Building an Internal Compass
In the past two weeks, I have been on two camping trips. Both ended with one of my children asking to go home. Once we stayed. Once we packed up the tent and drove home. Looking back, I think both were the right decision.
This newsletter is about bravery—but perhaps not in the way we usually think about it. It's about learning to tell the difference between discomfort and distress, why our brains don't always interpret our body's signals correctly, and how self-trust isn't something we're born with. It's something we build, one thoughtful reflection at a time.
When staying is the brave thing to do
The first trip was with my oldest son.
We've set ourselves a five-year challenge to complete the Tour du Mont Blanc together, tackling two or three days of the trail each summer. This year was our first overnight: a hike to a mountain refuge, dinner with strangers, our tiny wooden chalet, and an early start the following morning.
After we arrived, I noticed something had shifted. The excitement of reaching the refuge had given way to uncertainty.
As we sat down for dinner, he looked at me and quietly said, "It's weird."
"What is?"
"We're so close to home, but so far away. It's just you and me. Everyone else is at home."
Then came the sentence I wasn't expecting.
"I think I want to go home."
We sat with that feeling for a while. I told him it made sense. New experiences often feel uncomfortable simply because they're unfamiliar. I reminded him how far we had already walked and that getting home wasn't as simple as turning around. We talked about how sometimes our brains mistake new for wrong.
In the end, he decided he wanted to stay.
The next morning, as we laced up our boots and set off on the trail, he turned to me with a huge smile.
"I'm really glad we stayed."
That moment has stayed with me.
Not because he pushed through. And not because he was "tough."
But because he discovered something for himself that no amount of encouragement from me could have taught him: sometimes the feeling we want to escape isn't a sign that we should stop. Sometimes it's simply the feeling of doing something for the first time.
And once we move through it, we discover we were capable all along.
When leaving is the brave thing to do
A few days later, I was camping again. This time with all three of my children.
My daughter had been counting down the days. After sausages and marshmallows over the fire, she and her brothers bounced across the air mattress, giggling inside the tent while I sat outside watching the campfire burn low. I had just opened my Kindle in the fading light when the tent unzipped.
She stepped out, looked straight at me, and said, "I want to go home."
The sentence caught me off guard. It sounded so much like the one I'd heard the week before that, for a split second, I thought I was about to have the same conversation.
But this time felt different.
Earlier that evening, she'd had several bouts of what she calls "wet poos." She hadn't made it behind a tree every time, I had run out of clean clothes, and now she told me her tummy really hurt.
I asked her one question.
"Does it hurt so much that you want to leave camping?"
She nodded.
I knew how excited she'd been to come. I knew how much she loved sleeping in the tent and making up stories together as we drifted off to sleep. If she was asking to go home, it wasn't because she was a little uncomfortable. She wanted to be there. Which meant something genuinely wasn't right.
So we packed everything up. We rolled the sleeping bags, deflated the air mattress, folded the tent, and drove home under a darkening sky.
The next morning, she climbed into my bed.
"I'm really sad we had to leave," she said.
Then, after a pause, she added, "But I'm glad we did. My tummy still hurts."
I've thought about those two conversations a lot. At first, they felt like opposite parenting decisions. With one child, I encouraged him to stay. With the other, I didn't hesitate to leave.
But the more I reflected on them, the more I realised they were teaching exactly the same lesson. Not how to be brave. But how to recognise the difference between discomfort and distress.
Because no one else can truly know how much something hurts. Or how frightened you feel. Other people can offer perspective, encouragement, or reassurance. But eventually, the decision is yours.
Throughout our lives, we'll face that choice over and over again.
Do I stay? Or do I leave?
Do I push a little further? Or is it time to rest, redirect, or begin again?
Learning to answer those questions isn't about always making the "right" decision. It's about building a relationship with yourself that becomes more accurate with time.
A relationship where you learn to calm yourself when fear is speaking louder than reality. To encourage yourself when discomfort is simply part of growth. To recognise when you've truly reached your limit—and when you haven't.
That kind of self-trust isn't something we're born with. It's something we build, one experience, one reflection, and one thoughtful debrief at a time.
Because the voice you'll hear most often is your own.
The more wisely, compassionately, and honestly you learn to listen to it, the steadier your internal compass becomes.
Learning the language of our bodies
A few days later, I was out on a training run for my upcoming triathlon. It wasn't a particularly long run, but my legs were heavy, my breathing felt laboured, and before long my thoughts started sounding remarkably familiar.
"I just want to go home."
Why was I doing this? Why had I signed up for a triathlon? Why was I choosing to run 8 kilometres up a mountain in this heat?
Then I caught myself.
Was I actually at my limit? Or was I simply uncomfortable?
Our bodies are constantly sending us signals, but those signals don't come with subtitles.
A racing heart can mean fear—or excitement.
Heavy breathing can mean we've pushed too far—or that we're getting stronger.
Butterflies can mean danger—or anticipation.
The sensation is real. Our interpretation isn't always accurate.
Neuroscientists call our ability to notice these internal signals interoception. It's our brain's awareness of what's happening inside our body: our heartbeat, breathing, hunger, muscle fatigue, pain, even the butterflies in our stomach.
But here's the fascinating part: our brains don't simply receive those signals. They interpret them. Every sensation is compared with our past experiences as the brain tries to answer a simple question:
What does this mean?
Is this dangerous? Or is it simply difficult?
Should I stop? Or should I keep going?
My love of swimming
I've realised this is one of the reasons I enjoy swimming.
As I've written before, stress and exertion tend to leave my body through sweat. When I run, I hear every breath and feel every drop of sweat. Those sensations are evidence that I'm working hard.
In the water, they disappear. My breathing becomes rhythmic. I don't notice myself sweating. And because of this, I often push myself further than I ever do on land.
Not because swimming is easier.
But because my brain isn't constantly interpreting every sensation as a warning sign.
Skiing has taught me something similar.
When I'm afraid, every instinct tells me to lean backwards. It feels safer. It's also exactly what makes me lose control.
To ski well, I have to lean forwards—into the slope, into the uncertainty, into the very thing my body is telling me to avoid. (If you've been reading for a while, you might remember I wrote about this in Fear is Forward.)
Both experiences remind me that our first interpretation isn't always our most accurate one.
We often tell people to "trust your gut."
I'm starting to think the first step is getting to know it.
Learning the difference between fear and danger.
Between discomfort and distress.
Between needing to stop...and simply wanting to.
The debrief is the growth
Our brains aren't passive observers waiting for information to arrive. They're active prediction machines. Every heartbeat, aching muscle, and butterfly in our stomach is interpreted through the lens of past experience as the brain asks, What does this mean?
The challenge is that, in the moment, those predictions are filtered through emotion. Fear can make discomfort feel like danger. Frustration can convince us it's time to quit. That's why it's often so difficult to know whether we should push on or walk away while we're still in the middle of the experience.
Reflection gives us something emotion can't: perspective.
When we look back after the emotion has settled, we can compare what we predicted with what actually happened.
I thought I couldn't do it... but I could.
I thought my stomach would settle... but it didn't.
Every experience becomes new information. Each reflection helps our brain make slightly better predictions the next time we encounter something similar. It refines our internal model of ourselves—not just what our bodies are capable of, but when to persevere and when to stop.
One thoughtful debrief at a time, our predictions become a little wiser.
And with them, so does our internal compass.
The debrief is where experience becomes wisdom.
It made me think about something I'm trying to practice as a parent.
When I lose my patience and raise my voice, I don't want the story to end there. The next day, I go back. I apologize. We talk about what happened. Not because I want to erase the mistake, but because I want us both to learn from it. Repair isn't just about the relationship—it is another opportunity to reflect, to make sense of what happened, and to update the story we tell ourselves.
Perhaps that's what an internal compass really is. Not a voice that always knows the answer, but a relationship with ourselves that becomes stronger every time we're willing to look back with curiosity instead of judgement. Every difficult conversation, every mountain trail, every decision to stay or to leave becomes another piece of information.
Over time, we stop asking, "Did I make the right decision?" and start asking, "What did this teach me?"
Because self-trust isn't built by always getting it right. It's built by paying attention. By noticing how our minds and bodies respond, reflecting on what happened, and carrying those lessons into whatever comes next.
And one thoughtful debrief at a time, we become someone we can trust. And what could be better than that.
Stay Curious,
Erica
P.S. As I was writing this, It brought me back to another piece about the power of sitting with discomfort rather than rushing to fix it. If you'd like to read that piece, you can find it here.
