How I Learned to Trust My Inner Voice Again

I want to bake muffins with my daughters. The thought comes to me suddenly, sweetly, like a gift. But before I can even fully form the idea, she's there—The Manager—with her rational commentary: "You don't have time because you planned a walk for three o'clock." And just like that, the impulse dies. Another moment of potential joy, rationalized away before it could even breathe.

This has been happening for years. I just never noticed until now.

The Impulse Assassin

Since discovering The Manager—that controlling, planning part of myself that's been running my life—I've become fascinated by her most insidious habit: the systematic murder of my impulses to actually live.

She's so good at it. So quick. So reasonable-sounding.

A forest walk before bed? "Too close to bedtime." Picking strawberries from the garden for breakfast? "You've got pajamas on, you'd need to change, too much effort." Let's go for a quick swim before dinner? "Too big a project, too much to pack, dinner will be late." Let's dip our feet in the stream? "We'll get wet and have no towels."

Every single impulse to connect with my children, to embrace spontaneity, to follow what feels alive in the moment—she had a logical reason why it wouldn't work. Why it wasn't practical. Why it wasn't the right time, weather, or energy level.

And I listened to her. For years.

The Quiet Voice Underneath

What breaks my heart now is realizing how quiet my impulses have become. They've been shut down so many times that they barely whisper anymore. I have to really listen for them now, strain to hear what my soul is actually wanting beneath the noise of The Manager's endless planning.

But she's still there—the part of me that wants to bake muffins on a random Tuesday afternoon, that sees a beautiful cloud and wants to lie in the grass and watch it, that feels the urge to dance in the kitchen while making dinner.

She's the one who loves water and skipping and being silly. Who loves to cook not because it's on the schedule, but because creating something nourishing feels good. Who wants to look at clouds not because it's an "activity" but because they're beautiful.

She's fun. She's spontaneous. She laughs a lot.

She's who I was before I learned to rationalize away every impulse to actually live.

The Death by a Thousand "But's"

I've been killing my own aliveness with logic. Every spontaneous idea met with a "but"—but we don't have time, but it's not practical, but what about the schedule, but we're not prepared.

The Manager convinced me that following impulses was irresponsible. That good mothers plan everything in advance. That spontaneity equals chaos. That if I didn't anticipate and prevent every possible discomfort, I was failing my children.

So I turned away from every invitation life offered. Every moment my soul said "yes," The Manager said "no, but here's why that's not a good idea."

And slowly, over years, I stopped even hearing the "yes" underneath her commentary.

The Revolutionary Questions

Now I see The Manager in every moment and when she starts her rational commentary, I ask different questions:

So what if dinner's late? Will we die?

So what if we get wet or muddy or sandy? Will it be permanent?

Who said you have to get dressed before going into the garden?

Questions like these reveal how absurd most of her concerns actually are. Getting wet isn't dangerous—it's just wet. Being late for dinner isn't a crisis—it's just dinner happening at a different time. Getting sandy isn't a disaster—it's just sand that washes off.

The Manager had convinced me that minor inconveniences were major problems. That temporary discomforts were emergencies to prevent at all costs. That my children's wellbeing depended on my ability to anticipate and control every variable.

But my daughter's joy after our soaking gondola adventure proved otherwise. Her happiness didn't come from perfect conditions—it came from shared presence, from the adventure of experiencing weather together, from the memory of taking a gondola into the clouds.

Learning to Follow the Impulse

Now when I feel the urge to bake muffins, I bake muffins. When I want to pick strawberries in my pajamas, I pick strawberries in my pajamas. When the idea of a spontaneous swim emerges, I trust that impulse over The Manager's list of complications.

And magic follows.

My daughters feel it too. When I'm following genuine impulses instead of executing predetermined plans, I'm actually present with them. I'm not mentally calculating the next thing or worrying about whether we're "on track." I'm just here, fully engaged in whatever we're creating together.

Since I started ignoring The Manager's commentary and following my impulses instead, everything has become more alive. It's not that these activities are superior to planned ones. It's that when I act from authentic impulse, I'm not performing an activity— I'm living an experience.

My daughters are watching me remember how to be spontaneous, how to follow joy, how to trust that life can be lived rather than managed. They're learning that impulses toward beauty and connection aren't interruptions to real life—they ARE real life.

The Return to Aliveness

I'm slowly uncovering her again—the woman underneath all the managing and planning and rationalizing. She's been there all along, sending up those impulses like flares, trying to guide me back to what actually matters.

She wants to dance in the kitchen. She wants to lie in the grass and watch clouds. She wants to get soaked in gondolas and muddy in gardens and sandy at beaches. She wants to respond to beauty when she sees it, not when it's scheduled.

The Manager spent years convincing me that this woman was irresponsible, impractical, childish. But I'm learning that she's actually the wisest part of me—the part that remembers what it means to be alive, what it feels like to trust life enough to participate in it fully.

Following her impulses hasn't created chaos. It's created magic.

And my daughters are the ones who benefit most of all.

What impulses have you been rationalizing away? What would happen if you trusted that spontaneous urge to bake something, take a walk, call a friend, or sit quietly in your garden?