The Way We Leave Ourselves
Most of us have never practiced staying.
We’ve practiced escaping.
And we’ve gotten remarkably good at it.
Most of the time we don’t even recognize we’re doing it.
The moment discomfort arrives, we’re already halfway out the door.
We distract.
We explain.
We fix.
We blame.
We control.
We search for certainty.
We leave.
Not physically.
But internally.
And most of the time, we don’t even notice we’ve gone.
What changes from one moment to the next isn’t the pattern.
It’s only the arena.
Escaping rarely looks dramatic.
Sometimes it looks like reaching for your phone because “it’ll only take a second.”
Sometimes it sounds like, “Here’s what really happened...”
Sometimes it’s the irresistible urge to solve everything immediately.
Sometimes it’s convincing yourself they’re the problem.
Sometimes it’s tightening your grip until every variable is accounted for.
Sometimes it’s deciding you already know how this story ends.
Different costumes.
Same movement.
Each one is a way of leaving the present moment because the present moment became uncomfortable.
Each one is an attempt to outrun uncertainty.
Each one is an exit.
For years I thought these were separate habits.
Now I think they’re all the same habit.
Leaving.
A few weeks ago, I watched myself leave.
I was on the pickleball court.
We lost a few points in a row.
Nothing catastrophic.
Nothing unusual.
Just enough for the familiar pressure to begin creeping into my body.
My chest tightened.
My movements became quicker.
My mind began searching.
Fix it.
Hit harder.
Take over.
End this before it gets worse.
I’ve lived inside that pattern for years.
The urgency feels productive.
Responsible, even.
But there was something else I had never noticed.
The urge to fix made me feel alive.
Every escape came with a reward.
It reminded me of a sugar craving.
The first bite doesn’t solve the problem.
It simply quiets the craving..
Escaping works the same way.
Every time my body chased control, my nervous system rewarded the escape.
Because leaving quiets the discomfort that came before it.
No wonder it had become reflex.
My body had confused relief with resolution.
But relief came with a cost.
It pulled me out of my body and into a story.
A story about what shouldn’t be happening.
About what needs to change.
About how to regain control.
I had left the court long before the game ended.
Only this time...
I noticed.
That was the difference.
Not that the tension disappeared.
Not that the pressure dissolved.
I simply caught myself leaving.
So instead of following the urge to fix everything...
I stayed.
I stayed with my breath.
I stayed with my feet.
I stayed with the feeling in my chest without asking it to disappear.
I stayed in my body.
And something unexpected happened.
The tension softened.
Not because I made it soften.
Because I stopped running from it.
My movements became lighter.
The game slowed down.
The ball looked bigger.
There was more space.
I stopped trying to manufacture good play.
And good play returned; along with joy.
The court was simply the arena that day.
But I’ve fled the same way sitting across the kitchen table from someone I love.
I’ve disappeared into fixing inside my marriage.
I’ve abandoned myself while trying to force clarity in my work.
I’ve left my body in leadership, convinced I needed to have the answer before anyone else noticed I didn’t.
Different arena.
Same nervous system.
Same exits.
The Trap
I sat with this for a week before I understood what was really happening.
I wasn’t trying to escape discomfort.
I was trying to escape deadness.
That realization changed everything.
To someone hungry for aliveness, stillness registers as threat. Movement is proof of life. Fixing, pushing, solving, controlling. These feel like survival instincts, not exits. They feel like aliveness itself.
But that’s the trap.
Movement is not aliveness. It’s a proxy. A convincing one. And for years I confused the two.
I thought fixing would set me free. It only moved the energy.
Staying transformed it.
I thought if I could just get the energy moving, I’d feel alive again.
I never imagined freedom might ask me to become still enough to stay.
I kept thinking afterward about the difference between finite and infinite games.
A finite game asks:
Can I win this point?
An infinite game asks:
Can I keep playing?
Most people treat that as philosophy.
I experienced it as physiology.
The instant I believed movement was the answer...my world became finite.
Winning the point.
Fixing the conversation.
Solving the problem.
Ending the discomfort.
My awareness collapsed.
So did my body.
I left.
But when my only job became staying connected to who I wanted to be...
The game stayed alive.
So did I.
That’s what surprised me.
Fixing.
Blaming.
Controlling.
Searching for certainty.
None of them are separate problems.
They’re symptoms.
Each one signals the same collapse.
An infinite game has quietly become a finite one.
The moment you recognize the collapse...
You only need one move.
Return.
The Catch
I’ve started calling that moment The Catch.
Not catching yourself doing something wrong.
Catching yourself becoming someone you never intended to be.
On the court, The Catch was remembering the kind of teammate I wanted to be.
To be a good sport.
To bring steadiness instead of tension.
To play for the joy of play itself.
In my marriage, it’s remembering the kind of partner I want to be when conflict arrives.
Not the partner who wins.
The partner who stays.
In my work, it’s remembering the kind of leader I want to be.
Curious instead of certain.
Present instead of performative.
Grounded instead of controlling.
Different roles.
Same remembrance.
Integrity isn’t role-specific.
It travels with you.
Every arena simply reveals whether you’ve stayed connected to it.
Most of us try to catch ourselves with more pressure.
Focus harder.
Execute better.
Don’t make mistakes.
That’s just fixing wearing a different shirt.
The Catch isn’t self-criticism.
It’s self-remembrance.
When I feel myself leaving now, I ask one question:
Am I becoming who I actually want to be...or am I simply trying to win?
That question brings me home.
Again and again.
The strange part is...
None of this was new.
I’d read the books.
Studied the nervous system.
Written the essays.
Taught the principles.
But knowing lives in the mind.
Embodiment lives somewhere else.
Pressure became the bridge.
Without the pressure...
There was nothing to integrate.
The court wasn’t interrupting my practice.
The court was the practice.
Maybe every arena works this way.
Relationships.
Creative work.
Leadership.
Parenting.
Competition.
None of them are separate lessons.
They’re different classrooms teaching the same one.
Looking back, I can see the thread running through everything I’ve written.
Capacity isn’t about tolerating more intensity.
It’s about remaining present when intensity arrives.
State isn’t something you find.
It’s something you hold.
Aliveness isn’t the absence of activation.
It’s what becomes possible when you don’t leave yourself inside it.
And staying...
Staying is the bridge between them all.
But staying isn’t a pickleball skill.
It’s a human skill.
The bedroom asks for it.
The kitchen table asks for it.
Creative work asks for it.
Leadership asks for it.
Every arena eventually asks the same question:
Will you stay...or will you leave yourself?
Every arena becomes a place of practice.
Every practice becomes an act of devotion.
And that’s how capacity is built.
Sometimes the deepest movement begins the moment we stop trying to move.
This Week’s Devotion
This week, notice one moment when you begin to leave yourself.
Don’t try to change it.
Don’t try to fix it.
Simply catch it.
Take one slow breath.
Feel your feet.
Stay one breath longer than you normally would.
That’s enough.
Notice what changes.
Reflection
Where in your life are you most likely to leave yourself?
Continue the Conversation:
1. The Problem Isn’t Intensity (Begin here)
Why intensity isn’t something to eliminate. It’s something to learn to hold.
2. State Determines Everything
Why we don’t rise to our intentions. We fall to the state we’re in.
3. Activation vs. Aliveness
Why not everything that feels intense is actually life-giving.
4. The Way We Leave Ourselves (You’re here.)
Coming Next
Devotion Under Pressure
How to stay present when life gets hard.