His New Year’s gift to me: an invitation to a Byron Katie workshop.

“A head-shrinking workshop on New Year’s Eve? Can’t we do something more normal?!”

Simon was asking me to spend two full days over New Year’s in a deep dive, questioning my thinking.

I didn’t want to go.

And then I noticed what I was doing.

I spend my days helping leaders question their thinking – and here I was, expertly avoiding my own.

So I changed my mind and decided to do the opposite: I went.

Byron Katie’s work is simple at its core, but not easy. It’s a structured form of self-inquiry that invites you to slow down and question the thoughts and beliefs that cause you stress.

No fixing.
No reframing.
Just questioning.

At the retreat, we started by writing down our complaints – all of them. Even the petty ones that take up far more mental space than we’d like.

Then we chose one belief and worked with it more thoroughly – using a worksheet and a small set of questions designed to slow our thinking down, not convince us of anything.

One of Katie’s guiding principles is: Don’t believe me. Test it for yourself.

During the workshop, I chose a story I’d never really questioned before – one I’d been carrying since my first year of college.

I believed my parents were ashamed of me because of how they handled my weight gain. When I came back from college significantly heavier, they left money on my pillow so I would join a diet program.

That belief felt true to me.
Not something I thought to question – just something I assumed was true.

Writing it down was uncomfortable.
Talking it through with a partner was even harder.

Then came the part I usually avoid: staying with the belief long enough to examine it properly.

One of the steps asks you to consider a turnaround – to look honestly at how the opposite of your story might also be true. Not as a positive spin. Just as an inquiry.

What I’d always seen as my parents trying to control or bribe me – that pillow money – I could now see differently.

Was it possible they were trying to support me in the only way they knew how, because they could see how much I was struggling?

What if I’d misread their intentions entirely?  What if what I’d assumed was criticism was actually concern?
What if the “silent leaving of the money” wasn’t dismissal but an attempt to save me from embarrassment?

What surprised me wasn’t that the old, painful story instantly disappeared. It didn’t.
What surprised me was how certain I’d been for decades – without ever questioning it.

The past didn’t change.
But my certainty about it did.

I felt lighter. And intrigued.

Why are we often so certain about beliefs for which we don’t have clear evidence, or for which our evidence allows for multiple interpretations?

Especially since our experience (either positive or negative) is determined by the story we’re convinced is true.

Here’s the insight that arose out of that:

Our ego isn’t the problem.
It’s just our brain’s original operating system – designed for survival.

Back when being wrong could actually get us killed, our brain learned a simple rule:

  • Being right/certain = safety
  • Being wrong/uncertain = danger

That wiring still runs. Quietly. Automatically.

For leaders, it often shows up as:

  • Defending decisions even when new information suggests a pivot
  • Getting reactive when someone questions your thinking
  • Holding onto certainty about people or situations you believe you’ve already figured out
  • Needing to be right instead of staying curious

Katie calls these survival stories – patterns of thinking that once protected us.

Helpful then.
Costly now.

So here’s a simple experiment – especially useful in charged conversations:

  • The next time you feel that familiar tightening in your chest – the urge to correct, explain, or prove – pause.
    That’s not intuition.
    That’s old software saying, “Protect.”
  • Try asking instead:
    “What might I be missing here?”
    “What if the story I’m telling isn’t the whole story?”

Your survival instincts helped you get here.
Your impact on yourself and on others comes from knowing when those instincts are no longer needed.

And yes, sometimes the workshops we resist most are exactly the ones pointing to our next upgrade.

Until next time,
Margalit

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