Before You Hit Send

Have you ever written an entire response...
...and never hit Send?

A few days ago, I replied to a Facebook post from someone looking for podcast guests.

Her response to my comment had "audition, don't collaborate" stank.

It immediately changed how I felt about the opportunity.

I wrote a lengthy teaching-moment reply.

Read it back.

Nodded in agreement with myself.

Then, instead of hitting Send...

I deleted it.

Not because I changed my opinion.

Because my opinion had already done its job.

The reply wasn't really for her.

It was for me.

Not every reply we write is meant to be delivered.

It was to reassure myself I'd made the right decision.

The part of me that had already decided...
...and the part still looking for co-signers.

More justification.
More certainty.

As if there's some invisible threshold of evidence we have to cross before we're finally allowed to trust ourselves.

Facebook-post lady had nothing to do with any of that.

I no longer wanted to work with her.

Decision made.

That same decision tree pops up all over the place:

The "just joking" comment at Thanksgiving.
The tone from your spouse that makes you stabby.
The coworker who thinks every meeting is about them.
The Cybertruck driver who forgot their $100,000 truck came with turn signals.

Every uncomfortable interaction quietly offers the same choice.

Do I spend my energy running for President of the Debate Club...
...or get curious about what my reaction is showing me?

Because honestly?

Their behavior is a circumstance.

My immediate reaction?

Also a circumstance.

Neither one tells me what I have to do next.

That's where my agency begins.

Not in controlling another person's behavior.
Not in making sure they understand me.
Not even in preventing my own first reaction.

My power lives in what I choose to do with all that new information, including my own reaction to it.

Not every strong reaction deserves an audience.

Sometimes it just deserves our curiosity.

Our reactions gather information.

They reveal values.

They expose preferences.

Being curious interrupts the impulse to perform.

Instead of asking,
"How do I make them understand?"

it asks,
"What am I learning?"

No anger.
No disappointment.
No ego.

Simply,
"No thanks."

Protecting our peace is never about changing everyone around us.

It's about remembering where our agency has been all along.

To stop using our reactions to change other people.

And start using them to understand ourselves.