Scary-Ass Decisions & The Art of Trusting Your Heart Voice

Does this count as cussing?

Saturday

It’s nearing dusk on Saturday, the “No Turn on Red” sign outside the café window wafting gently in the wintery breeze, horizon lightening the way it does before it will turn shades of midnight, streetlights buzzing on to reflect in windows. The café is cozy and warm, though I’m still zipped up in my red puffer jacket, probably the best investment I’ve made since moving to Seattle almost two years ago. We’re inside a bookstore, and I overhear an elderly gentleman joke about how he’ll spend $100 in here today, and a couple on their laptops discuss when they will go home, and a family ordering food at the counter.

I’m thinking about books and the bowl-sized mug I am sipping from, and how to make sense of the past few weeks.

While a tall man in a hoodie teeters awkwardly, waiting to claim a newly-freed table, I decide that the best way is to just present one bald, honest day, a turning point that has shaped the days since. It is a reflection on decision-making, trusting yourself, and how even the most aligned decisions may come with doubt and tremors of energy that will shake you into someone stronger or braver or more loving.

Big decisions can feel like a dawn, though sometimes a little less peaceful.

Last Week

It’s 3:30 in the morning, and I’m lying awake after a sleep meditation, eyes wet with the heft of the day. I know that the light from my laptop will not help anything, but I decide I’m up anyway, so I might as well write, fishing my blue light-blocking glasses from my backpack in a mostly performative effort to protect my eyes and nervous system.

I’m thinking about how it feels in the aftermath of making a big decision, even - perhaps especially - one you know is absolutely right. I made a big decision yesterday. It feels strange to consider the enormity of it - a slight catch in my breath. But then, don’t many of our decisions have ripple effects?

Even as I was in it, it was intriguing, observing the process. After the initial shock of realizing I’d have to make a decision, I put one hand on my heart and pressed gently. I asked myself what I should do.

Immediately, my inner voice had an answer. I was surprised. It was clear, direct, right at the forefront of my consciousness. “Ok,” I said, acknowledging that I’d heard myself. If I had asked for a sign, it couldn’t have been more clear. Then my darling brain caught up.

I like my brain. It tries its best to keep me safe, even when the execution isn’t always pleasant or even helpful (hi, OCD). It helps me think critically and strategically, skills that serve me well in work, reading, navigating a complex world. And, even so, I feel an endearing amusement when I consider that my brain’s first reaction to this very clear sign from my heart was, “Ok, let’s slow down. What are we missing? Is this a biased response? What haven’t we considered? We should probably make some pro/cons lists, and reflect critically on the role of privilege in your life and this decision.”

I like this response, too. That my brain is so conscious of the world, that it wants to do right by myself and others. But I noticed that the more I sat with this head voice, the more I tried to logic my way into a decision, the more stressed out I was becoming. Thoughts tumbled as I decided I’d think my way to a decision, gosh darn it. Unwilling to discuss my predicament with loved ones who might influence my decision one way or another, I decided I’d get myself organized, put words on a page, be my own coach. I reached for one of those free notepads charities send you in the mail to elicit donations (this one from Wounded Warriors) and wrote out a few questions, essentially including: 1) What do I want? and 2) How can I get there?

After scribbling down a few ideas, I worried I might be missing things - who knows what creative ideas I hadn’t yet considered! My brain still hurt, too, and I was exhausted, though that may have partially been due to a very full few days prior and recent burst of physical activity. I wavered back and forth but eventually decided there were a couple of trusted confidants I could reach out to. I sent out the bat signal.

It was through one short conversation that I realized there was one option I was considering because of its “on paper” merits. I notice in myself a default response to try to figure out how to say yes to things. In my mind, I was already contorting around this idea, considering how to fit what I wanted into its mold. The problem was, I wasn’t excited by it. It was the other option, the one my heart had so plainly said yes to, that excited me.

As these things often go, the “head” path was the one I could see pretty clearly. It was externally pleasing, predictable, logically sound. Then there was the “heart” path. On this road, I can’t see past the next step. The ground could fall out from under me. The risk feels bigger here, but so does the reward.

There’s a narrative in my head, something I learned growing up, that if you fail in the traditional path, at least you won’t be blamed for having made the wrong decision. But choose something out of left field and fail? Good luck, kiddo. You brought that on yourself.

I encountered a quote by Mary Ann Pack recently, I think through a guided meditation, that’s stuck with me: “We are always trusting something.” Hm. I could trust logic, I could trust others, I could trust the way things are “supposed to be.”

I could also trust myself.

These aren’t always in conflict (thank God; that would be an extremely stressful life!). But sometimes they are, or at least they feel like they are.

I made my decision. I chose the small, unimposing heart voice. Then I teared up on the way to my car, calling a close friend, feeling my body shake, hearing my own high-pitched laughs - emotion spilling out like avocados from a grocery bag - awkward, fumbling, uncontrollable.

It was the right decision. I felt it settle on me. I felt calm, clear, assured when I decided. And still there is a grief.

I think about when, two years ago (and it feels much further away than that), a partner and I chose to end the romantic aspect of our relationship. That day, I felt hopeful. We both knew it was the right call. The next day, at the kitchen table, grief came with surprising urgency, lead on my chest, I couldn’t hold myself tight enough. It had nothing to do with regret. Rather, it was the burning away of something dead; a preparation for the new.

In the days following my decision, my emotions have sometimes been too big for their container, and I’ve found myself, listless, snuggled beneath a soothing blanket on the couch, or buzzing with the fumes of adrenaline, rushing to make plans and meet demands. There are little temptations that beg to bring me back to my comfort zone - though, ironically enough, they mostly revolve around other people’s comfort.

Questions swirl through my mind - Is this a foolish decision? Would I choose something else had I more, or different, life experience? Could it all come crashing down?

I started this morning with a short, guided meditation. Somewhere along the way, the voice in the recording asked, “What would you do if you knew you couldn’t fail?” It’s a question I’ve written about on Substack before. In this case, my answer is: exactly what I’ve chosen.

Every time I’ve trusted my heart voice, it’s brought me somewhere I didn’t know I could go. Our brains are limited by what we can imagine. Our hearts, on the other hand? They are vastly more expansive.

So how do you hear your inner voice? Notice when you start to reason with yourself. Hone in on what you were thinking before the reasoning started. Feel for those moments of calm.

Your heart voice will speak from a place of quiet. It will not be rushed, bullied, or convinced. You can choose to accept or reject it, but it is available to you if you slow down enough to hear it.¹

Maybe give some grace to your head voice, too. That beautiful and fragile thing, it’s doing its best to protect you.

And then?

You jump the f*** in.

1. There are a multitude of resources on mindfulness and connecting with your heart voice. One that I’ve found simple, accessible, and compelling is Cory Muscara, a former monk, whose Instagram posts have helped me understand and articulate what it feels like to listen to oneself. Glennon Doyle also writes on this from her life experience in Untamed. Finally, for reading on mindfulness, you might explore Thich Nhat Hanh’s teachings. His former attendant, Brother Phap Huu, is also the co-host of a podcast - The Way Out is In.

p.s. Today’s post is dedicated to the memory of Michael Flynn.