Pulling Out of My Lane
I recently heard Esther Perel talk about the one piece of advice she would offer to couples: stay in your lane.
It’s a simple idea, but it lingered with me. Not just in the context of romantic relationships, but in almost every interaction. We are constantly relating to others, and in those moments, it’s surprisingly easy to drift out of our own lane and into someone else’s.
I started to wonder what that looks like in practice. More specifically, what it looks like in me.
So I turned my attention inward. Instead of analysing others, I began noticing the patterns that seemed to repeat in my own life—the moments where I quietly, almost automatically, crossed that invisible line.
What stood out first were the triggers.
They’re not always obvious, but they tend to show up across the body, the mind, and the emotions. For example, my partner might begin sharing something difficult from his day. On the surface, it’s just a conversation. But when I slow things down, I can feel something else happening.
There’s often a subtle physical contraction—a kind of tightening. Alongside that comes a sense of urgency, quickly followed by a familiar internal instruction: fix it.
And before I’ve really registered what’s happening, I’m no longer listening. I’m intervening. Offering solutions, reframing the situation, trying to make it better. In other words, I’ve left my lane entirely.
It doesn’t tend to land well. My attempts to help are often met with resistance, and I’m left feeling confused, sometimes hurt, sometimes frustrated.
Looking at it more closely, I began to ask myself what might happen if I didn’t act on that impulse. If I noticed the urge to fix, but didn’t follow it.
It’s not as easy as it sounds. There’s a strong conditioning toward doing—toward stepping in, solving, improving. The pause required to simply be with someone can feel unfamiliar, even uncomfortable.
At times, it has meant quietly holding myself back—almost physically at first. A kind of internal reminder: this isn’t yours to fix. Not as a reprimand, but as a gentle boundary.
What I’m beginning to see is that truly listening to another person is a generous act, but it also asks something of the listener. It requires the ability to stay with your own internal responses—the thoughts, the sensations, the emotional shifts—without letting them take over.
Some days that capacity is there. Other days it isn’t. And part of staying in my lane seems to involve recognising that honestly, rather than pushing past it.
This is still very much a work in progress. But as I’ve paid attention, something has started to shift. The weight of taking responsibility for other people’s experiences feels a little lighter. There’s less urgency to step in.
And interestingly, there’s more space for my own experience to come into focus.
The part of me that has long identified as “the fixer” doesn’t have to work quite so hard. It can step back occasionally. And when it does, other parts—quieter, less certain, but perhaps more present—have room to emerge.
