Paws to Wonder

I was chatting with my friend Sally, who had just landed what could be her dream job. She’s trying to stay open-minded, bless her, but so far it’s been more nightmare than dream. The onboarding is chaotic—scattered training, unclear expectations, too many projects, not enough time or money. Add in a clientele that behaves more like middle schoolers in detention than adults—gossip, drama, ego explosions—and it’s no wonder she’s feeling frayed.

Her first instinct? Run. Her second? Cry. I could feel both in my own body as she spoke. I managed to sneak in a whisper: “Remember, you can’t control anyone's behavior. But you do get to choose how you respond.” In that moment, I remembered something I’ve leaned on a lot: the way other people act is totally outside my control. REALLY! Let that sink in and notice how even when you think you know this, you keep trying to fix and control people or harbor unrealistic and uncommunicated expectations for which you totally hold them accountable.  That’s been one of the most surprising discoveries of the last few years: even in chaos, there are still choices OTHER than expecting, controlling, fixing and blaming. Not comfortable, not easy ones, and not always obvious, but they’re there—often hidden inside the pause. It's easy to forget that in the gut punch of a powerful trigger. Step one: ride the trigger's adrenaline surge without biting anyone’s head off. Step two: do your best poker face and maybe keep your mouth shut for a beat. Or five.

Every new job—every new anything, really—comes with a grab bag of grace and grit. There are boundaries to test and people to decipher. Friend or foe? Fickle or solid? Kind or kind of terrifying? The hard part is remembering that it’s not your job to fix anyone or earn your worth by changing them. If someone’s behavior lights up your nervous system like a pinball machine, great! You just found a button you’d lost track of. Time to uninstall.

Yippee, another chance to practice OHR (Observe Honor Release) - Observe the reaction (especially the physical bits; the heat, the heart racing, the flushed face), Honor the emotion, then Release - let it go. Not because it’s “spiritually correct,” but because it's liberating. Then, I get to ask the fun question: what else is possible here? More interesting choices, guaranteed. Especially if I remember: You are safe. You are not in danger. All is well, even if it’s loud, clunky, or weird.

Still, it’s wild how often I forget that. Especially in the moment. My first reaction, more often than I’d like to admit, is still to blame, defend, escape, or shut down. Sometimes I argue—in my head, out loud, with the person or with a completely imaginary version of them. Occasionally all at once. But every now and then, I catch it before it spills out. A half-second of space. Just enough to breathe. Why is it so hard to see our choices in the moment? Because our first instinct isn’t usually wisdom. Mine sure isn’t. It’s some cocktail of defensiveness, blame, argument, or avoidance. Flight or fight or... snarky internal monologue. But if I can hold my tongue long enough not to lash out or run away, that’s already a win.

I have a tattoo on my right wrist to help me remember. It says WONDER—woven with tiny animal paw prints running through it. The message? Paws to Wonder. Pause to wonder. And yes, that pun was absolutely worth etching into my skin. Because there’s no access to choice without the pause. If I’m barreling down the trail of panic or projection, the path narrows to one: react. But if I pause? Oh, the wild freedom that lives in that moment.

The truth is, the "essential gear": I have a choice in every situation. Always. I can curse or bless. Sit still or phone a friend. Storm out or stay silent. There are always at least five options, even if one of them is “wait and see.” And as fun as it might feel to act like a toddler (“I don’t wanna and YOU can’t make me!”) or a teenager (“You’re wrong and I’m leaving!”), those knee-jerk reactions don’t get me where I actually want to go.

These days, I experiment with pretending I’m an actual grown-up. It’s strangely effective. Especially when paired with another discovery: I’m allowed to take my time. No rush! Even when everything in me screams for quick resolution or escape, I’ve learned—often the hard way—that time and space are choice’s best friends. My presence to choice and my ability to choose are not the same. I may have every tool in the toolbox, but if I’m too spun out to reach for them, they don’t help much. The pause is the reach.

I’m not talking about life-or-death situations here. Our brilliant nervous systems will always kick in if a tiger shows up. But let’s be honest: for most of us, “life-threatening” is almost never the case. Ego-threatening? All the time. Which is why we need to train ourselves to pause—to notice the difference. You’re not being hunted. You’re just being triggered. These days, I’m trying to notice that too—just notice it—without making it wrong. It’s just one more data point in this strange and beautiful dashboard called being human.

When I think about Sally and her new job, I can feel that edge—the tipping point between curiosity and collapse. I’ve walked it so many times. The story she chooses to tell about what’s happening makes a huge difference in how she may move through it. Her DMGS may start asking different questions: What if this is the dream job, just not the dream I expected? What would it feel like to let it unfold slowly, without demanding instant clarity?

OMG, this is the "adult" thing to do, right?! I get to ask myself: "So what do I want this experience to feel like? How do I want to walk through this opportunity, this challenge, this invitation to grow? Journaling helps. So does meditation. And, yes, so does tattooing reminders on my wrist if that’s what it takes to remember: I can pause. I can wonder. I can choose. I recently made a personally tough decision... a John Kabat-Zinn inspired decision making guided meditation found it's way to my play now list! Yeah! Thank you!

The pause isn’t passive. It's a portal to power and the most underrated tool in my essential gear. The one that turns chaos into curiosity, and reactivity into reflection. Even if nothing around me changes, something inside always does. And from there, I see more: five quiet doors creaking open, each one a possibility I couldn’t access while pounding on the old, familiar one. So when I forget (because I will), I’ve got this tattoo, this practice, this reminder: Paws to wonder. It changes everything.

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