Direction of attention 

Many of us are surprisingly good at knowing what others need. We notice when a friend is struggling, we know what our colleague finds stressful, we remember what our partner likes. But when someone asks us — what do you need? What do you enjoy? What matters to you? There's sometimes a blankness there. Not because we're shallow or unformed. But because somewhere along the way, our attention has been turned almost entirely outward.

Being skilled at reading outward is exactly that — a skill. It's something we hone and develop over time even if we're not consciously aware of it. Often inward attunement — the ability to notice what we actually like, what we need, what matters to us — that hasn't had the same chance to develop. This isn't a moral failing or character flaw. It's a normal consequence of having been focused on attuning outwards - often with good reason. We live busy, complicated lives, often with outward responsibilities.

The good news is, we haven't lost those capacities — the things that we like, want, need and that matter to us. They're still there. We're not without interests or preferences. This is part of being human, we all have them. We just directed our attention outward for so long that we've stopped paying attention to these things. We haven't noticed if they've changed or grown, and we've not learned new ways to meet these needs.

The other good news is — we contain far more than just the outward-facing part of ourselves. We're not simply "the person who listens" or "the one with solutions" or "the accommodating one." We're someone who can listen deeply — and sometimes don't want to listen, sometimes can't listen, sometimes need to be listened to instead. We're not just "the one with solutions." We're someone who offers solutions — and someone who sometimes doesn't have them, sometimes doesn't want to carry that weight, sometimes needs someone else to figure something out for us.

The spectrum exists within each of these capacities. We fluctuate. And all of those fluctuations are legitimately us — not a failure of identity, just a natural part of how identity really works. We're not set in stone, we're adaptive and responsive and this is what makes us constant, reliable, stable. We show up with the different parts of ourselves that are truest at that time. We certainly wouldn't expect someone who was cheery and happy at work to act this way at a funeral for their loved one. We wouldn't expect someone to show up in solutions mode to a christening.

And what's more, when we don't show up with one part — the "solutions mode" part, for instance — we're not suddenly empty. There are other parts of us available. Other capacities, other strengths, other ways of showing up. We don't actually lose ourselves when we can't listen or solve. We just might have lost communication with that part and need to shift into a different, more available part of ourselves.

When we're only attuned to one or two ways of being — the listener, the solver, the accommodating one — we're working with a limited toolkit. Every situation gets approached from the same angle. We default to what we know works, or has worked in the past, what feels safe, what we have learned keeps the peace or earns approval.

But when we start to notice and access the fuller spectrum of who we are, something shifts. Different responses become available. Different conversations become possible. A friend asks our advice — instead of automatically offering solutions, we might say: "Actually, I'm not sure about this one. What do you think?" And suddenly they're thinking differently too. A colleague asks us to take on extra work and instead of automatically saying yes, we notice: "I'm already stretched. I need to say no this time." And that boundary — that's not selfish. That's us accessing a part of ourselves that knows its limits.

People respond to us differently because we're showing up more fully, not just in the one narrow way we've learned works best. And we respond to situations differently too. We have more options. More flexibility. More of ourselves available.

Running in Different Terrain

I sometimes think about this in terms of running. I can, and do, run. That's true whether I'm on a paved path, on a trail through the forest, running through a city, or on a treadmill in the gym. But how I run shifts depending on the terrain and context. On a forest trail, I have to be lighter on my feet, watching for roots and stones. I go slower — not because I'm failing at running, being lazy or forgetting the point, but because the terrain requires it. I'm more focused downward, alert to what's beneath me. And at times I actually really enjoy that — the thrill of navigating, the closeness of the trees, the joy of moving as if through an assault course. On a clear path, I can look up. I can see around me, enjoy the views, let my mind wander. It's a different kind of running entirely. On a treadmill, I'm running in a controlled, predictable space. It's functional. Sometimes that's exactly what I need — when the weather is bad, when I'm short on time, when I need something reliable. But if the treadmill is the only place I ever run, I'll never discover the forest, the views, the different ways my body and mind can experience running.

The point is: I'm still a runner in all of these contexts. But I'm not the same kind of runner. The context calls for something different, and I adapt. I don't lose myself — I just show up differently. And I get different things out of it.

Stepping Off the Treadmill

If we're only ever in accommodation mode — the equivalent of only ever running on the treadmill — we can miss out. We never discover the other contexts available to us. We never experience what it's like to have a boundary, or to say no, or to pursue something just because we want to, not because someone else needs it. And to be clear: stepping off the treadmill takes courage. It can feel risky, maybe even selfish. If it was easy, straightforward or simple we would have done it already. We need to learn that it's okay to do this. And that can take practice and patience with ourselves.

If shifting out attention inward seems selfish, or something that doesn’t seem that important, I’d like to counter that. Exploring ourselves, while also recognising that we have a whole spectrum of ways of being and that we can choose to access these different parts is an act of engaging more, being becoming more whole. When we're more in touch with ourselves, when we're accessing more of who we actually are, we have more to bring to our relationships and our lives. We can show up more authentically. We can connect more genuinely. We have more flexibility, more options, more ways to be present with the people and situations in our lives. That's not taking away from others. That's becoming more fully ourselves — and that gives more, not less.