what we're capable of building.

There's the employee.

She would like someone to deposit a predictable amount of money into our checking account every two weeks.

There's the caregiver.

She reminds me that this time with my mother is finite.

There's the daughter who still feels guilty when she sets a boundary.

There's the independent woman who would very much like everyone to stop telling her what to do.

And apparently they all bought tickets for the same bus.

They're Usually Trying to Help

Here's the part I've started to understand differently.

I used to think I needed to get rid of certain thoughts.

I shouldn't be anxious.

I shouldn't care what someone thinks.

I shouldn't be afraid.

I shouldn't want security if I also want freedom.

I shouldn't feel resentful when I chose to be a caregiver.

I shouldn't be irritated with someone I love.

But what if none of these parts needs to disappear?

What if they're simply trying to protect me?

The part demanding that I find a job isn't trying to ruin my entrepreneurial dreams. She's scared about money.

The part that wants to control everything isn't trying to make me miserable. She learned somewhere along the way that being prepared feels safer than being surprised.

The part that feels guilty about my mother isn't weak. She loves her.

Even the parts of me that create the most anxiety are usually trying, in their own slightly dysfunctional ways, to help.

Maybe I don't have to fight them.

I just don't have to give them the keys.

The Loudest Voice Isn't Necessarily the Truth

This has been particularly useful for me lately.

I can wake up feeling anxious about money and suddenly my entire future looks different.

You need a job.

These businesses aren't going to work.

You've wasted too much time.

You need to fix this.

A few hours later, I can feel completely differently.

The circumstances haven't changed.

My bank account hasn't magically increased.

Nobody has offered me a job.

My businesses haven't suddenly become wildly successful.

What changed was the passenger speaking the loudest.

That's an important distinction.

Because when I don't recognize what's happening, I start reorganizing my life around a temporary emotional state.

Anxiety becomes a five-year plan.

Fear becomes a decision.

Guilt becomes an obligation.

Someone else's opinion becomes my truth.

I've done all of those.

I'm trying to do less of them.

Sometimes the Passengers Aren't Even Ours

This is where it gets especially interesting.

Some of the voices riding around in my head sound suspiciously like other people.

A parent.

A former partner.

A boss.

A friend.

Someone who once made a comment about my body, my money, my choices, my career or the way I live.

Eventually they don't even have to say it anymore.

I say it for them.

You shouldn't spend money on that.

You should have a real job.

You should weigh less.

You should be further along.

You should do more for your mother.

You shouldn't feel that way.

The person may be nowhere near my actual life.

But somehow I've given them a permanent seat on the bus.

Worse, occasionally I've handed them the wheel.

I'm starting to question why.

I Can Hear You Without Obeying You

The goal isn't to become a person without fear, insecurity, guilt or contradictory desires.

I'm not sure that person exists.

And frankly, trying to become her sounds exhausting.

What I'm practicing instead is noticing.

Oh. The scared-about-money part is here today.

There's the daughter who doesn't want to disappoint anyone.

There's the part of me who desperately wants someone to tell me what happens next.

I don't have to argue with her.

I don't have to prove her wrong.

I don't even have to make her leave.

I can listen.

Sometimes she has useful information.

Maybe I do need to pay closer attention to money.

Maybe I do need a boundary.

Maybe my business needs more effort.

Maybe something genuinely needs to change.

But listening to a passenger isn't the same thing as letting her drive.

Someone Still Has to Drive

This is the part I'm still learning.

There isn't going to be a day when all of my different parts finally agree.

The entrepreneur and the security seeker may always have slightly different agendas.

The caregiver and the independent woman may continue negotiating.

The planner is probably never going to be thrilled about uncertainty.

That's okay.

They can come along.

But ultimately somebody has to decide where we're going.

And increasingly, I want that to be the version of me who can hear all of them without becoming any one of them.

The one who can say:

I know you're scared.

I know you want certainty.

I know you don't want to disappoint anyone.

I know you're trying to protect me.

But I'm driving.

Maybe that's what becoming more fully ourselves actually looks like.

Not finally silencing all the voices in our heads.

Just remembering whose hands belong on the wheel.