Smile and Ignore Your Gut (Sometimes)

On instincts, and steering instead of reacting.

“If you are distressed by anything external, the pain is not due to the thing itself, but to your estimate of it — and this you have the power to revoke at any moment.”— Marcus Aurelius

It always starts with something stupid.

A text that stays stuck on "Delivered" instead of "Read."

An email you fire off too fast, then sit there, instantly making you regret your existence.

Or (my favorite) an entirely imaginary argument you have with someone while shampooing your hair, rehearsing words they will never actually hear.

You know the feeling, right? That electric jolt — somewhere between your chest and your stomach — when your body goes, "THIS IS AN EMERGENCY," and your mind...well, your mind usually panics right along with it.

It’s wild if you think about how easily a few pixels on a screen can hijack our nervous system.

(Meanwhile, in actual emergencies, I barely got a shrug.)

And the worst part? We act like this is normal.

We feed it, even telling ourselves to trust our gut, because ancient survival instincts know best when choosing a therapist or deciding whether to buy that ugly, expensive jacket at 2 a.m.

(They don’t, by the way.)

Still, I find myself spinning — obsessing over things I have absolutely zero control over, obeying the first hit of emotion like it’s the law.

It’s exhausting.

It’s also completely optional.

Which brings me to a question I’ve been wrestling with lately (and maybe you have too): What if raising our consciousness isn’t about trusting our instincts more, but learning when to ignore them?

This idea is not new, but it’s stubbornly unpopular — that real strength isn’t found in controlling everything.

It’s found in not needing to.

The Stoics, those ancient philosophers who would likely have considered my Instagram habits a moral failing, called it apatheia — a calm indifference to whatever you cannot control.

Not indifferent, like you don’t care about anything, but you know exactly where to place your care, and you don’t waste it on lost causes.

The first time I heard that, I rolled my eyes.

It sounded suspiciously like those bumper sticker slogans — “Let it goooo” — that mostly made me want to hold on tighter.

Now, I see the wisdom in it.

Most of the crap that ties me up in knots isn’t under my jurisdiction.

I can’t control whether someone likes me back.

I can’t control whether a client answers my email before I refresh my Inbox fifty-seven times.

I can’t control how fast the line at Starbucks moves, no matter how hard I glare at the barista. (Tragically, she remains unmoved.)

And I lose every time I let my gut — my primal, panicky, approval-hungry gut — act like those things are my responsibility.

Not because the world is cruel.

But I handed over my peace like a fool handing over his car keys to a raccoon.

Maturing isn’t about fighting for control of everything.

It’s about learning the art of the shrug.

A few years ago, I had this friend — the kind you meet and immediately think, "Finally, someone who gets me."

We clicked so fast that it felt suspicious.

(Like, statistically, what are the odds two people love the same podcasts and hate avocado?)

My gut was all in from the jump — throwing confetti, cueing up the parade.

It said this person is your tribe, pounding its tiny emotional fists on the table.

So I trusted it.

Hard.

I shared things I usually kept padlocked, made plans, and let them into corners of my life I'd spent years carefully wrapping in bubble wrap.

Because when your gut says trust, you’re supposed to listen, right?

Yeah...

Fast forward six months:

Betrayal.

A handful of half-truths. Some lies.

And a sinking realization that maybe — just maybe — my gut wasn’t the wise old owl I imagined.

It was more like an overeager golden retriever — all heart, zero discernment.

The worst part wasn’t even the fallout (although it was messy).

I realized that I had handed over the keys to my peace because something felt right, without stopping to ask if it actually was.

Turns out, instincts aren’t fortune tellers.

Sometimes, they’re echoes of old hopes or wounds disguised as wisdom.

Your gut — bless its dramatic little heart — wasn’t designed for this modern life.

It’s ancient hardware, built to spot saber-tooth tigers and decide, in a split second, whether to run or throw a rock.

It’s not optimized for texting etiquette, choosing friends, or knowing when someone’s a walking red flag in really expensive sneakers.

When people say, “Trust your gut,” like it’s some holy commandment, I get it—they mean well.

But also...

No.

Sometimes, trusting your gut means you mistake panic for prophecy.

You mistake wishful thinking for certainty.

You mistake a familiar emotional pattern — one you maybe should be breaking — for some deep, cosmic sign.

And look, I’m not saying instincts are useless.

(If a guy in a ski mask is sprinting toward you in a parking garage, by all means, listen to your body and run!)

But in most day-to-day situations involving subtlety, nuance, and long-term consequences, instincts can be loud but wrong.

Really, wrong.

That’s why we have this weird, miraculous upgrade called the mind — the part of us that can pause, reflect, and choose something better.

Even when it doesn’t feel better in the moment.

(Especially then.)

In a way, overriding your gut isn’t a betrayal of yourself — it’s an act of evolution.

It’s your smarter, future-loving self stepping in and saying: “Hey buddy, maybe don’t hand the steering wheel to the raccoon today.”

If you're noticing a theme here, you're right.

Whether it's freaking out over a friend's betrayal or losing your mind because someone didn’t text back fast enough — the real trap isn’t what happened.

It’s what we let happen inside us.

Sometimes, it’s the gut that panics, telling you to dive headfirst into trust, anger, fear, or whatever emotion promises instant relief.

Sometimes, the mind spirals, trying to predict, control, or fix things outside your pay grade.

Either way, the result is the same:

You lose yourself chasing something you never actually had control over in the first place.

Which is why — and I’m saying this as someone who is very much still a work in progress — the real power move might be something embarrassingly simple:

• Feel the urge.

• Feel the panic.

• Feel the stupid gut punch of "Do something now!"

• And then...

• Choose not to.

Not because you don’t care.

But because you do — about your sanity and ability to choose yourself over your instincts and illusions.

Indifference, the real kind, isn’t coldness.

It’s clarity.

It’s refusing to let every blip on the radar hijack your peace.

And sometimes, ignoring your gut isn’t a weakness.

It’s proof you’re finally steering the ship, not just riding the waves like a half-drowned cat.

The other day, it happened again.

(Because, of course, it did.)

I sent a text I may have cared too much about.

I watched those three dots — typing… — flicker and disappear.

No reply.

Immediately, my gut started doing its thing — yanking the fire alarm, shouting all the greatest hits:

"They hate you!"

"You said something stupid!"

"Move to another city and start over!"

(Because my gut? Never misses an opportunity to stage a full-scale riot.)

I felt it.

The absolute certainty that something must be done — right now.

But this time, I didn’t obey.

I didn’t spin out.

I didn’t reread the text fifty times like an archaeologist digging for clues in ancient ruins.

I just...breathed.

Shrugged a little.

I reminded myself that I don’t control how fast someone types — or if they type back.

And that whatever story my gut was trying to write for me wasn’t the only story available.

It may sound small.

It can be small.

But sometimes, the smallest changes are the ones that matter most.

Because in that tiny, quiet moment, I chose not to drown in the wave.

I chose to float.

And honestly?

It felt a lot like freedom.

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Book Recommendation:
If this piece resonated with you, you might like The Happiness Hypothesis by Jonathan Haidt. It’s a smart, funny deep dive into why our instincts often run the show — and how we can (sometimes) gently take the wheel back. It reads like talking to a very thoughtful friend who isn’t trying to fix you, but show you around your mind a little better.