The Story About The Feeling

My daughter wouldn't fall asleep.

It was 20:47. I'd been trying for forty-three minutes. My frustration was mounting. I desperately needed a break—just thirty minutes to myself.

But it wasn't just frustration I felt.

The Manager had built an entire story:

I never get to rest. This always happens. Why can't she just fall asleep? I can't do this. I have no patience left for this. I'm failing.

The frustration—the actual feeling in my body—was maybe a 3 out of 10.

The story about the frustration? That was a 9.

I think what has had the biggest impact on my life since identifying The Manager (read my first post about The Manager here) is learning to distinguish between a feeling and her story about the feeling. Because once I learned that difference, everything changed.

Before, if something "bad" happened, it was never just a feeling. It was immediately the start of a story about failure, frustration, embarrassment, hurt, fear, anger—spiraling and building momentum before I even realized what was happening.

The Stories I Told

My husband came home quiet. I'd had a hard day and wanted to talk about it. He went straight to the kitchen to start making dinner.

The actual feeling? Disappointment. A small one.

But The Manager immediately spun it:

He should know I want to talk. Why doesn't he ask if I'm okay? He doesn't care enough to notice. I always have to ask for what I need.

By the time he looked up from chopping vegetables, I was hurt and angry about a conversation we hadn't even had. About needs I hadn't voiced. About mind-reading abilities he's never claimed to possess.

The disappointment was real. The abandonment story was not.

The Manager took each sensation—frustration, disappointment, tiredness—and immediately spun it into evidence of everything wrong with my life, my parenting, my relationships. She was so skilled at turning a moment of discomfort into a full-blown crisis.

What I'm Learning Now

Now I'm learning to identify the underlying physical sensation in my body connected to the feeling. Not letting my mind—not letting The Manager—rev up and build a story about it.

What does frustration actually feel like in my body? Clenching in my stomach. Heat in my face. Tension in my shoulders.

What does disappointment feel like? A heaviness. A sinking sensation. Tightness in my throat.

When I stay present with just the underlying sensation—not The Manager's story about what it means, just the physical experience—something remarkable happens. It quickly dissolves. The feeling moves through me instead of consuming me.

When The Manager Won

Monday evening, 17.14

We'd just sat down for dinner. Both my husband and I were tired. I was trying to tell him something about my day. He was trying to listen. And my daughter was making loud noises, bouncing on her chair, reaching across the table to poke her sister.

I didn't notice my jaw was clenched. I didn't notice my shoulders were up by my ears. I didn't notice my hands were gripping my fork.

The Manager jumped in immediately:

Can't we just have ONE meal in peace? Why is she so noisy all the time? Why can't she just sit still for five minutes? I've been telling her off all day. I'm so tired of this. Why doesn't she listen? I can't take this anymore.

The actual feeling—frustration—was maybe a 4 out of 10.

But The Manager built it into a full crisis within thirty seconds.

I didn't stop to notice the sensation in my body. I didn't take a breath. I didn't question the story. I just let it take over.

"SIT STILL!"

My voice was sharp. Angry. I glared at her.

She looked at me—confused, hurt. She didn't understand why I was suddenly so angry. One moment we were having dinner, the next moment I was furious. She ran from the table.

My husband and I sat there in silence. I felt terrible immediately. Guilty. Like I'd failed again.

And then, of course, The Manager had more to say:

Why did you snap at her like that? She's just being four. You're such a bad mother. You always do this. Why can't you just be patient?

Now I wasn't just frustrated—I was ashamed. Angry at myself. Spiraling in the opposite direction. The feeling of frustration had lasted maybe two minutes. The guilt and shame? That lasted the rest of the evening.

Here's what actually happened:

My daughter was tired and overstimulated. She'd had a long day. Her body needed to move. She wasn't trying to ruin dinner—she was just four years old trying to regulate herself the only way she knew how.

My frustration was real. I was tired. I wanted connection with my husband. I wanted a peaceful meal. But The Manager took that small frustration and turned it into: She's ruining everything. She never listens. I can't take this anymore.

And because I believed the story, I reacted from it. I didn't see my daughter. I saw a problem that needed to be controlled. The snap, the glare, the command—none of that came from the actual feeling. It came from The Manager's story about the feeling.

What if I'd caught it? What if I'd noticed the jaw clenching and just... paused? Taken a breath. Felt the frustration in my body without letting The Manager build the story.

Maybe I would have seen: She's tired. She needs to move. This isn't personal.

Maybe I would have said: "Hey, how about you take a few laps around the kitchen to get your wiggles out, then come back?"

Or even just: "I see you're having a hard time sitting still. Me too, actually."

Something from presence. From seeing her, not from The Manager's crisis story. The meal might not have been "peaceful" in the magazine-photo sense. But we would have stayed connected. She wouldn't have run away hurt. I wouldn't have spent the evening feeling guilty. The frustration was real. The crisis was optional. And I chose the crisis because I didn't catch The Manager in action.

When I Caught Her

Wednesday morning, 7:42

"Put your clothes on, please."

Fifth time I'd said it. My daughter was running circles around the living room, laughing, completely naked except for one sock.

The frustration started to build and then The Manager started:

Why does she NEVER listen the first time? Why does this always take so long? We're going to be late. I can't do this every single morning. Why is getting dressed such a battle?

My jaw tightened. I could feel the snap coming—that sharp tone that would cut through her laughter and make the rest of our morning tense and miserable.

And then I stopped.

Not her. Not the situation. Just... stopped The Manager's story in its tracks.

I looked at my daughter. Actually looked at her. She was having fun. She's four. She doesn't understand time or schedules or why I was suddenly tense about pieces of fabric. She was just... playing.

I took a deep breath. Felt that clenching in my stomach. Just felt it. Didn't let The Manager build on it. Breathe in. Breathe out. Clenching. Breathe in. Breathe out. Slowly dissolving.

Maybe ten seconds.

Then I grabbed her shirt and ran through the kitchen calling, "You can't catch me!"

She squealed and chased me. I "let" her catch me. We laughed. She put her shirt on while we played. Two minutes later, she was dressed. If I'd fought her, it would have taken ten minutes and ruined our morning.

If I'd let The Manager build the story, I would have snapped. My daughter would have cried or shut down. I would have been angry or feeling guilty. She would have felt my tension. Neither of us would have been at peace.

And we still would have been putting on the same shirt.

The feeling was the same. The outcome was completely different.

The sensations and feelings still arise. I still feel frustrated when my daughter won't sleep. I still feel disappointed when connection doesn't happen the way I hoped.

But not letting them build momentum has changed everything. Of course I still find myself diving into stories. But as soon as I realize it, I can take a deep breath and focus on the sensation in my body. Come back to what's actually happening right now, in this moment, in this body.

What Opens Up

When the acute feeling has dissolved, I can think much more clearly about the situation.

Is it really such a huge disaster that my daughter didn't fall asleep? Maybe she's not tired yet. Maybe she needs a little more comfort today. Or maybe I just need to accept that this moment isn't going the way I hoped, and that's okay. Maybe my husband was tired. And in any case, mind-reading isn't one of his skills. I can actually ask him to talk instead of expecting him to know what I need.

I can look at situations much more level-headed. Not from the middle of The Manager's catastrophizing story, but from a place of presence and clarity.

The Shift

Life feels much smoother now. The roller coaster of emotions I was on before has turned into a gentle river—still moving, still flowing, but without the dramatic peaks and crashes.

There was so much in my life that The Manager got upset about. Every small disappointment became evidence of larger failure. Every moment of discomfort meant something was fundamentally wrong. She was constantly scanning for problems, turning ordinary feelings into emergencies that required immediate attention and catastrophic thinking.

But feelings aren't emergencies. They're just sensations moving through my body. Information, not catastrophe.

Yesterday afternoon, I was wrapping Christmas presents with my youngest nearby.

She kept grabbing at the paper, scrunching it in her fists. Pulling at the tape every time I put it down. I needed to get this done before my eldest came home from school.

I felt the irritation start bubbling. That familiar tightness in my jaw.

The Manager began:

I can never get anything done with the children around. Why does she always—

I took a deep breath. Felt the irritation in my jaw. Just felt it. Released the clench. Ten seconds.

Then I cut off a piece of wrapping paper and gave it to her. Grabbed some tape she could scrunch and play with. She sat next to me, happy, wrinkling her paper and sticking tape everywhere. I finished wrapping. She had fun. The whole thing took three extra minutes.

Six months ago? The Manager would have built a full story about never having time to herself, about children always interrupting, about nothing ever being easy. I would have been tense and irritable. My daughter would have sensed it and gotten more demanding. The wrapping would have taken fifteen minutes of frustration instead of three minutes of presence.

No story. No crisis. No spiral.

Just a small feeling that moved through me in ten seconds. And a little girl playing with tape while I wrapped presents. When I stopped letting The Manager turn every feeling into a story, I found space.

Space to actually respond to what's happening instead of reacting to the narrative in my head. Space to see my daughter's needs clearly instead of through the lens of my own frustration story. Space to connect with my husband instead of resenting him for not reading my mind.

The feeling was always real. The urgency, the crisis, the meaning The Manager attached to it—that was optional.

And learning to tell the difference has given me back my peace.

What stories might you be telling about your feelings?