the best advice I never gave

Hi, friend. 

I get it, the temptation is real. It’s clear-as-a-freshly-Windexed-window what this person needs to hear, the little wisdom bomb you can drop so they suddenly see what they’ve been doing wrong. You have the answer, THEIR answer! 

But let’s just slow all this down for one hot second. Is volunteering input really what will best serve this individual, or is it a subtle flex? Have you earned their trust enough to impart your advice? Did they even ask you for it? 

We all have behavioral blind spots, areas where we just cannot see what’s amiss. I have a very small group of friends that I’ve awarded what I call “blind spot privileges.” These people have earned my abiding trust over decades of loving me. They’re not going to call me out on something to make themselves feel big. So when I ask them for their input —“What am I not seeing here?”— I believe them. Their answers don't always ring true initially (and sometimes it stings), but I’ve invited their caring guidance and take their input to heart. 

Two essential elements of the exchange:

I trust them. 

I asked them. 

When I lead AllSwell workshops, I set ground rules to create a safe container for creative self-expression, including that participants should please refrain from sharing unsolicited advice with other guests at the writing table. Granted, people who opt in to an AllSwell workshop are pretty incredible, smart, and thoughtful humans. The experience tends to self-select rad participants. But I explain that in this environment, their wisdom is for themselves. They don’t need to take care of anyone else for the duration of the workshop. 

If the impulse to offer counsel arises in response to someone else’s share, I direct them to write it down instead of providing advice during these sessions. Save it. Contemplate it. Journal about it. The message that seems like it’s for someone else may, in fact, have some encoded information for you. Sometimes information is easier to accept when it seems like it’s for someone else. 

It’s also interesting to journal about why you wanted to share your perspective at that moment. Sure, we want to help people in need, to ease their way forward. But it isn’t necessarily entirely altruistic. There’s often a dopamine hit in asserting one’s leadership. This third-party input may be received as subtle, unwelcome dominance. It feels yucky and puts the recipient in the awkward position of having to be polite about being publicly slimed. 

Last winter, I was graciously invited to a weekend-long meditation retreat as a participant. Each session included an element of longhand journaling. Despite having over a decade of experience in this space, I shut up and stayed mum. Sure, I could have inserted my suggestions, but that weekend wasn’t about me or my approach. Interjecting my recommendations could have undermined the facilitator's leadership and taken me out of the delightful, welcome role of student. 

When the impulse to offer a suggestion arose, I wrote it down instead. Once I unpacked it later, there was usually a little download for me, one I would have missed if I’d given it away, earmarked for someone else. My job that weekend was to grow, learn, listen, bear witness, and support the collective with my attention and respect. I wasn’t in charge, and it was great.  

I invite you to explore this approach in your own travels. There’s something wonderful about being off-duty, not providing guidance to others, especially when the dopaminergic allure of being right is “thisclose.” Instead, try parsing out your own advice-impulse on the page. It’s likely that the more this concept is triggering, the more there is waiting for you. 

In Swellness,

Laura 

PS. If you’re interested in joining the next “Superconductors” cohort for journaling facilitator training, you can learn more here and email us to get on the waitlist.