What We Don't Confront Consumes Us

Robert Frost wrote one of the most famous poems about choice in the English language because his friend was annoying during walks.

Which means millions of people have spent reading the work as a sweeping anthem to courageous individuality when it was kind of just: Edward. My guy. I love you, but pick a path.

Frost and his friend, the poet Edward Thomas, used to take long walks together through the English countryside. Thomas had a habit of agonizing over which path they should take and, afterward, wondering whether the other one would have been better. Frost wrote "The Road Not Taken" as a delightful jab at his friend's indecision (I am not using my free will enough).

Why am I talking about this? Great question! Because if writing a now-classic piece of work that has been turned into motivational posters about your friend's inability to make a decision isn't passive-aggressive confrontation, I don't know what is.

The thing I keep coming back to in this case isn't actually which road Frost's speaker chooses; it's confronting the fact that he cannot choose both.

That is the problem from the very beginning. Two roads diverge, and he is "sorry" he cannot travel both. He stands there for a long time looking down one, trying to see as far as possible before making the decision. Later, he acknowledges what anyone who has made a consequential decision knows: one choice leads to another and another. He is unlikely to come back and try the other one.

The choice closes something, and I think we underestimate how much we don't like that. Or at least I don't. I like to live in possibility - it's fun.

We say we don't want to make "the wrong decision," but the word "wrong" is doing a lot of work. Our reluctance also has to do with the fact that before you choose, everything is still possible.

The person might say yes! The opportunity might work! The relationship might become what you've imagined (OMG). The thing you've been dreaming about and curating remains pristine because reality hasn't gotten its sticky little hands on it yet.

Possibility is intoxicating that way.

Nothing fails in possibility, and nothing disappoints you. You can stand at the fork and imagine yourself gloriously walking down all the possible roads forever.

Except you aren't walking; you're stuck.

The fantasy of the unchosen life

Maybe this is why Frost's fork in the road has lasted so long. Every consequential choice contains a tiny grief. The life we choose necessarily excludes other lives.

The job accepted is the job not taken. The city we live in is every city we don't. The person we build a life with means not discovering what would have happened with someone else. Starting one thing means giving time to it that could have gone somewhere else.

Even good decisions have opportunity costs. And our brains are perfectly capable of decorating the unchosen road, because nothing bad has happened there.

The imaginary career never has a terrible boss. The imaginary relationship never leaves dishes in the sink. The imaginary version of ourselves who made the other decision is suspiciously well-rested and has excellent hair.

Reality cannot compete with an alternative that has no evidence.

We are very good at making avoidance look productive

I say some version of this to my clients all the time:

What you don't confront consumes you. What you confront can dissolve.

(I say it to myself too, with varying compliance. Do as I say, etc…)

We hear the word "confront" and imagine an argument, someone storming out of a conference room, or, depending on the situation, earrings getting removed.

But confrontation is simply turning toward what is already there.

Looking at the numbers, saying the problem out loud, making the ask, whatever it is, confronting it makes it real.

I've been thinking a lot about confrontation (or lack thereof) this week. I had employment law consultant Charla Stevens, JD, on the podcast. Charla spent almost 40 years practicing law, including chairing McLane Middleton's employment law practice group dealing with workplace conflict, difficult dynamics, burnout, policies, and the myriad of things that arise in the workplace when you spend 40+ hours together every week.

Conflict exists regardless of confrontation. Confrontation is what happens when somebody finally agrees to acknowledge it.

Confrontation can feel scary, so we want to be prepared going into it. Super responsible of us! (*Robert checks his watch)

We read the book and research and journal and make a pros-cons list and ask five friends and put it into Chat and listen to another podcast because perhaps episode 347 contains the piece of information that will finally allow us to proceed with absolutely no uncertainty whatsoever.

Preparation is important and the right information matters. Expertise matters. Thinking before you leap remains, on balance, a solid policy.

But there is a point where preparation hinders you. As long as you are preparing to do the thing, you do not yet have to experience the consequences of doing it.

And there is a wonderful little psychological mechanism working in our favor here: avoidance can make us feel better in the short term. We encounter something that makes us anxious, we avoid it, and the discomfort drops. That relief can reinforce the avoidance, which means we also miss the opportunity to learn what would actually have happened had we acted.

In other words:

Avoiding the thing can feel like evidence that avoiding it was the right decision. And it also reinforces that we can't handle confronting it. Yikes.

Maybe it's not the thing we don't trust

This is where I think self-trust enters the conversation.

Not the Pinterest-quote version of self-trust, "I know everything will work out."

UGH I hate that. I don't know that. Neither do you. Sometimes things absolutely do not work out no matter how much we wanted them to, or prepared, or did "everything right".

Self-trust is something closer to: I don't know what will happen, but I trust myself with what I learn.

Instead of saying to yourself "everything will work out", start saying, "I can respond to what happens."

Eventually, doing the thing is the information you are desperately seeking.

You make the ask and see the response.

You have the conversation and learn what the other person is willing or able to give you.

You try the thing and learn whether you actually like it.

You choose a road and learn what exists on that road.

All information you never could have received contemplating at the fork.

And sometimes the information sucks

We have developed a strange habit of immediately turning every disappointment into a lesson. I'm an admittedly optimistic, good-vibe person, and yet...

Sometimes I do not want the lesson; I would have preferred the glitter and sunshine possibility.

I've been told no way more times in my life than I've been told yes. I worked in fundraising for a long time. Asking and hearing no was part of the job. You'd think after enough repetitions, the rejection wouldn't bother me, but if I'm being honest, it always stung.

Maybe I learned that I need to change the ask, or the timing was off, or I asked the wrong person, or I misread the conversation. Or maybe I learned absolutely nothing useful beyond the deeply irritating fact that another human being didn't want the thing I wanted them to want.

A rejection can be useful information and still be disappointing. Both things get to be true.

Self-trust doesn't require us to pretend otherwise.

"I handled it" doesn't require enjoyment. "I'm going to be okay" doesn't mean the situation was okay. We have to be capable of holding more than one truth.

That hurt, AND now I know. I wish it had gone differently AND now I can make a different decision. I didn't get what I wanted, AND I am still here.

All evidence. All worthy of our attention.

What we don't confront consumes us

Confrontation doesn't dissolve the problem. It dissolves the uncertainty around the problem.

Uncertainty requires a tremendous amount of imagination. The thing we refuse to know begins demanding enormous amounts of energy. We think about it. Rehearse it. Research around it. Create contingency plans for it. Ask other people what they think about it. Construct elaborate explanations for why now isn't the right time to deal with it.

And every time we do that, we reinforce a story: I cannot deal with this yet! I need more information. I need to feel ready. I need to know how it ends before I begin.

At some point, Robert Frost would like us to stop ruining the walk. Pick a road.

Pick it because possibility is lovely, but possibility alone is just an idea.

Walk. See what happens. Maybe it works. Maybe it doesn't. Maybe you discover another road you couldn't see from where you started.

And if it's not great? Say it. "That wasn't good."

Then we look at what we know now that we didn't know before.

And we choose again.