I used to arrive at brass band rehearsal before the conductor did. Before the doors were even unlocked. My older brother would pull up not long after, and we’d stand in the car park, look at each other and say one word. “Dad.” Then we’d laugh.
In our house, on time was late. Early was the minimum. When we weren’t early, my father slipped into a particular kind of stress, anxious and pushy, and the whole car filled with it. Kids pick that up long before they have words for it. You learn to help. Pleasing becomes a skill. Being early becomes the way you keep the peace.
That lesson made perfect sense to a boy in the back seat. The trouble is it didn’t leave when the boy did.
I see this everywhere now. Someone’s trigger gets pulled and, in an instant, they’re somewhere else. Their voice changes, and so does their body. Whatever got them through childhood grabs the wheel, and the adult they’ve worked so hard to become is suddenly a passenger. I’ve watched someone I love wrestle with this daily, thirty years after the original wound.
Mine is a small example. That’s exactly why I like it. It’s simple enough to see clearly.
So I did something that felt ridiculous. I made myself late on purpose.
When I left for Aikido, a class I was teaching, I’d hold back a few minutes past when I should have gone. The voice started straight away. You’re taking the class. You can’t be late. What if someone’s waiting? I’d get in the car anyway. If the driver ahead was doing 55 in a 60 zone, I wouldn’t overtake. I’d drop to 54.
Then came the burning. A tight, hot feeling in my chest, the certainty that something terrible was about to happen. That wasn’t me. It was an eight-year-old picking up on his father’s energy.
Here’s what I learned from sitting in it. The discomfort isn’t a sign that something’s wrong. It’s the old pattern being asked to update. Every time I let the feeling rise and didn’t obey it, my nervous system collected a little more evidence that being late was survivable. Nobody got hurt. The class still happened.
Aikido taught me that you can’t blend with a force you’re running from. You have to stay in contact with it. This was the same principle, pointed inward.
Little by little, the need loosened. I still prefer to be on time. I just don’t have to be anymore.
Listening is usually something we offer other people, but sometimes the voice most worth hearing is the old one, if only so you can finally stop taking orders from it.
My book “Shut Up: A Journey into the Lost Art of Listening” is available on Amazon if you want to go further with this.
