Choose the Things That Are Fragile

I type in the message I want to leave in the comment box beneath a friend’s blog post.

Then the CAPTCHA appears.

You know how it works. Before I can hit “submit,” I need to prove I am human.

Usually that means identifying things like traffic lights or crosswalks. This time, the challenge throws me.

Choose the things that are fragile.

The screen fills with eight tiny squares.

• Four contain teacups
• Four contain motorcycles

I know what they want me to click, even though I don’t think it’s accurate.

I have a very human response alright. But it isn’t what the spam blocker intends.

It isn’t logic. It is fear.

The Birthday Request

My young grandson had been waiting for his birthday for months. He had requested a dirt bike.

That was no surprise. Since he was tiny, he has always been fascinated by any vehicle with wheels. As he got older, he began riding trikes and bikes and motorized Power Wheels with confidence and coordination beyond his age. He’d been a happy passenger on his dad’s dirt bike every opportunity he could get.

And now he was ready for one of his own.

I knew this birthday was coming.
I knew this bike was coming.
But I dreaded it anyway.

Not because I doubted his abilities to ride a motorized bike. Nor did I doubt his parents’ judgment to choose an age-appropriate one.

My fear arose from knowing how fragile a little boy’s body can be.

I tear up when he skins a knee on the concrete after a bicycle wreck. I wince if he runs into something while playing. Add more speed and a bigger machine, and my imagination supplies even more possibilities of danger.

The Fragile Cargo

The birthday arrived.
The dirt bike was given.
The first ride was taken.

And my grandson loved it. Of course he did. And I was excited for him. Truly.

The bike is designed for beginners and doesn’t go very fast. When he rides, he wears every piece of safety gear imaginable. He rides supervised. He rides carefully.

And he rides with pure joy.

Still, I know he can get hurt. Then again, so can any of us. We can wreck our cars. Miss a step on the stairs. Catch a virus we never saw coming.

Life keeps us aware of all the ways things can break.

That’s why the CAPTCHA stops me.

I know I’m supposed to click only the teacups as the fragile items, not the motorcycles too. But I want to yell back, “ALL these items in the squares are fragile!”

Because a motorcycle is now carrying my fragile boy.

And with it, my fragile heart.

What AI Doesn’t Understand

Maybe I understand CAPTCHA’s question better than it does.

I’ve lived long enough to know that fragility isn’t limited to dainty china teacups.

Bodies are fragile.
Egos are fragile.
Relationships are fragile.

Part of being human means being fragile. AI might mimic our words and our logic and, in its own way, our kindness.

But AI cannot wake up at night and worry about a grandson riding a dirt bike.

It also can’t feel the delight we get watching someone receive a much-wanted birthday present and have it live up to their dreams.

AI does not know what love feels like.

A Human Choice

As a human being, I can breathe and bleed. I can laugh and cry. And I can bend and break. Every meaningful thing in my life carries the possibility of being broken or lost one day.

We live in fragile bodies with fragile hearts. We take risks every day, whether we’re getting behind the wheel of a car, starting a new relationship, trusting someone with our story.

Or climbing onto a dirt bike.

Sometimes we get hurt. And sometimes things break. Sometimes we break.

Yet on every morning that we can, we get up and do it again. Move again. Risk again.

And love again. Maybe that’s the real test of humanity: loving even when we know things can break.

To please CAPTCHA and get my comment approved, I click on the 4 teacups. I leave the motorcycles unchecked.

But between you and me, I know the most fragile things aren’t even the teacups.

They are the people.

Let’s keep choosing them.

What fragile thing do you continue to love despite the risks that come with caring deeply?

Share in the comments.

P.S. My One Word this year is Shift. Somewhere between the teacups and the motorcycles, my attention shifted from what was fragile to who was fragile.

More on AI:

• That “Friend” Is Not Who You Think They Are
  As AI becomes more helpful and polite, it’s easy to confuse it with friendship. Think about why human connection still matters.
• What the Algorithm Does to Our Words—and Why It Matters
  How are algorithms changing language through online slang, euphemisms, and emotional manipulation? And what does it mean for our culture?
• When to Ignore GPS (and Listen to Yourself Instead)
  Sometimes GPS isn’t best. Here’s how one road trip reminded me that the best navigation system is sometimes your own intuition.
• Do You Say Thank You to AI? The Bots Are Listening
  Do you say thank you to AI? Are we trusting AI too much? Stay aware of how computers are shaping us.

Is She the Same Woman?

I’m at the airport in Reno on a Monday morning after a conference weekend at Lake Tahoe.

I think the woman at the next table eating breakfast before her flight is someone I met at the conference.

If it is her, we sat together Sunday morning on the short bus ride from our resort to watch the sunrise over Lake Tahoe with the other women attending.

I remember we had a lovely conversation sharing our circumstances and hopes for the future.

But I can’t remember her name. It had still been dark on the bus. And our conversation had only lasted about ten minutes.

Is this even her?

Maybe, maybe not.

I decide to let it go. I stay quiet. Because even if it is her, I don’t have to speak. We only met once, after all.

I eat a few more bites of my biscuit.

But the feeling keeps gnawing at me.

The Smallest Shift

Finally, I stand up. I walk over. I ask, “Were you at the conference last weekend at Lake Tahoe? I think we chatted together.”

And amazingly, she says yes!

It is the same woman.

She doesn’t remember my name either. (And honestly, I’m not sure she remembered much from our earlier conversation.)

But it doesn’t matter. We’re connecting now.

We spend a few minutes talking about our takeaways from the weekend, and before long, she asks if we can exchange contact information.

She tells me she’ll have very little support when she returns home.

I gladly give her my information and take hers.

This stranger now feels like a new friend.

Brave Doesn’t Always Look Big

I’m so glad I spoke up.

Ten minutes earlier, the decision had felt huge before I acted on it. My overthinking made it complicated. Awkward. Risky.

But it really only required a small shift: from sitting to walking. From silence to a question.

And because of that small shift, a new connection was formed. We’ve since emailed each other and will set up up a video chat soon.

More often than we realize, life offers us moments like these. Tiny invitations to move a little closer instead of pulling away. To risk being vulnerable instead of choosing safety.

Not every brave moment changes your life.

But sometimes it changes your day. And someone else’s too.

And sometimes, that’s all it takes to make a new friend.

My One Word of the Year is Shift. And my focus this month is on shifting relationships.

Who’s the newest friend who’ve made? Have any other relationships shifted lately?

Share your thoughts in the comments.

You see all kinds of people at the beach.

Families hauling coolers and umbrellas and babies. Teenagers tossing footballs. Retirees slowly walking at the edge of the water.

All kinds of humanity. Every age. Every energy level.

But one person I don’t normally see. And now I have.

He’s a man, maybe in his early thirties, strolling along with a guitar.

Not performing. Not singing. Just strumming. Sort of.

I’m not sure he knows how to play. He brushes the strings with confidence for a few moments, but the sounds aren’t quite harmonious.

Then he stops and stares at the water for a minute. Sometimes he steps toward the waves, then back away again, as if he’s negotiating with them.

I saw him again the next day.

Same clothes. Same wandering. Same guitar.

At one point I watched him point toward the ocean, almost like he was daring the waves to come closer. Then he lifted his hand as if to say, “Here and no farther.”

I don’t know his story. I don’t know whether he has people who check on him or wait for him to come home at night or worry when he doesn’t.

But I do know this: at one point, he had a mama.

Someone once carried him, fed him, watched him sleep, wondered who he would become.

And if she’s still alive—whether she’s still in his life or not—I imagine she still wonders sometimes where her boy is and how he’s doing.

Watching him on the beach, I’m wondering too.

And also aching in my heart, not only for him, but also for her.

I hope they’re both okay.

Have you ever seen a stranger and wondered about the people who love them?

Share your thoughts in the comments.

Sitting on My Hands

I am in my seat in the beautiful auditorium. I’m listening intently as the poet gives her talk. Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer is speaking amazing truths.

But I’m sitting on my hands.

I’m fighting with myself to not take notes.

Often when I hear a great speaker, I’m clicking on my phone keyboard to write down key points as they say them. The practice has served me well through the years. I have both paper and digital notebooks holding insights I might never have remembered otherwise.

I like capturing wisdom while it’s fresh—then having a record I can return to later to reread and maybe incorporate into my life.

All good things.

But there’s a tradeoff.

While I’m copying down one brilliant sentence, the next one is already being spoken. My attention splits because my brain can’t record one thing and fully listen to another at the same time. Neither task gets my full presence.

Who can truly pay attention to two things at once?

So as I listen to Rosemerry, I try to do just one thing:

Listen.

The Leaves That Don’t Let Go

For the month of March, my singular focus with my One Word Shift has been Nature.

I’m paying closer attention to the subtle shifts happening outside: the yellow daffodils pushing through the soil, the tiny unfurling of new leaves, and the stretching of daylight hours that brings us more life.

But I’m also noticing something else.

The dead leaves.

In early spring, when most trees have stood naked for months, a few are still dressed in last year’s leaves. Brown and brittle, long past their prime, these leaves have been hanging on stubbornly all winter long.

The internet tells me there’s actually a name for this: marcescence.

Certain trees—especially some oaks and beeches—hold onto their dead leaves instead of dropping them in the autumn like most deciduous trees.

Scientists aren’t exactly sure why, but they theorize that the dead leaves stay on the branches to protect new buds, discourage deer and other animals from nibbling tender growth, and provide fresh nutrients in the spring when they do fall.

Nature, it seems, isn’t in any rush to let go. Not until it’s time. Not until the baby leaves arrive and gently push the old ones out of the way.

Our Own Marcescence

As I sit listening to Rosemerry, I wonder about my own connection to holding on and letting go.

I’ve always liked holding onto words the way those marcescent trees hold onto leaves. Notes from talks. Quotes from books. Lines that strike me as important enough to keep, too meaningful to drop.

Sometimes that’s helpful. Last year’s leaves serve a purpose, after all.  So do old words.

But other times I wonder if my intellectual marcescence—clinging to old words even after their season has passed—keeps me from noticing what I’m hearing right now.

The Vase or the Sieve

During her talk, Rosemerry shares a story. She had told a friend about trying to become a bigger vase so she could hold all the emotions she was feeling. (Read the poem here: Pourous)

But her friend gently challenged the premise.

Why be a vase?

Perhaps instead of trying to hold everything, she could be a sieve and let the experiences simply move through her.

Ahh.

I hear the lesson.

I don’t write it down.

One Leaf Worth Keeping

Later, after the talk ends, I pick up my phone. I type the line into my notes:

Be a sieve, not a vase.

That simple nugget of wisdom feels like a leaf worth keeping.

Hopefully the rest of the talk has done its work simply by passing through.

Maybe that’s a shift worth noticing: knowing when to hold tight and when to let go.

Some words need to stay with us a long while, until their message is buried deep in our soul or until something new and improved pushes them out of the way.

Other words can drop away quickly once they’ve completed their seasonal work, like leaves returning to the soil in the autumn months.

And like the trees outside our windows, we don’t have to force either approach.

Just let the shifts happen, each in their best time.

Question for you:

Do you write it down when you hear something meaningful—or do you prefer to just listen? Share in the comments.

Read more about Shift:

• A Small Shift: Learning to Notice Instead of Fix
  This is what a missing glove is teaching me about letting go.
• What If This Moment Is Asking for a Different Pace?
  When plans fall apart, learning to shift your pace can change things.
• Noticing the Shift: What Keeps Blooming When We Pay Attention
  A Share Four Somethings post about discovering what keeps blooming in everyday life.

The Elevator Test

When the elevator door on the right opens, we immediately smell something.

It stinks.

It’s Monday afternoon at the apartment complex where we deliver free meals. Our grocery cart is full of food containers, and we’re ready to start making our rounds.

A woman gets out of the elevator. She warns us, “Watch out for the puddle on the floor,” she says. “Someone peed there.”

Now I smell it even stronger.

We pause to debate what to do next.

Do we get on the elevator anyway? Do we wait for the second elevator on the left, hoping it comes quickly?

I believe this may be too much for me.

I start leaning toward a third option: maybe we should just call it quits, leave the food in the lobby, and go home.

It surprises me how strong my reaction is. I had wanted to be here. And yet just the idea that someone chose to relieve themselves in an elevator fills me with disgust.

A strong enough belief that I’m ready to walk away.

But as we stand there, I notice I’m reacting strongly to something I don’t actually know for sure.

• What if someone had been sick?
• What if it was from a small child?
• What if it was something else entirely?

Would a different answer make a difference in our decision?

While we linger in the discussion, the elevator door closes. Without us.

A Book for Questioning

Lately I’ve been reading—and experimenting with—a new book by Nir Eyal called Beyond Belief.

The premise is simple but powerful: many of the things that limit us may not be based on evidence, but on false beliefs we’ve unconsciously adopted.

These are the definitions that Eyal uses to explain the differences between these three things:

• Fact: An objective truth that can be verified with evidence
• Faith: A conviction without need for objective evidence
• Belief: A firmly held opinion, open to revision based on new evidence

The book is primarily about beliefs—our strongly held opinions. Eyal describes beliefs this way:

“Beliefs aren’t simply thoughts or feelings. They’re tools—working models we use to navigate reality when the truth isn’t fully knowable.”

The problem comes when we allow our opinions to limit our lives.

Examples of these kinds of beliefs include:

• Believing someone doesn’t like you if they had to cancel your lunch date, so you never reschedule
• Believing you’re not smart enough to graduate so you never enroll in college
• Believing you’re too old to learn a new skill so you let yourself fall behind

None of these are facts. These beliefs are simply interpretations.

According to Eyal, the way to challenge limiting beliefs isn’t through argument. It’s through finding evidence.

He suggests asking questions like:

• Does this belief hold up to real-world feedback?
• Am I ignoring evidence that contradicts it?
• Is this belief open to revision?

Beliefs matter because what we believe shapes what we see, and what we see shapes what we do.

The Quiet Power of Belief

Not every thought we have is true.

Some thoughts are.
Some thoughts aren’t.

The same goes for beliefs.

But the way to find out isn’t through overthinking—it’s often through trying something and seeing what happens.

Books like Beyond Belief encourage me to do just that. It lists three powers of belief:

• Attention: the power to see what you believe
• Anticipation: the power to feel what you believe
• Agency: the power to do what you believe

Experiment with beliefs by starting with evidence. Focus where it counts. Shape the stories you tell yourself.

Practicing Small Experiments

Since reading the book, I’ve been trying some of these experiments in my own life.

For example, when lying in bed I sometimes believe I’ll never fall asleep. Yet when I pause and look at the evidence, I know I always eventually fall asleep. Every night. Believing my body will suddenly forget how to sleep is a belief that doesn’t hold up.

Or when I believe my whole day will be ruined if I don’t finish my to-do list. I experiment by intentionally leaving a few things undone and see if I survive. Spoiler alert: I do.

And when I believe I can’t finish my rounds if someone urinated in the elevator, I can question that too. Is it possible I actually can endure a 10-second elevator ride while stepping around whatever is on the floor?

The Elevator, Revisited

The elevator door that opens next is the left one. Whew. We get in and go to the second floor. But after finishing the meal deliveries on the second floor, it’s time to return to the elevator to head up to the third floor.

Two doors. Two choices.

Which one will open first? It’s the one on the right. Ugh.

This time, though, something is different.

There’s no odor. No puddle. Just a leftover paper towel from a cleanup.

We step inside and laugh. Whatever had been there before—urine, spilled liquid, something else entirely—is gone.

And either way, we would have survived it.

I’m grateful I didn’t give in to my earlier belief that the situation was simply too horrible to endure. (Shout-out to my companions who helped me persevere.)

The moment feels small, but it sticks with me.

Sometimes testing an experiment isn’t necessarily to prove yourself right or wrong, but to see what is possible.

Maybe it can be as simple as stepping into an elevator that you were sure you couldn’t tolerate.

As Eyal writes:

“Extraordinary lives aren’t built on grand declarations. They’re built on small efforts—actions that create evidence, evidence that strengthens belief, and belief that fuels more action until possibility itself expands.”

And every life deserves to be extraordinary.

Question for you:

Have you ever believed you couldn’t do something, only to discover later that you were more capable than you thought?

Share your thoughts in the comments.

thanks to NetGalley for the review copy of this book

Long Time, No See

Jeff and I walk into the funeral home in Mississippi. I spot my cousin Mike immediately. He’s four years older than me and has always been much taller than me.

Mike and I haven’t seen each other in years. But I would recognize him anywhere. On this day we’re here together because his dad—my uncle—died a few days earlier.

Mike and I hug. Then we sit on the couch in the lobby to talk.

That’s when Mike says the oddest thing to me:

“You know what always ticked me off about you?”

I have no idea what is coming next.

I respond:

“I have no idea, Mike. Tell me.”

2022

What I Remember About Mike

Looking back, I remember three things about my cousin Mike as a kid:

1. Mike had an incredible memory for historical trivia
2. He made funny, clever jokes
3. He wore the thickest eyeglasses I’d ever seen.

At some age I finally realized why Mike wore such thick glasses.

Mike was born with a sight disorder that caused deteriorating vision.

As much as Mike was treasured by his family members, I somehow understood that the outside world was not as kind to him. Children don’t always respect those who are different.

And Mike was special. I remember that.

1972

But to me, Mike was different in a good way.
He was intelligent.
He was witty.
He was fun.

As an adult, Mike chose a career serving other members of the seeing impaired community through the Alabama Public Library system.

And after 35 years of good service, Mike retired.

This Is What Mike Remembered

Back at the funeral home, I ask Mike what it was he remembered about me.

Mike says, “The thing I remember about you as a kid is you never liked your food to touch. That really ticked me off.”

Whew. I laugh. That’s what Mike remembers.

We chat some more. We attend the beautiful ceremony honoring my uncle. We gather at the cemetery near my grandparents’ country church for the burial. Then we all lunch on a delicious spread provided by the family’s church friends in the fellowship hall.

Mike and I eat at different tables.

Before I take my last few bites, though, I need to do one more thing.

I need to find Mike’s table.

I need to show him my plate. As an adult. Not a kid.

Is what Mike remembered about me still accurate? I let him decide.

On my plate, there is no distinct line between the corn and the peas, but neither are they jumbled up together. The chicken may have rubbed against the potato salad, but not enough to blend together.

My food now touches a little. But still not a lot.

Mike and I both laugh about it.

We can’t always control which facts people will remember about us. But maybe we can influence the sentiment.

What I remember most about Mike is how he made me smile.

And he still does.

What does your family remember about you as a child? Share in the comments.

revised from the archives

Life is like an ever-shifting kaleidoscope—a slight shift and all patterns alter.
– Sharon Salzberg

Just Noticing

I carry my breakfast dishes to the sink and check the outside temperature.
Cold again.

Like most mornings, I then get ready for my morning walk. Jacket. Cap. Sunglasses. And . . . where are my gloves?

These purple gloves (well, technically they’re convertible flip mitts since they’re a combo of gloves and mittens) are my favorites. Yesterday I tucked them into my pocket during my walk once it got warm.

Today, only one glove is here.

I glance around the kitchen. The laundry room. Even the car. Maybe I dropped one in the garage? I check my pockets again. Still just one glove.

Did it fall out yesterday? Maybe somewhere along my walk it slipped out without my noticing.

Suddenly today’s walk shifts to a new meaning: find the glove.

And the only way to find it is to notice.

Making Shift Practical

My One Word for 2026 is Shift. And I want it to be more than philosophical.
I want it to be practical. Tangible.

I want physical reminders of Shift around me—things I can see with my eyes and touch with my hands.

Since I chose a focus word for each month centered around Shift, I’ve also collected a solid object for each one, and placed them together in a glass jar.

January’s focus? Notice.
Practice curiosity (hello again, my word from 2024).

Notice the shifts instead of forcing them.
Watch, not work.
Examine, not explain.

A Small Turn Changes Things

Originally, I wanted my January object to be a kaleidoscope. Because with just a slight twist, the view changes entirely.

That’s how noticing works.

We notice a slight shift in a friend’s expression during a conversation.
We notice how tall our grandchild has suddenly become.
We notice that our steps are a little quicker—or slower—and our walks a little longer—or shorter—than they were last year.

No judging.
No forcing an outcome.
Just noticing.

Just a small turn of the kaleidoscope to offer us a new perspective.

The Snow Globe Stand-In

However, I don’t actually own a kaleidoscope. And I’ve not bought one yet.

So for now, I’ve chosen a close second: a snow globe. (Ah, this itself is a shift; I’m doing it!)

Like a kaleidoscope, everything changes in a snow globe with a small shake. And then eventually settles again.

Just something to notice.

The Purple Glove

I’m nearing the end of my walk through the neighborhood. And still no sign of my glove.

I have one last cul-de-sac to walk down. As I make the left turn, my eyes scanning the road for a flash of purple, I see something ahead.

From a distance, I can tell it’s purple.
Closer now—the shape seems right.
And then my heart lifts.

It’s my glove.

Found without any extra effort or strategy or control on my part.

Just noticing.

Letting It Be Simple

I realize life doesn’t always work this way. Sometimes we have to be more proactive and execute a complicated plan to reach a specific goal.

But sometimes—not.

Sometimes, but not always, life really does unfold this simply. And for that, I’m grateful.

So maybe today, try your own small mental shift.
Maybe everything doesn’t need your full control. Maybe you don’t have to work so hard or explain or manipulate something (or somebody?) quite as much as you think.

Instead, when it’s possible,
just notice.

And see what you find.

Where in your life might noticing—rather than fixing—be enough today? I’d love to hear your thoughts.

A Longer Wait

It’s early Monday morning. I’m sitting in the doctor’s waiting room. I’m listening for my name to be called.

Then a new family walks in.

And I know.

I look at my watch. I mentally add 30 minutes to my wait. That’s how much longer I estimate my wait has just increased.

Because the young boy with his mom and siblings is visibly nervous. Like me, he’s here to have his blood drawn. He is not happy about it.

And if his name is called before mine, there’s going to be a long time of hand-holding and reassurance from the nurse before it’s ever my turn.

The Good Nurse

The mom signs in her family and sits down with two of her children while the young boy makes a dash for the restroom. He stays. And stays.

The nurse opens the door behind the counter and calls the boy’s name.

But he’s still in the bathroom. The mother says it could be a few more minutes before he’s ready.

I feel bad for him.

But relieved that they now call my name instead.

I get the good nurse. I’m so glad. Several times in the past she’s been the one to draw my blood. She’s so proficient at her job that I barely feel the prick.

Today is no exception.

I tell her so. She’s used to hearing this praise. But she’s still humble in her acceptance of it.

Be Good at Your Thing

We’re finished, so I grab my wallet and head for the door to drive home. But in the waiting room, the young boy’s name is being called again. With fear in his eyes, this time he’s going with the nurse instead of the restroom.

If only he could understand that he’ll get the good nurse, too. I hope things go well for him and for her.

Maybe this will be the positive experience he needs to release some of his fear.

There are many things we can be good at in this world. Each person has several talents.

But on this morning on this day, this nurse being good at drawing blood might make all the difference to this young boy.

Whatever you do today, if you can, do it well.

You never know whose day you might change. 

revised from the archives

The Moment My Heart Starts Racing

I feel my heart pump faster.
He really just said that?
He actually believes that lie?
Seriously?

An hour earlier, everything had begun beautifully. It was a gorgeous Saturday morning with a surprising number of like-minded people gathering in our small town to celebrate freedom. I came with a few friends and met up with a couple others once we arrived. We were among “our people” and it felt good.

And then he walks up.

We’d been chatting with strangers all morning, but this one feels . . . different.

My energy shifts as I read the message on his T-shirt. Uh-oh. I immediately think he and I believe different facts.

Nonetheless—because I want to be open-minded—a few of us engage when he starts asking questions.

It’s not long before the disagreements surface. He makes a statement; we counter. He doubles down; we counter that.

Back and forth it goes.

It’s not ugly, per se. It’s definitely not violent. From the outside it might even appear civil.

But I find myself getting riled up anyway with Mr. T-Shirt Man. I feel exhausted. I walk away for a few minutes. Others in our group carry on the conversation. They appear calmer than I am.

I can’t stay away for long though. I’m too curious.

The conversation becomes more strained. Eventually, we encourage him to move along because we’re getting nowhere together.

He agrees to leave. I don’t know where he goes next.

But I know where I go . . . .

Finding My Way to Braver Angels

A few weeks later on another Saturday morning, I find myself seated around round tables in a different city.

I’m attending a workshop hosted by Braver Angels, a national cross-partisan organization that specializes in “taking a stand against toxic politics.”

It’s where I need to be now.
(And where I wish I’d been a month earlier before I met Mr. T-Shirt Man.)

Our topic of the day is “Skills for Disagreeing Better.”

Our facilitator guides us through a workbook. He tells us it is possible to have healthy conversations over disagreeable topics.

I want to believe him.

Practicing the Skills: Learning to LAPP

Then comes the role-playing. We practice one-on-one conversations. Taking opposite sides. Turning off our inner debaters.

We try out LAPP:

1. Listen.

Focus on hearing the other person’s view instead of preparing your rebuttal.

2. Acknowledge.

Reflect back what you heard so they know you understood (and are continuing to try to).

3. Pivot.

Ask if they’re open to hearing your perspective, then wait for a verbal yes.

4. Perspective.

Share your view using tools like:

• Using I-statements
• Naming your sources
• Telling a personal story
• Avoiding negative labels
• Mentioning something you agree with

Some of the skills come easily to us; others are difficult.

Better Equipped—and Better Intentioned

By the end of the session, I do feel better equipped. But more importantly, I feel better intentioned.

I don’t want my goal in difficult conversations to be to win, to change someone’s mind to my way of thinking. I’d rather connect—to really see the fellow human being in front of me instead of only noticing the stereotype, regardless of the message they’re wearing outwardly.

Will I ever run into Mr. T-Shirt Man again? Probably not. But if do, I hope the LAPP skills I practiced with Braver Angels will ripple into our conversation.

Maybe next time I could engage with him a little longer. Hear his words a little clearer. And connect with his humanity a little stronger.

Or . . maybe not.

We don’t get to control the outcomes. But we do get to work on our process.
To be better, do better.
One small ripple at a time.

Is it hard for you to have conversations with people on the “other side” of your political position? I’d love to hear in the comments.

If you’re curious about Braver Angels, here is the link to their free e-courses.

Read more:

• Is Politics Hopeless? 5 Ways to Practice Hope in Politics
  Politics can feel hopeless. But here are 5 commitments to make for practicing hope, even in politics. The choice is yours.
• What Your Most Unlikely Friendship Can Teach You
  Loving Violet taught me that compassion means little if it stays only in the heart—it must move through the body, too.
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It’s the strangest road sign I’ve seen yet.

Jeff and I are driving on I-40 East in North Carolina, where several roads are still a mess after Hurricane Helene barreled through with all her water in September 2024.

Seeing digital road signs along this stretch isn’t unusual.

But this one? Definitely is.

A Road Trip Flashback

It takes my mind back to an earlier drive . . .

I am driving alone to spend the weekend with friends in Chattanooga. I am completely dependent on GPS.

If it says, “Turn left,” I turn left. “Go right,” and I go right.

But at one intersection when it says, “Go straight,” I balk for the first time.

The Scary Road Ahead

The road ahead looks impossibly steep—a road straight out of my nightmares. My toes tingle; my fear of heights kicks in.

Thankfully, the traffic light is red. I have a minute to think.

Do I:

• Obey the GPS and go straight when the light turns green?
  Or
• Venture off on my own, turn left (or right?), and risk getting completely lost?

The light changes. My foot taps the gas—but my hands won’t stay steady.

Going Rogue

I won’t go straight.
I take a hard left turn.
I can’t take orders this time—I’m going rogue.

But as I do, questions flood my mind:

• Will my ETA slip into the next hour?
• Will I run out of fuel if I have added mileage?
• Will I end up hopelessly lost in the hills of Chattanooga?

I wait for the GPS voice to chime in with its scolding: “Rerouting…rerouting…”

Listening to Me

Sometimes we just have to listen to our own voice instead of an external authority.

Self-trust is a valuable resource. And even though it can sometimes lead us astray, over time it can also become wisdom—earned the hard way.

Ultimately, we’re each responsible for our own decisions.

While we may occasionally share the blame of a bad choice—with a faulty app or stinky advice or simply poor judgment on our part—in the end, trusting our eyes and following our values usually gets us where we’re meant to go . . . even if it takes a few extra turns.

The Surprising Outcome

I look back at my GPS again.

Before the turn, my ETA was 3:41 p.m.
After the “wrong” turn? Still 3:41.

My heart rate slows again.
My blood pressure goes down.
My confidence goes up.

That scary, steep road hadn’t been necessary after all. I didn’t need it. I could reach my destination just fine without it.

I follow the GPS for the rest of the trip though—grateful for its guidance, but now knowing I don’t have to obey it blindly.

Back to the Present

Now, driving through North Carolina, that Chattanooga memory makes me laugh. The digital sign we just passed isn’t meant to be funny, but it makes me laugh, too.

I pull out my phone for a quick photo, but I’m too late.

Still, Jeff and I will remember it—and laugh about it—for a long time.

What did the sign say?

“Do not follow GPS!”

Have you ever blindly followed GPS into a field or around in circles? Sometimes it’s best to *not* follow directions—like trying to drive down a closed road on I-40E (though I hear it’s partially open again!).

Share your thoughts in the comments.

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