On their way down the tiny streams of water run into each other and combine into bigger streams, increasing their power, pushing obstacles aside or dragging them with them on their journey. The water turns from crystal clear and softly babbling rivulets into sediment-filled, thickly flowing creeks and roaring torrents. The noise of the raging water is now loud enough to drown out all other sounds. The mountainsides become echo-chambers for the water’s many voices and the air itself is almost visibly shaken by the constant roar the streams produce on their quest to find the fastest way down towards the valleys below.
The ability to choose is an essential human capability. We make choices all the time. Every move or non-move is a choice. Every reaction, or lack thereof, is a choice. We cannot escape choice: being endowed with discernment and decision-making faculties, every time we become aware of a possible choice, we are forced to choose. Even deciding not to choose is a choice, so choice is inevitable.
The inevitability of choice may feel like a burden to us. It means we cannot just prance around and follow our impulses and ignore the consequences. Because we have the power of choice, we are – inescapably – responsible for the consequences of those choices (or non-choices) we make. We may even feel guilty when things don’t turn out as we expected and our choices inadvertently hinder or hurt other people. Guilt, however, is a negative emotion which makes us less responsible for the consequences of our actions, not more, as it tends to paralyse us. Instead of observing and judging the consequences and then responding in a way that maximises the positives and minimises the negatives, we get so obsessed with the negatives we fail to respond at all.
The beauty of choice, and the antidote to guilt, is not that we always get it right and that we never cause harm with the choices we make, but that we always have the power and the opportunity to make better choices next time. Choice empowers us to learn from our mistakes and keep trying to make better choices. And every time we make a deliberate choice to do better we exert that power and give a new twist to the world. A twist that is ours, since we chose to do so.
Deliberate choices are those moments where we stop, take stock, and purposefully continue in a way that is in harmony with our beliefs, aspirations, and purpose. Such choices become inflection points: from the infinite variety that was possible before we made the choice most of them will now fall away, no longer possible. Our choice has just reduced the infinite complexity. It is still infinitely complex – that is the nature of infinity – but we have pruned it; bent it – ever so slightly – to our taste and desire.
What amplifies this power is when our choices are not just deliberate but also consistent. By making consistent choices – which doesn’t mean always making the same choices, but basing them on the same guiding principles or framework – our influence on the world becomes a shaping force with increasing power and effect. A series of small but consistent choices are like the pushes one gives to a swing: they may not be powerful on their own, but timed right and aimed accurately they build momentum and make the swing go far and wide.
The narrative we spoke of before is a powerful framework for making consistent choices. Using our own narrative in this way gives us two tools to work with.
It gives us a framework for evaluating the choices we have. For every option we can see we can ask ourselves: “is this helping me further along my journey, or is it taking me away from it?” In most cases, checking against our own narrative helps us rank our choices in order of alignment.Usually we would want to go with the most aligned choice, but it is advisable to do a reality check first to see if there are no consequences or side-effects that would make this choice less desirable. But in general the preferred choice would be the most aligned one, unless it presents seriously undesirable consequences.
It gives us a way to assess the outcome of our choices by regularly asking ourselves: “Am I progressing on my journey? Do I see improvement or progress in those areas most relevant to me and the narrative I am committed to live to?”
Even if our choices do not immediately lead to the desired outcomes – and they often won’t, as the terrain ahead of us is largely unknown and we need to explore and learn before we become better at making the right choices – with the narrative to guide us, by deliberately making our choices we are empowering ourselves to be the author of our own story, the director of our own drama, as well as the main actor in it.
That’s the power of choice: shaping the world to the best of our abilities to match the narrative we want to live by, instead of being a powerless, passive passenger and mostly observer of world that passes us by.
We are a storytelling species. It’s how we make sense of the world. It’s how we share our experiences with each other, which is how we bond, stay together and evolve together. As far as our experience of reality is concerned, unless we can turn it into a story we can not really say we have experienced it in a meaningful way. If a tree falls in the woods it probably always makes a sound, even when there’s nobody there to hear it come down. But without a human being there to witness it, experience it and turn it into a tall tale to share about a giant crashing to the ground and the impression that made on the observer, the tree might as well have gone down in silence. The medium carrying the fall’s physical sound is the air, the medium carrying its metaphysical sound is the narrative – and as far as humans are concerned that metaphysical sound is all that matters.
Narratives help us categorise and order reality to make it comprehensible and manageable for us. We use stories to assign significance to what would otherwise be random events. But narratives are not static. They do not just describe and categorise their content: they bring their content to life by including movement and momentum. Our stories mimic our experiences by operating in time: they have a beginning, a middle and an end. Stories capture and inform the reality we experience by adding a sense of direction: an intentionality of movement that imbues our journey from beginning to end with a deeply felt significance.
To have any direction at all, stories must contain action; they must be about things happening and – to give it human significance – things being done either to make those things happen or in response to them happening. From a narrative perspective we are all much more living doings than living beings. We are much more a process than a thing. Our nature is defined by movement, transformation and progression: from birth to death, from food to tissues and energy, from desire to action, from fear to flight or fight, it’s the processes far more than the objects that form the essence of our lives.
All this living doing is both circular and progressive: circular in that life comes and goes in many interconnected cycles; progressive in that – at least in our human perception – it seems to have a direction, goals and purpose that makes it move forwards and outwards rather than just around and around. The cycles repeat, but are never quite the same the next time around. Life evolves, species come and go, life becomes more complex, more intricate, simple forms combine to form larger ones… It is not just that we observe direction and progression in the world around us. We impose it on that world in our need to give it structure and meaning. Life would be unthinkable and unbearable for us if it had no direction. We need a sense of purpose and goals – something that drives us forward and things to aim for – and a sense we are actually moving in the right direction. We can endure almost any hardship on our journey as long as that journey is taking us somewhere. A journey that is not moving towards some goal or destination is not even a journey: it’s an aimless wandering in an endless wasteland with no sense of progress to measure our movements by.
That’s why our stories are crucial to us. They impart the world around us with order, intentionality, purpose and agency. Our stories allow us to make sense of the world, even if that sense is just a figment of our own imagination. We ‘make’ sense rather than ‘find’ it: it is a construct of the human mind, not something pre-existing waiting to be discovered by us. And as we make sense by creating stories, our stories energise us by giving us the will to continue our journey and keep moving forward.
In order to improve ourselves we need a sense of direction: we need to have something to move towards, something that compels us forward and makes it possible to turn mere busy-ness into an actual journey, with a start, milestones, progress and ultimately a destination. Since we are (largely) the authors of our own stories, it could be argued that the actual direction we journey in doesn’t really matter – it’s all a fiction anyway. For the purpose of self-improvement, however, and for living an empowered and fulfilling life the direction we travel in does matter and requires thoughtful consideration. The power to choose our own direction, walk our own path and write our own story is at the core of our human condition: we may not have the power to change the conditions in which we are living but we do have the power to live through those conditions in the way we decide for ourselves. Exercising that power is what makes us active agents rather than passive objects in the currents of the river of life.
I am not suggesting that simply by creating our own story and direction we are in any way guaranteed to reach the goals we set ourselves or come even close to fulfilling our chosen purpose. But by not crafting our own narrative we do not have any goals to aim for and even if we should accidentally and unintentionally some outcome, it would never feel like our own purpose and lack the sense of fulfilment that comes from a journey chosen ourselves and travelled voluntarily, with the commitment of our own volition to keep us going.
That is the power of narratives: to make us feel we are on a journey that is taking us somewhere, rather than being thrown around by random forces without any sense of direction or progress. Narratives encapsulate the human powers of sense-making and intentionality. The world may be chaotic, bewildering and ultimately indifferent to our plights, but our personal and collective narratives turn the chaos into orderly structures, turn bewilderment into meaning and enlightenment, and refute the Universe’s indifference by empathically stating that our lives matter because we choose to make them matter.
Once set in motion the water ceaselessly seeks to descend, to leave the high places that kept it captive for so long and find its way down. It sneaks past rocks and gravel, through ruts and gullies, over sand and pebbles. Too weak to carve out a path for itself, the tiny rivulets are forced to find their way around even the smallest obstacles. But the water persists and keeps going, sometimes finding tiny openings to flow away through, sometimes stalled just long enough for enough water to collect to create a force strong enough to push the obstacle away, so the rush downwards can continue.
We are an intensely social species. From the moment we are born to the moment we die we rely on other people for our survival and well-being. Our survival instincts are closely connected to our social needs and behaviours and one of our deepest needs is to belong: to someone, to a family, a group, a society, a country, … Our sense of safety and well-being is so strongly tied to the groups we identify with that being thrown out of any of those groups is traumatic and painful, mentally comparable to the amputation of a limb or other physical injury. Our hearts break when a loved one dies or breaks up with us; we get sick with loneliness and homesickness when we are separated from our families and homes for too long; our immune systems fail us when we feel isolated, alienated and unwanted. We need to belong to something to survive.
Human beings, being both smart and adaptable, have developed many different ways of building social structures and keeping them together. We have stories, rules and rituals; physical markers such as tattoos, scarring, paint and clothes; physical barriers such as walls, moats and boundaries; all ways to strengthen the bonds between the people inside the group and set them off against and protect them from everybody else.
Social bonds – even those fortified and propped up by cultural means – may be strong but they are not unbreakable. In fact, because of the complexity of human interaction, with our many layers of feelings, emotions, motivators and believes, coupled with a deep-seated tension between the needs of the individual and the needs of the collective, the bonds we form are never completely certain, are tested often, and can break quite dramatically and suddenly. This volatility of our social bonds puts a constant pressure on us. We cannot afford to ignore it, lest we miss some subtle change in the attitude of those around us and find ourself suddenly on the wrong side of a social shift. So we are constantly on edge, socially speaking, gathering intelligence from our own social interactions and those we observe around us to gauge how secure we sit in the groups we identify with. This is why we gossip and love talking about other people behind their backs, this is why we love comparing notes with our friends about what’s hot and what’s not. This underlies the addictive nature of getting likes on Facebook and posting selfies and pictures of our breakfast on Instagram. We are constantly testing if we are still part of our ‘in’ crowd, if we are still safely within the bounds of what our own groups find acceptable.
But we don’t just need to know whether we are still acceptable and accepted, we actually need to anticipate the shifting moods and favours of the crowds we hang with and the people we depend on. To make sure we remain part of our social safety network we need to know what is expected of us. We need to know how other people see us and expect us to behave. We need to understand the subtle signals our peers use to show they are part of the same group. We need to know this in enough detail and depth to enable us to live up to other peoples’ perception of us, so we don’t surprise them or disappoint them, which could cause them to reject us and leave us isolated and alone.
This need to live up to how other people perceive us is the power of expectation.
Because being accepted by others is so intimately interwoven with our deepest survival instincts we all constantly monitor other people – especially those that are important to us – to work out what they expect us to be like and then model ourselves to those expectations, so as not to disappoint them. We all don the masks others like us to wear to avoid exposing sides of us that could cause them to turn against us.
This is not a conscious process, at least for the vast majority of people. Almost all of us constantly and seamlessly adapt our public personae to the expectations of the people we interact with without thinking about it; without even being aware of doing it. It is an almost completely automatic process that is always on, subtly (or not so subtly) modifying our behaviours to closely match the model other people have constructed in their minds of who we are.
We should not mistake this for a deliberate deceit. The personae we adopt in our social interactions are not roles we consciously play to fool those around us. It is almost the other way round: those personae – the versions of us other people expect to see when they interact with us – play us in a very real sense of the word. They do not just regulate our behaviours, they also influence our thoughts and perceptions. Our social personae influence our emotional responses and mental models. They cause us to think like the character we’re inhabiting, notice what that character would notice and ignore what that character would prefer not to see. Experiments have shown that under peer pressure people will subconsciously change what they believe to be true in order not to fall out of sync with those around them. In other words: we tend to become what other people expect us to be.
Does that mean we are powerless in the presence of others? Does it mean we are simply doomed to play variations of ourselves dictated by other people’s perception of us? Are we really, then, just actors on other peoples’ stages, doomed to play the parts others hand to us, helplessly repeating the lines they want us to utter?
Not necessarily! There is a way we can use the power of expectations to our advantage, and must do so if we want to take control of our mission in life. That way starts by realising that other people’s expectations of us are not a given but arise and evolve over the time we are in contact with them. The are not static but fluid, subject to change and influenced by many factors, some of which we can actually control or at least strongly direct to our own purpose and intentions. From the very first impression people have of us – which is often shaped before they actually meet us, based on hearsay, gossip, and other publicly available information about us – to the much more detailed and more firmly embedded mental models they construct about us as they see us more often and observe us in much more detail: what other people expect from us is partially of their own making, and partially shaped by how we present ourselves to them.
If we are not aware of this expectation mechanism it can easily become a self-reinforcing forward-feeding loop: people’s expectations of us cause us to behave in accordance with those expectations, which confirms what they expected, strengthening their mental model of us, making it even harder for us not to live up to it. If we are not careful we can get caught up in this dance of expectations and expected responses that we end up portraying and bringing to life a fictional version of who we are, rather than expressing our true nature and authentic behaviour. If we do this all the time, we have become ‘domesticated’: we forget we even have an authentic self, and would feel lost and incapable of action if the expectations that guide us would all of a sudden disappear.
If we are aware, however, and we understand the pressure those expectations exert on us, we can harness their power and use them to our advantage.
To do this we must first of all have our own expectations about ourselves clearly defined and very clear in our minds in every interaction we have with the people around us. Instead of accepting other people’s version of us, we need to work on our authentic version: the fiction closest to who we want to be, and how we want to be seen. We must imagine every encounter with other people as an opportunity to show them that authentic version and prepare ourselves to act, speak, and embody that version of ourself so consistently and convincingly that the people we interact with have no choice but to adjust their expectations and mental model of you to what you portray. Paradoxically, to counteract the forces of expectations pushing us away from being our authentic self, we have to practice and rehearse being authentic until it becomes spontaneous again. This is the ultimate form of method acting: playing the role of who you want to be until you are no longer playing it.
Getting the role right of being ourself is especially important for that first face to face meeting with people. People will have some expectations about our behaviour before they actually meet us, based on publicly available information, but that initial mental model will be rather sketchy and tentative. By providing them with clear, convincing and consistent behaviours in those first crucial moments of that first meeting we have a reasonable chance to shape their expectations of us to closely match how we want them to see us. And once those expectations are in place, to be our authentic self, instead of having to fight against unwanted expectations, all we have to do is meet what is expected of us, which works to everyone’s benefit: we don’t have to fight unwelcome expectations, and they feel much more comfortable because we keep behaving the way they expect us to.
That, in a nutshell, is the power of expectations: setting them right at the start of our interactions with people and carefully maintaining them to ensure that what people expect of us is what we want them to expect will make those expectations a powerful force to help us along on our journey and live more closely the narrative we desire to live; letting those expectations build up by themselves and ignoring them in how we behave around people that matter to us can easily turn that same force into an opposing one that will try to push us back into those other people’s narratives rather than allowing us to live our own story.
After many months have passed in which the snow though often changing was a constant cover of anything below, one morning brings something new to this mostly silent world. Starting in the places most exposed to the Sun the water kept dormant in its icy state begins to awaken. Drops begin to fall, softly into the snow, or ringing more clearly on the barren rock. As the Sun rises and its warmth penetrates deeper into the snow, water collects in tiny streams and the sound of water running amidst the snow and over the rocks grows in strength until the constant and permanent silence of the frozen landscape is replaced by the constantly changing but equally permanent murmuring of the water excitedly talking to itself and whatever it runs up against.
It’s easy to feel powerless in this vast and complex world of ours. After all, we are only small individuals out of billions of people. How would we ever think to have any significant impact? More often than not we let ourselves be moved along the currents of the world around us, without really thinking about where they might be taking us. We feel we are lost in a rapid of fast flowing events and random moments, and should be lucky to just keep our heads above the water. And even when we feel lucky to be alive, there’s still this constant nagging feeling that there should be more to life; that this frantic struggle to survive cannot be the sum total of what our life is about. Even when we are relatively successful and come out on top, if all we do is staving off the inevitable end a bit longer, it leaves us with a deep-felt sense of unease and lack of fulfilment.
It doesn’t have to be like this. We don’t have to feel powerless, directionless, and empty. Even when thrown about by the raging waters of life and pulled inexorably forward, we can make choices. More choices, in fact, than we can imagine. Life’s waters are complex, chaotic even, which means there are many moments where possible futures branch off from the mainstream; where even a slight change of direction can lead us to somewhere completely different. It’s in those moments of divergence – the places where one stream becomes 2 or many – that our choices lie. Where the present has many futures, it’s our act of choosing – deliberate, conscious choosing – where we can make a difference. Choice is the power each and every one of us has over the infinite complexity we participate in.
To wield that power with purpose, that’s what gives our lives fulfilment. To experience how we bring about a different future than the one we thought we were caught up in, that’s what make us feel we matter. And to make our choices deliberately, with forethought and as much consideration as possible – even when fully aware that we can only know so much and see so little of what those choices will lead to – that’s what gives us a sense of direction.
To get there we must practice three things: awareness, sense of direction and strength of purpose. With those strengths at hand we can turn our choices into deliberate ones: each choice, however small and seemingly insignificant, a tiny stepping stone on the path that leads us forward to a future of our own making. Deliberate, considered, conscious choice enables us to ride the raging river of life and use its power and speed to our advantage. Deliberate choice transforms us from helpless castaways desperately clinging to driftwood and straws into pilots of out own destiny – working with the river not fighting against it, accepting its vagaries and rapids as gifts and opportunities.
Making our choices deliberate ones requires a guiding framework: something to help us assess our options and select the ones most likely to progress us on the path we choose to travel. We need a belief-system, with values, goals and priorities. Growing up, there are plenty of belief-systems on offer: the cultural constructs of our families, peers, co-workers, teachers, bosses, politicians, religious leaders, …. If we passively adopt what those others offer us – without question or challenge – our choices are theirs, not ours, but they will be applied to our life and steer it where others want it to go.
To really make our choices our own, we need to go on a journey first; a journey into our own feelings, emotions, traumas, habits … That is a journey of discovery, discernment, adjustment, and focus. Do it well, and we will emerge with a belief system that is now truly ours. It will suit our temperament, it will fit us like a well-tailored suit, and most of all it will facilitate a sense of flow, a sense of synchronicity, when we decide and act in harmony with it, and the world starts to arrange itself accordingly.
When we find that momentum and use our choices to carry us forward on our chosen journey, that’s when we become the authors of our own life’s narrative. That’s when we can say “This Is My Story – I wrote this and I live this”.