William Barrow Mentoring

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫

Everyone controls.

The schedule kept.
The plan made.
The outcome anticipated.
The environment arranged just so.

This is not pathology.
This is intelligence.

Control is one of the primary tools we are given—and rewarded for—from the very beginning of our lives.

There is nothing wrong with you for this.

━━━━━━━━━━━━

But there is a version of control that costs something.

Not the malicious kind.
Not the dramatic kind.

The quiet kind.

The self-expression edited before it ever reaches the surface.
The feeling managed before it can be felt.

The version of yourself that never fully arrives—because some part of you decided, somewhere along the way, that it wasn't safe.

And outwardly—
the result that can't be left alone.
The need to know.
The situation that requires just a little more management.

Not from dominance.
From a nervous system that experiences uncertainty as threat.

━━━━━━━━━━━━

Here is what sits underneath all of it.

Not a flaw in you.
Not a problem you have.

An absence.

Control is what happens when trust hasn't been established.

Trust in the Self.
Trust in others.
Trust in outcomes.

Where trust exists, control loosens.

Where trust is absent, control constricts the space.

━━━━━━━━━━━━

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐞:

Don't try to overcome control.
That is too large and too frightening a place to begin.

Start smaller.

Ask where trust is absent.

In yourself.
In a specific person.
In a specific outcome.

And ask what it would take— just slightly, just in this one place—
to let trust arise.

Control doesn't need to be discarded.

It needs something trustworthy to take its place.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐀𝐯𝐨𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫

Let's start where we should.

With honesty.

Everyone avoids.

The difficult conversation postponed.
The unopened email.
The relationship tension left unaddressed.
The feeling pushed just far enough below the surface to get through the day.

This is not weakness.
This is not a pattern unique to you.

Avoidance is a strategy.
A perfectly reasonable one.

So is engagement.

What determines which is appropriate in any given moment is not character—
it is discernment.

There is nothing wrong with you for avoiding things that are unpleasant.

The only question worth asking is whether the avoidance is working.

━━━━━━━━━━━━

In close relationships—family, partners, the people we live alongside—avoidance tends to concentrate.

This is not random. These are the relationships where engagement has the highest cost.

Where the conversations go to difficult places. Where the history is long and the patterns are old. Where the hope of resolution has, perhaps, been disappointed more than once.

The mind runs a quiet calculation.

Last time I raised this, it hurt.
Nothing changed.
The time before that—the same.

The suffering was real.
The resolution wasn't.

Given that data, the decision not to engage again is not avoidance as weakness.

It is avoidance as intelligence.

The nervous system learned something and acted on it. The problem is not the calculation. The calculation is often correct.
The problem begins when the calculation becomes permanent.

When it runs automatically, regardless of whether the conditions have changed.

━━━━━━━━━━━━

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐞:

Not—
𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴.
Not—
𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘯 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵.

Something more honest than that.

Look at what the avoidance is protecting you from.
Name it clearly.

And then ask one question:

𝘐𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘯𝘦𝘤𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘢𝘳𝘺?

If it's still necessary, let the avoidance remain.
Some things are worth protecting.

If it isn't—that's not a verdict on who you are.
It's the beginning of a different calculation.

𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐬

"𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧. 𝘐 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘢 𝘱𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦𝘳."

I hear this a lot.

A person who feels they are trying too hard, being too much. Someone who feels overly accommodating. A person that agrees even when they wish they hadn't. Or doesn't speak up when they wish they had.

They tell me they don't like this part of themselves that wants so badly to make others happy.

Let's start somewhere honest.

Most people have a desire to make others happy.

And everyone performs.

You included. Me included.

I am performing as I write this.

There is nothing wrong with you for this. It is the human condition.

━━━━━━━━━━━━

People-pleasing and performative interaction are ancient behaviours.

Thousands of years ago we needed to fit in to survive in a harsh world.

The world remains harsh, but in different ways. And we still have a deep need to fit in. It can feel existential even now.

Performance is part of how we relate to others—and part of how we come to understand ourselves.

How often have you been polite with an AI?

How many of us have become awkwardly aware of our gait walking past a group of strangers?

You're on a call with your mum. Mid-sentence, you become aware that someone else has entered the room and is listening.

Something shifts—almost imperceptibly.
Your tone adjusts.
Your words become slightly more considered.
Just a touch more positivity.

The performance updates itself automatically, without a single conscious decision.

That is the everyday, common, integrated performance that is constant, accepted—and arguably a beautiful part of human interaction.

Most performance is this.

Harmless. Even kind.

It costs nothing and it asks nothing.

━━━━━━━━━━━━

But some performances were built for a purpose that has passed, yet they persist—and there is a cost.

Some performances were built in childhood as coping mechanisms.

Ways of staying safe.
Staying loved.

Staying out of harm's way in homes or relationships where being yourself wasn't always welcome.

Those performances often outlive the threat they were built for. They keep running long after the room has changed, long after the people who needed managing are gone.

Consider the child who grew up in a home where tension escalated quickly.

They learned early—and learned well—that the smartest move was to smooth things over.

Deflect.
Diffuse.
Apologise before the storm arrived.

It was an intelligent response to a real threat.
It kept the peace.
It may have kept them safe.

That same person, now an adult, sits across from a partner who is nothing like that home.

The partner raises a concern.

Nothing dangerous.
Nothing threatening.

Just two people who need to work something out.

But the performance activates anyway.

𝘚𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺.
𝘠𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵.
𝘐𝘵'𝘴 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘦.
𝘓𝘦𝘵'𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘣𝘪𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨.

There is no conflict.
There is also no discussion.

Not because this moment was dangerous. But because this deeply ingrained pattern is both unrecognised and highly resistant to change.

━━━━━━━━━━━━

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐞:

Stop asking:

𝘈𝘮 𝘐 𝘢 𝘱𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦𝘳?

You already know the answer.

Ask instead:

𝐼𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑚𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑒 ℎ𝑎𝑟𝑚𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑠 𝑜𝑟 𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑑—𝑜𝑟 𝑖𝑠 𝑖𝑡 𝑐𝑜𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑚𝑒, 𝑜𝑟 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝐼 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒, 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑎𝑙?

If it's harmless, if it's kind, let it run.

Most performances will fall into these two categories.

If it's not—that's not a verdict on who you are.

It's information.

And it would serve you to know it.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐈𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐫 𝐂𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐜 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐆𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐅𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐑𝐮𝐥𝐞

𝘞𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬.
— 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘋𝘩𝘢𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘥𝘢

There is a voice inside your head.

It speaks in a tone you would never use with a good friend.

𝑌𝑜𝑢’𝑟𝑒 𝑠𝑜 𝑠𝑡𝑢𝑝𝑖𝑑.

𝑊ℎ𝑦 𝑑𝑖𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑠𝑎𝑦 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡.

𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑎𝑙𝑤𝑎𝑦𝑠 𝑑𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠.

𝑊ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑖𝑠 𝑤𝑟𝑜𝑛𝑔 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑦𝑜𝑢.

This tone, these words — it is not supportive, it is not encouraging, it is not constructive.

But the tone and the phrases have become normalised.

They have become an accepted part of your relationship to Self.

They pass unnoticed.

━━━━━━━━━━━━

The Inner Critic believes it is helping you.

It believes that without it, you would become lazy.

Careless.

Worse.

So it watches.

It catalogues your every mistake.

It keeps the list close, ready to read back to you the moment you slip.

This isn’t self-improvement.

This is self-punishment wearing the mask of discipline.

━━━━━━━━━━━━

Marcus Aurelius wrote to himself with discipline, yes — but never with punishment.

His private journal is honest, demanding, unflinching.

But it is never the voice of an enemy.

There is a difference between holding yourself to a standard and tearing yourself apart for falling short of it.

One asks:

𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘐 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦?

The other only asks:

𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶?

━━━━━━━━━━━━

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐞:

The next time the Critic speaks, don't argue with it.

Just notice the voice.

And ask:

𝘞𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘐 𝘴𝘢𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘢 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥?

We all intuitively know how to treat a good friend.

The way you treat yourself in your own mind should not fall short of that simple, easily recognisable standard.

That is the Good Friend Rule.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐚𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝘞𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬.
— 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘋𝘩𝘢𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘥𝘢

Something goes wrong.

Small.
Manageable.
No big deal really.

But the mind doesn't settle easily.
The mind has a tendency to look for problems.
Even when there are none.

𝙒𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙞𝙛?

What might go wrong here?

What is the bad outcome?

What is the version of events where everything falls apart?

What happens if it all goes sideways?
Because it could happen, right?

━━━━━━━━━━━━

This isn't a flaw.

This is a protective mechanism.

Your brain's primary function is to keep you safe.
And part of that mandate is projecting negative outcomes.

Assuming the worst before the worst arrives.

In a dangerous environment this could be the difference between life and death.

In your daily life, it just makes you anxious.

━━━━━━━━━━━━

The psychiatrist Albert Ellis introduced the term awfulising in the 1950s.

This eventually became 𝑐𝑎𝑡𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑜𝑝ℎ𝑖𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑔 — a form of cognitive distortion.

We form a distorted view that no longer serves the purpose of protecting us.

Instead it burdens us.

It limits us.

It creates anxiety in us.

The event that we catastrophise is rarely the problem.

The story the mind tells about it is where the suffering begins.

━━━━━━━━━━━━

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐞:

When the mind projects negative outcomes, let it.

Don't fight it.

Don't argue with it.

Just ask yourself one question:

𝘐𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭?

That single question is the Gap.

And in the Gap, the catastrophe almost always gets smaller.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐮𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐨𝐩

You made a mistake.
That’s in the past.
But the mind returns there.

Again.
And again.
And again.

Not to fix it.
Just to check if it's still there.

It always is.

━━━━━━━━━━━━

This is rumination.

Not processing.

This is replaying suffering.
Keeping suffering alive.
It’s a loop.

And there is no off switch.
But seeing it can change it.

━━━━━━━━━━━━

The Stoics recognized this.

You cannot control what happened.
But you do have some control over where your mind goes next.

Return to the mistake — or return to the present.

━━━━━━━━━━━━

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐞:

Notice the moment the mind turns back.

Name it out loud if you have to.

There it is. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐩.

You don't have to force it to stop.
You just have to stop feeding it.

Attention is fuel.

Withdrawal is the practice.

━━━━━━━━━━━━

"𝘞𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬."
— 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘋𝘩𝘢𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘥𝘢 (𝘛𝘩𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘴 𝘉𝘺𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯)

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐚𝐲: 𝐂𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐑𝐞𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐚𝐨 𝐓𝐞 𝐂𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠

There is a book that has sat on my desk for years.

I return to it often — not because it gives me answers, but because it asks better questions.

It doesn't lecture or instruct.

It simply holds up a quiet mirror and waits for you to look.

That book is the 𝐓𝐚𝐨 𝐓𝐞 𝐂𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠.

Over the past several weeks, I've been drawing on its verses as a framework for exploring some of the deepest themes in human psychology — the anxious need to arrive somewhere, the courage it takes to remain still, the wisdom of unlearning, and the profound relief of stopping the endless project of fixing yourself.

If any of those ideas landed for you, they didn't originate with me.

They are 2,500 years old.

𝐖𝐡𝐨 𝐖𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐞 𝐈𝐭 — 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐖𝐡𝐲 𝐈𝐭 𝐌𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬

The Tao Te Ching is attributed to Lao Tzu, a figure whose biography is more legend than history.

He may have been a keeper of archives in ancient China.
He may have been several people.
He may never have existed at all.

What survives, regardless of who wrote it, is a text of 81 short verses — some no longer than a paragraph — that map the nature of existence with extraordinary precision and economy.

It is one of the most translated books in human history, second only to the Bible.

It is not a religious text, though many have treated it as one.

It is not a self-help book, though it will quietly rearrange the way you see yourself.

It is, at its core, an observation about how things work — the natural world, the human mind, the relationship between effort and outcome, stillness and movement, holding on and letting go.

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐚𝐨 𝐇𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐒𝐚𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐌𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐧 𝐏𝐬𝐲𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐲

What strikes me most, returning to these verses through the lens of my work as a counsellor, is how precisely they anticipate what modern psychology has spent decades trying to articulate.

The image of muddy water that clears when you stop stirring — that is Radical Acceptance.

The invitation to travel without being intent on arriving — that is the shift from outcome-focused anxiety to process-oriented living that sits at the heart of so much therapeutic work.

The heaviness that roots you when everything around you moves — that is grounding.

The uncarved block — that resembles the Core Self that Internal Family Systems therapy invites us to reconnect with.

Lao Tzu didn't have the vocabulary of CBT or DBT or IFS.

But he understood the terrain.

Again and again, the Tao returns to the same essential insight:

𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘴𝘶𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘪𝘵𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘪𝘵.

Our need to control, to fix, to force, to arrive.

And that relief — real relief — comes not from effort, but from a quality of presence that effort often gets in the way of.

In my experience, both as a person navigating the inevitable difficulties of a human life and as a counsellor sitting with others in theirs, this is not a philosophical abstraction.

It is something you can feel in your body the moment you stop fighting what is.

𝐀𝐧 𝐈𝐧𝐯𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

If these ideas have resonated with you over the past few weeks, I want to encourage you to go to the source.

The Tao Te Ching is a short book.

You can read it in an afternoon.

But you will find yourself returning to it for years.

My personal recommendation is the 𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐩𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐌𝐢𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧.

Mitchell doesn't just translate the words — he translates the feeling.

His version is spare, modern, and quietly alive in a way that makes the ancient feel immediate.

https://tinyurl.com/TTC-SMitchell

This book has shaped the way I think, the way I work, and the way I try to live.

I hope it offers you something of the same.