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My friend Sam*, who got divorced several years ago, accidentally let me know that he was becoming seriously involved with someone new. But he wasn't ready to introduce her to any of his friends. "And don't tell anyone else," he told me. Now, I think privacy is extremely important and I had no intention of breaking Sam's confidence, and I knew that Sam knew that. I also understood that he was a little worried about overwhelming the new woman in his life with his loud and obnoxious buddies. But I also suspected that some of his reluctance had to do with the fact that none of us had liked his previous girlfriend - and most of us did not keep that information to ourselves.
When it came to women, Sam had terrible instincts. In fact, when he broke up with one woman, his oldest and best pal told him that before he got serious with anyone again, he needed to run her by a committee of the people he trusted the most. "We'll tell you what you just don't seem to see," he said.
"Trust your instinct," we are told, and everything will be good. "Follow your heart and your path will be clear. Is it true? And even if it were true, how do we know what our instincts are telling us? How do we keep from confusing our instinct with our wishes, as Dr. Joyce Brothers once asked?
What was odd was that Sam had some of the most wonderful, supportive and caring friends of anyone I have ever known. Dinners at his house, with a group of people he cared about, were always stimulating, interesting and fun. So why were his instincts so good when it came to friendship, and so lousy when it came to romance?
One problem lies in the meaning of the word itself. An instinct is defined as "an inborn pattern of activity or tendency to action common to a given biological species," "a natural or innate impulse, inclination, or tendency," or "a natural aptitude or gift (for example, an instinct for making money)." It is that it is not something that you can will into being, nor is it something that we have conscious control over. It is a biological given. (This is how Freud used the term when he spoke of the "death instinct" or the sexual and aggressive instincts with which he believed all humans were born.) And it is usually experienced without words. When we put words onto an instinct, we have already begun to change it into something else.
And here's the thing. That change is not necessarily bad. Sometimes it is problematic, of course. In my work with clients with eating disorders, for example, it is clear that the instinct to eat exists; but the gut knowledge, or instinct, about what is best for one's body has, if it ever actually existed, been supplanted by thoughts about what is healthy and ideas and feelings about what tastes good.
Parenting is another example. Whatever instincts we might have been born with are mixed with our own experience as children, our desire to "do it differently from our parents," and by the myriad of advice available to anyone who wants (or doesn't want) it. What we think of as instinctive parenting is, in fact, often simply our gut (or unconscious) memory of how our parents did it. When mother, for example, picks up a bagel that has fallen on the sidewalk, blows on it, and laughingly says "five second rule" before giving it back to her child, her relaxed state is not necessarily because she is an instinctively relaxed mother. It is more likely due to her own experiences, not just in childhood but over the course of her life, with illness, germs and dirt. Is it good? Is it bad? Is it natural? Everyone watching her will have a different reaction, a different judgment.
And there's the rub. Instincts, whatever and wherever they are in our internal world today, do not necessarily show us the best path to follow. This is why so many of us actually choose spouses and partners from backgrounds different than our own. On a psychological level that is not completely conscious, we may hope that they will offer some other ways of being in the world, some other paths that might actually be more productive than our own instinctive ones. When couples disagree over childrearing practices, I have found - far more frequently than most like to admit - that underneath the argument is a wish for a new solution to an old problem, a way of being that is not in accord with the automatic behavior that parents often bring to their parenting practices.
The same is true with almost any decision that we try to make by "following our instincts" (in this instance, I am using the phrase interchangeably with other phrases like "listen to your inner self" or "listen to your heart"). That inner self usually speaks without words and is therefore very hard to decipher. And besides, it is often no longer a single inner self, but is made up of hopes, wishes, dreams, disappointments, and many other threads as well.
But there is a fairly easy solution to finding out what you really want, whether it has to do with parenting techniques, changing jobs, moving to a new city, or choosing a romantic partner. First, take yourself through the different steps you're considering. Imagine what it would be like in the new city, for example. Walk through a day there in your daydreams. Think about where you would park your car, how you would get it serviced, where you would get your morning coffee, and how you would find a doctor. Do these things feel overwhelming? Do you still want to move? Then the next step is to talk to other people about the idea. Talk to lots of people - your parents, friends, spouse (obviously!), and even some people you don't know very well. Even though you get different opinions and unhelpful advice, you'll gradually start to know what you want to do. Maybe you'll even feel it in your gut!
This is, finally, what happened with Sam. I encouraged him to talk to some of his other friends, not just me, about this woman with whom he was getting involved. I knew he didn't want to let us see how vulnerable he felt, but I thought that the more he talked about his worries, the clearer he would get about what was actually going on - what he really wanted. And that is what happened. Soon his new lady friend was part of the group around his dining room table. Not everyone loved her. But Sam did, and that, of course, was what counted.
*names and identifying information have been changed for privacy
