Do you generally notice that you have an inner voice that’s speaking to you all day long?

Many of us don’t. Or we notice The Voice some of the time, but the rest of the time, it speaks and speaks and speaks, shaping our moods, shaping our days.

The Voice tells us stories. And we don’t even know it. We just think we’re experiencing reality.

Today’s Kindred Letter is about becoming aware of The Voice, and taking control of the stories it tells.

We’re going to do this courtesy of an excerpt from Eric Zimmer’s new book, How a Little Becomes a Lot: The Art of Small Changes for a More Meaningful Life. We were lucky to host Eric recently as a Candlelight Chat guest; he’s an author, teacher, speaker, and the creator of The One You Feed podcast — an award-winning show with more than 75 million downloads. Most of all, he’s a treasure trove of hard-earned wisdom, which he loves to share generously — including here in the Kindred Letters. Here’s Eric:

“As I sit here and write this my back hurts. I’ve had the good fortune to be traveling for a bit and have been walking . . . a lot. So I woke up, as is often the case, with a sore lower back and shoulders.

And what my brain says to me is “My back is killing me.” If I am in a less than fully aware state, this is what I wander around saying to myself. If I stop and actually check in with the signals my back is sending, however, the reality is much more like “my lower back is kind of tight right now.” Which of those two messages do you think is more useful for my state of mind?

Extreme language produces extreme emotions. Even if something like “it’s killing me” is obviously hyperbole, to use that script internally is to reinforce that what’s happening is fairly dire. To disrupt this, I use the basic perspective exercise from the last chapter, asking myself, What am I making this mean? and then What else could it mean? Then, following George Kelly’s personal construct theory, I ask myself a third question: What meaning is most useful to me right now?

This is where middle-way thinking comes in. This morning I realized that the best way to move forward with my day was to scale back how I was describing the pain to myself. (Internally, the whole conversation went more like “*eyeroll emoji*—I feel your pain, Eric, but a tight lumbar is unlikely to be your cause of death.”)

Take another situation all too common for some of us. Your two-year-old has another tantrum and you say, “I can’t stand it!” It’s a throwaway line, but it’s also emotional code for “This is relentless. I’m completely overwhelmed. And if this is what parenting is, I might not be cut out for it.”

Now imagine saying to yourself something more like: “Raising a toddler is an exercise in absurdist theater, where one finds oneself negotiating with a tiny tyrant over the existential importance of wearing pants. It will pass.” Not an easy thing to remember in the moment, I know. But parents—tell me that’s not the truth.

“I can’t believe they did that!!” Think about that statement. You mean you genuinely, as an intelligent human being, have an inability to believe that someone’s done something that you didn’t want them to do? Now let’s come back to the truth. You can believe it; you just would have chosen for that person to act differently. Try rephrasing to “I wish they hadn’t done that.” If you’re auditioning for The Real Housewives you may want to stick with the original, but assuming you want a calmer existence, the reframe is the right way to go.

Again: Extreme language produces extreme emotions. Whether we’re talking to ourselves or anyone else, more measured language creates space for a more balanced, middle-way perspective. Even our most basic linguistic tics can reveal deeply ingrained tendencies—so prepare to get dramatic with the grammatic. (Sorry.)

Adjectives, Adverbs, and Pronouns

I never thought I’d be treating the lessons of third-grade English like a red-string conspiracy board, but here we are. Adjectives (which modify nouns), pronouns (which replace nouns), and adverbs (which modify verbs and adjectives) can, if we’re not careful, become little bombs of extremity in our descriptions of reality.

An example of an adjective to watch out for is horrible. This one is a favorite of my mom’s (sorry, Mom), although it’s pronounced more “haaaarrible” when she says it. Describing things that are unpleasant or tedious as “haaaarrible” can tip our negative feelings over into despair or hopelessness. Similarly dangerous words include disastrous, unbearable, awful, and disgusting. Less common, but among my favorites to say (no one said drama-queen words weren’t fun): flabbergasted, flummoxed, catastrophic, astronomic, and preposterous.

Among adverbs, suspects worth questioning are always and never. Want to turn a discussion into a fight? Just accuse the other person of always or never doing something. It works like a charm. Why? Because when looking at our own behavior we know that it’s a patchwork, not an on-off switch. I have not forgotten to do the dishes every day, which is what the statement “You never do the dishes” would cause me to rebut. Or I don’t always get grumpy after work. Adverbs like these provoke defensiveness and shut down the productive, nuanced conversations that should happen about not only the dishes but why the dishes have been causing resentment in the first place.

These wonder twins of adverbs don’t just mess up our communication with others, they skew our internal monologues. I’ve seen this with countless coaching clients: “I never finish anything I start” . . .which, of course, is not true, but certainly keeps us feeling like failures. Or “I always mess up” . . . which is the reverse of the above but contains the same seeds of an anxiety spiral. We can add constantly, completely, absolutely, utterly, and totally to our mix.

Pronouns (she, he, they) seem innocent enough at first glance, until you add everyone and no one to the mix. “No one loves me” is a classic of the genre. “Everyone thinks I’m stupid,” you say after a presentation to five people goes a little less well than you had hoped.

When you notice yourself using any of these red-flag words, experiment with substitutions that reflect the nuance of reality. We could replace my mom’s old standby, horrible, with something like “That doctor visit was unpleasant.” We could say “I’m having a hard time right now” instead of “Everything is terrible” (two red-flag words for the price of one in that sentence). Describing a family visit that didn’t go well, try replacing “He astronomically miscalculated the impact of teaching his parrot swear words” with “Grandma did not like the colorful avian commentary.” And if your first thought is “You never listen to what I say,” try instead “Sometimes I think you don’t give me your full attention.”

Note that our goal here is not to gloss over things that are difficult or make us unhappy. It is to remind ourselves that reality is rarely black and white, and that there are a lot of benefits to seeing in full color.”

OK, this is Susan writing again. I hope you enjoyed Eric’s ideas as much as I did, and would love to know:

*When reading Eric’s words, did you suddenly realize that you actually do use overly extreme internal language?

*Do you generally NOTICE that you have an internal voice speaking to you, or do you identify your thoughts and inner monologue as reality?

*If you do notice your inner voice - what does it generally sound like? Is it friendly? Is it critical? Is it thoughtful? Other?

Please, share your thoughts!

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Last week, I took a car service to the airport. Traffic was heavy, and the drive was unusually long. When we arrived, I offered the driver a cash tip.

He shook his head and said: “The gratuity is already included” (something no driver has ever said before; I greatly appreciated his honesty).

I said, “I know, but that’s OK,” and added: “The trip to the airport was so long” — meaning, he deserved the extra tip. He nodded, and put the money in his pocket.

And then he said “I’m sorry”.

I didn’t know why he was apologizing. It was only after I walked away that I realized that he took my remark about the length of the trip as an accusation, rather than what I’d meant it to be: a nod to the terrible traffic, and a reassurance that he deserved the extra money.

This was in keeping with his behavior throughout the ride, which had been accommodating to a fault. He’d even told me that I should think of the car as belonging not to him but to me.

And what had happened to him to make him so quick to apologize, to feel so undeserving?

And if YOU are overly quick to apologize, if you instinctively accommodate, or worry that you’ve burdened someone — why is that?

I don’t know the driver’s story, and I don’t know yours; but if you apologize a lot, it’s likely NOT because you’re constantly in the wrong.

Here’s what’s probably happening, and how to change it.

Do you remember the incredible Candlelight Chat we did, where our guests were the hosts of This Jungian Life (which has since become one of my favorite podcasts)? In one episode, Lisa Marchiano, Deborah Stewart, and Joseph Lee explore the reasons that some humans over-apologize:

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Fear

It is said that before entering the sea
a river trembles with fear.

She looks back at the path she has traveled,
from the peaks of the mountains,
the long winding road crossing forests and villages.

And in front of her,
she sees an ocean so vast,
that to enter
there seems nothing more than to disappear forever.

But there is no other way.
The river can not go back.

Nobody can go back.
To go back is impossible in existence.

The river needs to take the risk
of entering the ocean
because only then will fear disappear,
because that’s where the river will know
it’s not about disappearing into the ocean,
but of becoming the ocean.

-Kahlil Gibran

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”Nobody can go back. To go back is impossible in existence”:

This sounds, at first, like such a forbidding statement. It speaks of closed doors, and finality.

But I find this idea so comforting, because without it, we feel that we should at least try to go back to all the good people and situations that lived and happened in the past. We experience a kind of magical thinking: if only I protest loudly or compellingly enough about this change, about this farewell, if only I make the right call, if only I travel to the right destination, if only I perform the correct ablutions: then things can be as they once were. We know rationally that we can’t go back, but we feel as if, if only we worked at it hard enough, we could.

And all this trying, and the futility of it, is so much more painful than the letting go itself.

It also stops us from becoming the ocean.

What do you think? What has your life experience been?

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Following our last “Just Us” Candlelight Chat, I received this note from one of our Quiet Life members:

“Thank you so much for hosting this lovely gathering. It’s always such a treat to connect with fellow kindred spirits :)

I have a question: how to best respond when people say “you’re so quiet”? I’ve never really understood why people feel compelled to point it out. It seems less about making me aware of it and more about their discomfort with my communication style.

It’s not exactly an insult, but it’s not really a compliment either, especially given the way it’s often said, usually with a bit of a grimace. I once had a leader walk by my office and say, “You’re so quiet it drives me crazy!” 🤷‍♀️

What I also find interesting is that I’ve never heard the same kind of comment directed at someone for being “so loud.” 🤔”

I was about to launch in and give an answer but it occurred to me that so many of you have asked a variation of this question over the years. So I’m sharing my response with all of you: five ways to respond to the “why are you so quiet” question — and even more important, what tone to take, as you respond:

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I’m very excited to share with you all that today is publication day for our new children’s book, Lucky and Norman - and the reviews are wonderful!

This children’s book, which I wrote together with three generations of the Cain family, tells the true story of a friendship between our kids and two donkeys they met on vacation - and how learning to say goodbye to Lucky and Norman taught our children about love, sorrow, and resilience. This children’s book was also inspired by my grown-up book, Bittersweet.

You can order the book here!

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And here are some of the reviews:

“The emotional core of the book is handled with grace. Lim’s watercolor, pencil, and digital illustrations couldn’t be lovelier. Soft greens and golden fields are bathed in changing light, from bright blue days to dusky blue-violet evenings. Her donkeys are the stars of the book: Their enormous, soulful eyes and reactive bodies register wariness, delight, and heartbreak with astonishing expressiveness. Lim varies her spreads and includes intimate vignettes and sweeping pastoral panoramas that give the book visual rhythm. Rooted in real experiences, the story carries the warmth of something genuinely lived.” —Kirkus

“When spring arrives, a family drives to the country, where they stay for a week on Mr. Santiago’s farm. While the parents enjoy the peaceful setting, their sons explore the farm. Their host, Mr. Santiago, introduces them to the two donkeys, Lucky and Norman. Though the boys are initially awkward around them, they yearn to play with Norman and Lucky, and they follow the farmer’s advice to earn the donkeys’ trust by feeding them apples and carrots, a practice that helps them eventually befriend the animals. When the animals are finally friendly, the boys spend each day running to the field and romping with the donkeys until it’s time to go home. Their awesome week turns bittersweet when they realize how much they will miss their new friends. Created using watercolor and pencil as well as digital elements, the illustrations sensitively depict the donkeys as well as the people in this quiet yet engaging family story, which was written as a collaboration involving three generations of family members fondly recalling their week in the country with Lucky and Norman.” —Booklist

We hope you love reading Lucky and Norman to the little ones in your lives, as much as we enjoyed creating (and living) it.

xo Susan, Ken, Grandma Bobbi, Grandpa Al, Sam and Eli

A few weekends ago, our son attended Admitted Students Weekend at a West Coast university, and our whole family came along. The weekend was jam-packed with people and activities, pride and excitement. We went to sample lectures and new restaurants, we toured the campus and town, we chatted with other expectant parents (I chose the word “expectant” purposely - it’s usually used for birth, and this stage of life is a new kind of birth, even if it feels like a leave-taking.) There wasn’t much time to think.

But then Sunday morning came. I had to continue on to a speaking engagement in Ohio, while Ken and the boys flew home to New York. The way our flights worked out, they left town a few hours before I did. We said goodbye and I wandered around our now-empty Airbnb, fully aware that this was a precursor to the bigger goodbye that looms in our future, the one that’s coming this September.

And that’s when it set in: the Pain of Separation. The exact same one I wrote about in Bittersweet and now Lucky and Norman (our new children’s book teaching kids how to say goodbye with resilience).

Luckily, I recognize this particular pain so well by now - if you’ve lived this long (I’m 58) you’ve been through it many times. You’ve also learned that it will likely subside. I knew that, as soon as I was in motion myself — heading for the airport, en route to Ohio — I’d feel much better.

All of this made me ask myself what else I know, by now, about how to deal with the Pain of Separation. And the answer, I think, is quite a lot.

Here are seven of my tried-and-true strategies for saying goodbye to your beloveds: whether due to an empty nest, a breakup or any of life’s vagaries (and you can ask me, this September, how well I’m implementing these strategies!):

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I’m so excited to share a new children’s book that three generations of my family wrote together! It’s called Lucky & Norman, and it was written by my husband Ken and me, our sons Sam and Eli, and beloved grandparents Bobbi and Al Cain. It’s a story for kids and families, and it touches on some of the same themes as Bittersweet. The book also has adorable illustrations by the magnificently gifted Stella Lim.

The book tells the story of Sam and Eli’s friendship with two donkeys they befriended on a family vacation - and the sweet sorrow of parting from those donkeys. It teaches little ones (and adults) about impermanence, bittersweetness and resilience - and how to say goodbye to something or someone you love.

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Lucky & Norman arrives in stores on June 2 -- but you can preorder your copy now!

In the meantime, I thought I’d share with you a little photo montage of the making of Lucky and Norman:

One of our Quiet Life community’s favorite Candlelight Chat guests was Alexandra (Lexi) Hudson, author of the important book, The Soul of Civility and the excellent Civic Renaissance Substack. Lexi is an advocate for deep civility over superficial politeness, and today she’s back, having graciously offered to share with us her essay, “The Wonderless Age”. I wanted to bring you this piece because it focuses on a topic that affects us all: the end of awe, the rise of cynicism, and how to reclaim your own understanding that the world actually IS a magical place.

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Here’s Lexi:

“Gracious reader,

While attending Redefining Classics this past weekend, a conference dedicated to celebrating overlooked voices and experiences in The Great Conversation, I met Junius Johnson, a Yale Ph.D.- turned independent scholar who teaches fascinating courses directly to incurably curious lifelong learners.

He shared that he’d written a book on why fantasy literature is so good for children. It’s called On Teaching Fairy Stories: A Guide to Cultivating Wonder in Students through Great Literature, and I can’t wait to read it.

“Why do you want to teach kids that the world is a magical place?” I asked him.

“Because the world is a magical place,” he replied, wonder in his eyes.

And he meant it—not in a sentimental or escapist sense, but in the deepest, most reality-rooted way. He offered an example: scientists have discovered only about 15% of the animal life on Earth. The rest remains a mystery—hidden in ocean trenches, forest canopies, forgotten caves, mountain peaks, and unknown valleys. We truly have no idea what might be out there. For all we know, creatures we think of as myths—dragon-like beasts, glowing birds, transparent frogs—may exist. The planet remains mysterious, brimming with life, possibility, and awe.

And yet, despite this possibility for wonder, many of us have forgotten how to see it.

Children Are Born With Wonder

Children enter the world as natural philosophers. Curiosity is their native tongue—an instinctive drive to wonder, question, and explore. Yet all too often, we stifle it—unwittingly smothering their awe with our cult of utility and efficiency. Curiosity doesn’t always chart the most direct path from point A to point B—but that’s precisely its power. Left unhindered, a child’s day is a litany of astonishment, a symphony of small revelations.

• “Why is the sky blue?”

• “Where do birds go when it rains?”

• “What does the moon eat for breakfast?”

They are masters of awe, fluent in curiosity. A dandelion is a marvel. A shadow is an enigma. A cardboard box becomes a rocket ship, a pirate’s cave, or a secret treasure chest. They are constantly awed by everything.

But this awe isn’t just charming—it’s foundational. Wonder is how children learn. It’s how they love. It’s how they begin to understand the world and themselves. Wonder is the operating system of a young mind.

Cynicism: The Enemy of Wonder

The opposite of wonder is not boredom. It’s cynicism. And cynicism is not intellectual sophistication—it’s spiritual fatigue. It’s the feeling of being certain, so certain that nothing can surprise you anymore.

Cynicism is the refusal to be impressed.

It’s a shield we raise when we’ve been disappointed too many times. It’s the result of overstimulation, over information, and under-delight. It often masquerades as wisdom, but it’s more often a kind of despair: the decision that nothing new under the sun is worth our time, our joy, our reverence.

We don’t become cynical overnight. Children lose their wonder gradually, through:

• Over-scheduling: Structured, achievement-driven environments that leave little time for open-ended play and exploration.

• Screens and algorithms: Which offer instant novelty and dopamine, short-circuiting real-world curiosity and slowing attention spans.

• Education that prizes answers over questions: The goal becomes scoring well, not marveling well.

• Adult modeling: When the grown-ups around them are distracted, disenchanted, too busy to look up at the stars or down at the ants, children learn that wonder is something we outgrow.

And so awe fades.

Adult Awe

We need wonder just as much—perhaps even more—as adults.

Wonder is not a luxury. It is a vital nutrient for the soul. It softens us. It reminds us we’re part of something bigger. It awakens humility, delight, and gratitude. It calls us out of ourselves.

Adults who cultivate wonder:

• Are more resilient. Awe increases our ability to cope with stress and setbacks.

• Are more generous. Wonder has been shown to make people kinder and more collaborative.

• Are more alive. Wonder reintroduces depth, mystery, and surprise into lives flattened by routine and responsibility.

And the good news is—we can learn it again. Children can be our teachers.

Let the Children Lead Us

Children don’t need to be taught how to wonder. We do. What they need is for us to protect and preserve their sense of awe—and, whenever possible, to let it spill over into our own lives.

We can start by:

• Watching how they look at the world. Try seeing things through their eyes. A puddle is an ocean. A caterpillar is an alien. A balloon is magic.

• Following their curiosity instead of always leading it. Let them set the pace on a walk. Let their questions become the curriculum of the day.

• Limiting distractions. Phones, schedules, and stress pull us away from awe. Practice being fully present with them and the world around you.

• Asking more questions. Not to get the “right” answers, but to linger in mystery: What do you think the moon is thinking about right now?

And then: look up. Look down. Look long.

Recovering Wonder: A Beginner’s Guide

1. Look Up at the Sky

Whether day or night, the sky is a free, ever-changing masterpiece. Watch the clouds shape-shift or the stars flicker into view. Let yourself feel small in the best possible way.

2. Ask Childlike Questions

The more we ask, the more these questions will arise naturally within us. In time, we’ll begin to soften—loosening the grip of our fear of failure or of looking foolish—and gradually reclaim the childlike wonder we once knew. Instead of rushing for answers, ask a question you don’t know the answer to—Why do leaves change color? What’s inside a cloud? How old is the oldest tree in the world? Stay in the curiosity.

3. Go on a “Wonder Walk”

Take a short walk and set the intention to notice five things you’ve never observed before—textures, colors, sounds, smells. Move slowly. Let yourself be astonished.

4. Watch a Child Discover Something

If you have children in your life, join them in their play. Let them explain something to you— don’t rush them. Their delight is contagious—and instructive.

5. Read a Myth, Fairy Tale, or Fantasy Story

Step into a world of talking animals, magical quests, or enchanted forests. These stories remind us of the deep truths that reason alone can’t explain.

6. Keep a “Wonder Journal”

Every evening, write down one thing that surprised, amazed, or delighted you that day—no matter how small. Over time, you’ll train your mind to find the miraculous in the mundane.

7. Stargaze or Watch a Sunrise

These moments remind us we live on a spinning rock in a vast universe. Just five minutes of skywatching can reset your whole sense of time and place.

8. Turn Off Your Phone for an Hour

Silence the noise. Disconnect to reconnect—with your senses, your surroundings, and your own mind. Wonder requires space to breathe.

9. Touch Nature

Run your fingers over bark. Smell the soil. Watch a bee at work. Nature is not just beautiful—it’s strange, intricate, and endlessly mysterious.

10. Let Yourself Be Moved

Listen to music that gives you chills. Read poetry aloud. Stand before a work of art.

The Magic in the Mundane

“Anyone who keeps the ability to see beauty never grows old.”

—Kafka

The extraordinary is hidden in the ordinary, for those with the eyes to see it. Embrace this invitation to pay attention.

The world is still full of dragons and dreams, hidden creatures and invisible forces, unanswered questions and unexplored paths. The world is a magical place—not in spite of its reality, but because of it.

We do not need to manufacture wonder. We simply need to learn how to see again.

And the children in our lives—if we let them—will show us the way.”

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OK, this is Susan again. I’m curious to know:

• When is the last time you turned your phone off for an hour? (I must say that I don’t do this nearly enough, myself.) How did you feel?

• In a typical day or week, do you experience more cynicism or wonder?

• Which of Lexi’s strategies struck you as the most achievable?

Please do share!

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*How should one handle pressure from a significant other to be more outgoing?

*What to do when you’re burned out from a role, and want to quit, but feel guilty about it?

*Is it possible to be open and authentic at work while also drawing …

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When it comes to decision-making, are you more of a “maximizer” or a “satisficer”?

And what do these terms mean, anyway?

And why does the answer matter so much, when it comes to leading a rewarding life…and making good decisions?

If you’d like to know the answers to these questions, today’s Kindred Letter is for you. It’s a sneak-peek excerpt from my friend David Epstein’s brand-new, out-today book, “INSIDE THE BOX: How Constraints Make Us Better”. In case you missed it, earlier this month I republished David’s article: Why you choke under pressure. I hope you enjoy!

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Here’s David:

“If I had to choose a single thinker whose work most influenced this book, it would be Herbert Simon.

Simon was trained as a political scientist, but a handful of disciplines claim him. He won the highest award in computer science (the Turing Award), and in psychology (Outstanding Lifetime Contributions), and in economics—the Nobel Prize. When a graduate student once asked Simon to explain his mastery of multiple fields, Simon replied that he was actually just fanatically exploring a single topic: how humans make decisions.

Simon showed that decision-making departs from what he had learned in economics courses because people are always faced with imperfect information about their options and equipped with limited ability to anticipate the consequences of their choices. Rather than “maximize,” or make the best choice from all available alternatives, Simon showed that humans must “satisfice”: consider a limited menu of options and choose one that is “good enough.”

Simon applied his findings in a practical sense to himself. He was, in his own words, an “incorrigible satisficer.” True maximizing is impossible anyway, and “searching for the best can only dissipate scarce cognitive resources,” Simon wrote. Here is his eldest daughter, Katherine, recalling his lifestyle:

“He wore one brand of socks, thus, after the first purchase, never having to select the color or style of what he put on his feet each day. He mostly wore plain white dress shirts or simple pale-colored sports shirts and very dark navy blue (almost black) trousers. From my earliest childhood, I remember hearing him remark that one needed only three sets of clothing: one on one’s body, one in the wash and one in the closet ready to wear. . . . His black beret (the only kind of hat he ever wore) was made at a particular haberdashery in Belgium. He owned only one beret at a time. When it began to look worn, he’d order the next, or, when he was abroad, he’d stop by the shop to buy a new one. The same with shoes. He wore black leather Oxfords in cold weather and sandals in the summer. He owned one pair of each that he wore until they wore out; then he’d get exactly the same kind to replace them.

My father also simplified his life in terms of his daily habits, thus eliminating the need to make little decisions about everything.”

Simon always had the same breakfast (bowl of oatmeal, half grapefruit, black coffee), and lived in the same house for forty-six years. He didn’t agonize over keeping his options open. When he had to make a decision, he considered a few alternatives, sometimes solicited advice, chose, and then remained open to lessons but not to dwelling on regret. “I was never aware that he changed his mind or re-thought options after deciding on something,” Katherine wrote. “Once made, his decision stuck.” Simon knew maximizing was unrealistic, and so he eagerly satisficed, saving anxiety and cognitive bandwidth anywhere he could. “The best is enemy of the good,” Simon wrote. One might be tempted to accuse him of a lack of ambition, if not for his trophy case.

Psychologists who followed up on Simon’s work have demonstrated the formidable wisdom of his life philosophy. Maximizing may be impossible, but that doesn’t stop us from trying. Not long after Simon passed away in 2001, a team of psychologists created a maximization scale, a survey to measure how much of a maximizer or satisficer one is. As it turned out, it is usually bad to be a maximizer.

Maximizers are less satisfied with their decisions and their lives, less optimistic, less happy, more prone to regret, and more likely to endlessly compare themselves to others. It’s not that relative satisficers have low standards; they can have high standards. It’s that they have standards at all other than “best imaginable,” so they create the possibility of satisfaction with their choices. Unsurprisingly, maximizers are more likely to feel overwhelmed by choice. In the abstract, more choice is always better. In practice, not necessarily.

The drive to maximize in a world of never-ending choice is the heart of a short story by one of my favorite writers, Japanese novelist Haruki Murakami. In it, a lonely young boy and girl meet on a street corner and intuitively realize that they are the “100% perfect” match for one another. It’s a miracle. They walk to a park bench, hold hands, and talk for hours. “As they sat and talked, however, a tiny, tiny sliver of doubt took root in their hearts: Was it really all right for one’s dreams to come true so easily?” They decide on a test. If they really are perfect for one another, they can walk away and they’ll inevitably meet again. Then they can be absolutely sure that they’re the 100 percent perfect match, and will get married then and there. The boy walks off west, and the girl east. They really were perfect for each other, but, sadly, they never meet again.

It is OK to be satisfied. In a world of enormous choice, in fact, it is critical for well-being. As Simon pointed out, if we counted the cost in time and energy of evaluating options, we would see that satisficing actually is the maximizing strategy.

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OK, this is Susan writing again. I hope you appreciated this piece as much as I did, and am very curious to know:

*Do you tend to have trouble making decisions, or do you make them easily?

*Do you see yourself as more of a “maximizer” or “satisficer”?

*Can too much freedom indeed be paralyzing? When have you experienced this in your own life?

*What kinds of constraints (time, budget, rules) tend to spark your best thinking?

Please, leave a comment, and share!

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I’m really looking forward to seeing you tomorrow, for our May Candlelight Chat. It’ll be “just us” – meaning, no esteemed guest this time - just a chance for us to talk to each other, and ask the questions of each other that you might be wondering about.

Here’s what to expect:

*Candlelighting Ceremony, as always.

*Questio…

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Hello all,

It feels like it’s time for us to do another “Just Us” Candlelight Chat!

So: let’s do it. This Sunday, at 1 pm Eastern time. We’ll go for up to an hour, for as long as you have questions and discussion topics for me.

We’ll send out the log-in instructions tomorrow (Saturday) to all paid/scholarship members.

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This will be an “Ask Me (Almost) Anything.” As usual, we’re not going to get into politics. Other than that, if your question is too personal, I’ll just let you know. But you should really feel free to ask away.

Also as usual, you can feel free to participate actively, or to be a happy listener.

Please start asking questions and raising discussion topics, by commenting below! I’d love to know in advance what’s on your mind.

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Here’s one of the most famous insights from the famous Stanford neuroscientist, Robert Sapolsky. (I had the chance to hear Sapolsky speak last week, which reminded me how great he is, and that I should really share his work with you):

Zebras flee lions for a 30 second run, then go back to grazing. But humans can worry about imagined lions for 30 years.

And doing this has terrible impacts on our physical and psychological health. As Sapolsky explains: “If a lion is chasing you, and your blood pressure is 180 over 120, you’re not suffering from high blood pressure: you’re saving your life. On the other hand, if your blood pressure is 180 over 120 every time you’re stuck in traffic or you picked the slow line at the grocery store, you’re not saving your life: you’re suffering from stress-induced hypertension. And if you do that chronically enough, you’re going to damage your cardiovascular system. You’ll be more at risk for cardiovascular disease than if you smoke, than if you are overweight, than if you have elevated cholesterol levels.”

This “imagined lion” habit is stubborn because it feels as if you’re doing the responsible thing by worrying about lions. It feels as if vigilance equals care.

The answer is to teach your nervous system the difference between care and alarm.

Here are eight ways to do this:

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Oh, the phenomenon of choking under pressure.

It happened to me when I was a nine-year-old figure skater and fell twice during my first competition. It happened again when I was starting out as a public speaker - I used to feel as if my whole personality would freeze up onstage. And it sometimes happens now, as a 58-year-old tennis player, even though there are zero stakes to the matches I play.

Mostly, I’ve written this off as anxiety, an emotion that I’m quite familiar with.

But it turns out that there’s way more to choking than simple anxiety - and that understanding the mechanics of choking gives you the tools you need to stop doing it so much.

My friend David Epstein is the wildly thoughtful (now there are two words that may never have been strung together before, not even by AI, ha) author of the #1 New York Times best seller Range: Why Generalists Triumph in a Specialized World, and of the bestseller The Sports Gene. He also writes a fantastic Substack, Range Widely. And he has a new book, Inside the Box: How Constraints Make Us Better, coming out soon!

Today, David is with us, to tell us what exactly happens in your brain when you choke under pressure - and how to make it stop. I found this information to be nothing short of revelatory, and if you, or a loved one, is an athlete, performer, or test-taker who chokes under pressure, I think you will too:

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Instead of starting your week with deadlines and stress, how about a lovely poem from Robert Frost, on the inevitability of loss and change:

Nothing Gold Can Stay
Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

This poem seems, at first, to have a hopeless tone.

But I find, again and again, that accepting the inevitability of loss and change unlocks a richer, deeper form of happiness: a savoring of the present, and a willingness to find and embrace future gains.

(This is really what my book, BITTERSWEET, was all about. And I’m considering these themes all over again now, as my husband Ken and I find ourselves months away from an “empty nest”. Right now I feel pretty calm and optimistic about this change - I’ll let you know what it’s actually like, in September!)

This is not to say that life doesn’t throw us catastrophic losses whose arrival we must mourn. But life does reconstitute itself, continually, in new forms; and the challenge is to open ourselves to these new forms - even when we don’t welcome them.

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You know I always love to hear from you:

• What in your life feels “golden” (and perhaps fleeting) right now — and are you savoring it fully, while it’s still here?

• What “new form” might life be asking you to welcome, even if you didn’t choose it?

• What has “not stayed” in your life—and what did its passing teach you?

Please do share!

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Dear all,

Recently, I was invited to give the keynote address at The Slowdown Summit - a conference for introverts, neurodivergent people, and reflective thinkers. It will be held at the Columbus Museum of Art, in Columbus, Ohio, on Monday, April 27.

The conference organizers describe the Slowdown Summit, which you can learn more about here, as “part retreat, part professional development, and part creative recharge. You’ll find immersive sessions, quiet corners, shared meals, and real conversations - all within a setting designed to be intentional and energizing.”

WE’RE ALSO GOING TO HAVE A SEPARATE MEET-UP AT THE SUMMIT, JUST FOR READERS OF THE QUIET LIFE. It will be either during or just after the conference.

Also - Quiet Life readers receive a 50% DISCOUNT to the conference: just enter “Quietlife” when you sign up.

If you do sign up for the Summit (which you can do here), please do comment below to let us know, so we’ll know how many of you to expect at our Quiet Life Meetup!

I am so excited at the chance to meet you in person.

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Are you a moral perfectionist?

Which is to say:

Do you feel acute shame if you think you did something wrong?

Do you have a tendency to feel guilty, even when you really aren’t?

Do you feel uncomfortable when occasionally you have a selfish or mean-spirited thought?

Do you feel unsure when it’s “right” to “put yourself first”?

If this sounds like you, today’s Kindred Letter is for you.

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If not - or if you were there, and would like to watch it again - this video replay is for you! It’s avai…

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Like everyone else, these days I spend too much time doom-scrolling on my phone, and too little time reading actual books.

But I’ve been inspired by our teenaged sons - who are suddenly putting down their phones and reading long books about history and politics — to change my ways, and to get back to my first love: reading.

I’m guessing that you might feel the same way. So, in case it inspires you, I thought I’d share these favorite books from my home library, plus some suggestions for disconnecting from your phone, and reading more.

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First, some fave books:

Sacred Therapy: Jewish Spiritual Teachings on Emotional Healing and Inner Wholeness, by Estelle Frankel: This book is so full of wisdom and insight. I pulled down my copy just now and it’s filled with underlines and margin notes. Frankel draws on tales and teachings from the Bible, the Talmud, Kabbalah, and Hasidic tradition to offer insights on healing broken hearts, and living life as a sacred narrative.

The Power of Myth, by Joseph Campbell: I discovered Campbell’s work during that great transitional period of my life (in my early 30s, when I left the wrong career and the wrong relationship, and set sail into the unknown) and it has been a mainstay ever since. This book (as with most of Campbell’s work) is an exploration of how the world’s myths — ancient and modern — reveal the shared patterns of the human experience. Drawn from a series of conversations with journalist Bill Moyers, it shows how stories from diverse cultures illuminate universal themes such as the hero’s journey, the search for meaning, the tension between individual destiny and social roles, and the encounter with the sacred.

Gone: A Girl, A Violin, a Life Unstrung, by Min Kym: This is one of the most extraordinary memoirs I’ve ever read. World-class violinist Min Kym recounts the bond she formed at seventeen with a Stradivarius violin that became, for her, something like a lover, a child, a twin. These were not just fanciful metaphors: Min happily lived in a tiny apartment so she could pour all her financial resources into maintaining her instrument. But when her violin was stolen one day, her world collapsed. She stopped playing for years, fell into a deep depression. Eventually, though, she began to emerge — full of insights on loss and rebirth — and she wrote this magisterial book. When I first read the manuscript — which was sent to me by our shared editor — I stayed up all night to finish reading. I think you will, too.

And, here are a few suggestions of how to disconnect from your phone and read more:

*As with all habits you want to encourage, make them easy and inviting. Turn reading into a beloved ritual, with a “clean and well-lighted place”: your favorite armchair, a cozy lamp, a special reading snack or cup of coffee.

*Again, as with all habits you want to encourage, start small: fifteen minutes a day is fine, and so is ten minutes. So is five. Any amount of minutes is better than zero minutes!

As always, I’d love to hear from you:

*I’d be curious to know which one(s) of these books, if any, appeal to you.

*And, would you please share some favorite reads of your own?

*Do you think that our boys’ recently rekindled interest in book-reading is part of a wider trend, or a quirk of our family? I suspect the former, but am curious about your experiences.

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Last week, I reposted this simple statement: “One of the most peaceful habits you can build is letting people do whatever they want…. and simply adjusting your distance.” - @

Many of you resonated with it; some of you asked for concrete tips on how to peacefully adjust your distance, especially from the difficult people in your life.

I’m going to give you ten concrete suggestions, in a minute.

But first, think of a difficult person in your life. Then think how much energy you spend trying to get this person to see things your way. You might wish for them to treat you better, or to exercise more, or to see the political world from your point of view. You might express these wishes out loud, only for them to fall on deaf or angry ears.

Or you might keep these wishes to yourself, expressing them over and over in the seemingly safe chamber of your own mind. And when these wishes (of course) don’t come true (i.e., when the difficult person doesn’t change) you might feel a sense of failure.

But here’s a different approach:

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