Two words. And my mind is writing a novel.

Sometimes it takes surprisingly little.

A message. Two words.

No "Hello."
No emoji.
No explanation.

And my head?

It takes him about three seconds to turn that into a whole novel.

With a plot.
A theme.
Character development.
And, of course, he already knows how it ends.

It's actually pretty handy. 😉

From Information to Interpretation in Record Time

Let's take a completely unspectacular news story.

"That's fine."

That's two words, for starters.

That's all.

But my brain could easily figure that out:

"Okay. Something's not right."

Then:

"The answer is pretty brief."

Shortly thereafter:

"That person must be annoyed."

And if we have a few more minutes:

"I must have done something wrong."

Or, depending on how you're feeling that day:

"Apparently, I'm not important to her."

Impressive, isn't it?

In no time at all, two words turn into a rather complex story.

There's just one small thing missing:

I don't even know if it's true.

What actually happened?

This question sounds trivial.

But it isn't.

After all, we often don't react at all to what has happened.

We react to what we believe it means.

Someone isn't answering.

That's an observation.

"He's ignoring me."

That's already an interpretation.

Someone greets me briefly.

Observation.

"She's mad at me."

Interpretation.

Someone doesn't take the time to talk.

Observation.

"Apparently, I'm not important enough."

Interpretation.

And here's the exciting part:

That interpretation may be correct.

But it could just as easily be completely wrong.

Maybe the phone just rang.

Maybe his mind was elsewhere.

Maybe there's something running in the background that I don't know about.

Maybe the other person is tired, stressed, busy, or just not in the mood to talk right now.

Or maybe she really is annoyed.

I just don't know yet.

And it is precisely this uncertainty that we often find surprisingly hard to tolerate.

Our minds love stories with a clear ending

Unanswered questions are kind of uncomfortable.

Why did someone react that way?

What does that look mean?

Why didn't I get a reply?

Why was that person different today than usual?

Apparently, our brains like gaps about as much as I like to-do lists with items left unchecked.

So they are filled.

And usually not with:

"Exciting. I just don't know yet."

No.

When we're already tired, stressed, hurt, or insecure, our minds tend to reach into the drawer of old stories.

I'm not important.

I did something wrong.

I'm too much.

I'm not good enough.

Others back away when I show up.

And suddenly, it's no longer about that one message at all.

It's about something much older.

Our stories don't come out of thin air

I think that's important.

Because it would be too easy to say:

"Then just don't read so much into it."

Thanks for the tip. 😄

Our interpretations have a history.

They arise from experiences, expectations, hurts, and things we've learned about ourselves.

People who were frequently criticized in the past sometimes hear criticism even when there was perhaps nothing more than brevity.

People who have experienced a sudden loss of closeness may be particularly sensitive to distance.

Anyone who has learned to take responsibility for others' moods will immediately notice when the atmosphere in a room changes.

That's not wrong.

It's a defense mechanism.

But a protective mechanism isn't a fortune-teller.

Maybe it doesn't take fewer thoughts—but rather a little space

I'm trying something different now.

Not to push my thoughts away right away.

Rather, to create a small distance between observation and history.

Sometimes a simple question helps me with this:

What do I really know right now?

Not:

What do I believe?

Not:

What am I afraid of?

Not:

What would be possible, in theory?

Rather:

What do I know?

Perhaps the only option left is:

The message was short.

That's all I know for now.

Or:

That person wasn't able to find time for a conversation today.

I don't know why.

Or:

There was no reply.

Period.

At first, that feels almost unsatisfying.

Because the novel suddenly ends after two pages.

But that's exactly where something is taking shape that I've come to appreciate very much:

Freedom of choice.

Sometimes, a whole set of values lies between a stimulus and a response

Because if I don't have to react to my interpretation right away, I can ask myself something else:

How do I actually want to handle this situation?

Not:

How can I get the other person to behave differently?

Rather:

How do I want to be?

Am I pushing because I'm insecure?

Justify myself?

Should I step back?

Shoot back?

Or do I want to stay calm?

Sure.

Respectfully.

Maybe out of curiosity.

Or maybe just taking a wait-and-see approach.

For me, this is a moment that really reflects my values.

Because suddenly, my initial fear no longer dictates my behavior.

It's me.

And sometimes the story turns out to be true after all

Of course, that happens, too.

Sometimes it turns out later that:

Yes, that person was actually angry.

Yes, someone wanted some space.

Yes, one situation turned out differently than I would have liked.

The only difference is:

Then I'm reacting to something that's actually there.

And not on a story that my mind has already written as a precaution.

That doesn't automatically make unpleasant truths any more pleasant.

But often more clearly.

My mind will keep writing anyway

I'm under no illusions about that.

He'll probably continue to turn two words into entire screenplays.

With surprising twists and turns—and occasionally a bit too much drama.

He's really talented at it.

But maybe I don't have to believe every story right away.

Sometimes, all it takes is:

That's an interesting theory.

And then:

What do I really know, anyway?

Perhaps it is precisely this small question that sometimes makes the difference between a head full of stories and a moment of true clarity.

And what if my mind still insists on keeping on writing?

Well, yeah.

Then he can.

I don't have to publish the novel right away. 😉