Anyone who knows me can attest to how much I love my daily walks. My three power walks a day provide me with much-needed clarity of mind, body movement and opportunities to listen and leave voice notes with clients.
One morning last week, I was struck by the contrasting voice notes I heard from two clients back-to-back. After listening to both, the idea for this newsletter and podcast was downloaded.
Two clients, same return to use (aka relapse). Both had broken a commitment they'd made to themselves. As I listened to their analysis, I heard two completely different men talking.
The first one didn't flinch. I did everything right, he said. I had my plan, I called my people, I stayed in my routine. There was just a piece of the puzzle that I had missed. I'm asking in my journal where the oversight was, and how I can show up differently next time? He wasn't mired in misery, and he wasn't being defensive. He was asking curious questions. He was studying himself. He talked about the use as data, not a moral failure.
The second one, who, by the way, took a week to tell me it happened and had other uses that he came clean about later, sounded very different. You know how it is. I always do this. I'm just not built for follow-through. This was going on, and that happened, and work is this, and Trump is president.
Both had the same experience: they forgot to remove an old user buddy from Snapchat.
Same behavior. Two different universes.
The first one gave me a reason. The second man handed me an excuse.
Today, we are going to look at the differences between the two and provide some tools to help you determine which one you may be using. Reasons can build a trajectory; excuses keep you stagnant.
Two things that sound the same
A reason and an excuse can be difficult to distinguish. Both of them explain why something happened.
But they originate from completely different places.
A reason is the product of open curiosity.
An excuse is the product of closed condemnation.
When I offer a reason, I'm genuinely looking at what happened. I was triggered, and I didn't have my tools ready. Let me understand that.
When I offer an excuse, I'm not looking at anything. I'm accepting a story about myself and hiding behind it. I was triggered and I'm not strong enough to say no because that's what I always do. Which becomes a smoke screen to distract from the actual work.
The guilt and the shame of it
Here's a distinction:
A reason typically arises from healthy guilt. Guilt says: I did something that went against my values. Guilt points at a behavior. And a behavior is something you can turn over in your hands, look at from every angle, and decide to do differently.
An excuse arises from shame. Shame doesn't say I did something bad. Shame says I am bad. This is just who I am. This is what I do. I am not in control of my behavior.
Do you feel the difference?
Guilt says: I made a choice I don't feel good about.
Shame says: I am the choice.
One of those you can work with. The other is a fixed part of your personality.
The excuse that hides inside too much responsibility
For a long time, I thought excuses were only about dodging blame. It wasn't my fault. The traffic. The stress. The other person.
Most of the time, if you dig deeper into the excuses, you'll see what really happened. For instance, "traffic made me late" is often because you left your house late, then ran into traffic, knowing that every other morning there is traffic.
For chemsex recovery, this might look like "that guy I forgot to block texted me." When you dig deeper, you find that he was up at 2 am scrolling on social media instead of keeping the phone off and in another room, as he had committed to. There is always context.
But there's a second kind of excuse that comes from playing the victim or martyr. It sounds like this: Of course, I messed up. I always mess up. Here I go again.
That's not ownership.
Because when I say I always do this, I'm not actually examining anything. I'm collapsing into an identity. And that identity is familiar and comfortable and a place you've hidden for years. It allows you to bypass the hard work.
One excuse avoids responsibility. The other one grabs so much responsibility it crushes any chance of curiosity. And both of them leave the same way: without ever asking the real question.
The loop that keeps you stuck
Here's the mechanism underneath all of it.
You attach to an identity. I'm the guy who always relapses on this. I'm the one who can't stick with anything.
And once that identity is set, the excuse is already written. It doesn't even feel like an excuse anymore. It feels like a fact. Because when you decide I always do that, then that becomes exactly what you'll always do.
The identity makes the excuse effortless. The excuse confirms the identity. And around it goes.
A reason breaks the loop because a reason is about this moment. This one time. This specific set of circumstances. A reason asks how the identity can shift so the cycle is interrupted.
An excuse feeds the loop because an excuse is about who you've decided you are.
The compassionate observer
So how do you get out?
You step outside the story.
I call this the compassionate observer, the part of you that can watch your own behavior without either excusing it or condemning it.
The compassionate observer doesn't ask whose fault is this? It asks why did this happen again?
And it asks that question with pure curiosity, with patience, with love. With genuine wanting-to-know. With the assumption that there's something worth understanding here, not something worth punishing.
Again, the difference between curiosity and condemnation will make or break your recovery.
A practice for the middle of the moment
Next time you catch yourself explaining something, to someone else or just to yourself, pause and run through three things.
Notice what you're feeling. Is defensiveness rising up? Do you feel attacked? Shame pulling you down? Maybe apathy that says, 'What's the point?' Your emotional state is the first tell. Curiosity feels open. Condemnation feels tight.
Check your language. Are you talking about a choice you made and what you'll do next? Or are you talking about who you are? I did this leaves room to move. I always do this locks the door.
Feel where it lives in your body. Does this explanation feel open, spacious, like you can breathe around it? Or does it feel closed off, braced, defended? Your body knows the difference between a reason and an excuse long before your mind admits it.
I want you to tune into your body next time you are analyzing why something happened that is out of alignment with your goals, like returning to a chemsex use.
What I'm really asking of you
I'm not asking you to stop having reasons. Reasons are honest. Reasons are how we learn.
I'm asking you to notice when the explanation you're reaching for has stopped being a doorway and started being a wall.
The next time the words come fast, I always do this, I'm just not built for that, here I go again, see if you can slow down enough to ask a better question.
Not what's wrong with me?
But what happened here, and what is it trying to show me?
That question won't condemn you. It's too busy being curious.
Alright, I hope this helps.
Love, Dallas
Journal Prompts
- Think of a recent moment when you explained away something you weren't proud of. Write down the exact words you used. Now read them back: were they pointing at a behavior you could change, or at a person you'd already decided you are?
- Where in your life do you catch yourself saying "I always" or "I never"? Pick one. When did you first decide that was true about you, and who would you be if it wasn't?
- Recall a time you tripped up and met it with real curiosity instead of judgment. What did that feel like in your body? What did you learn that condemnation would have hidden from you?
- When you fall short, which way do you tend to lean: away from responsibility, or into so much of it that you collapse under the weight? What does each one protect you from actually feeling?
- Write about the same recent slip twice. First as a courtroom verdict, the way shame would tell it. Then as a compassionate observer, the way you'd tell it about someone you love. Notice everything that changes between the two.
Exercise: The Second Telling
The next time you notice yourself explaining something, to someone else or just to yourself, stop and catch the story you're telling. Say it out loud or write it down exactly as it first came to you.
Then run the three checks: What am I feeling? What does my language say, a choice or an identity? Does this feel open in my body, or braced and closed?
Now tell it a second time. Same event, but from the compassionate observer. Trade every "I always" for "this time." Trade every verdict for a question. Instead of here I go again, try what happened here, and what is it trying to show me?
You're not looking for a nicer story. You're looking for a truer one. The first telling defends who you think you are. The second one gets curious about what actually happened, and that's the doorway back to yourself.
Responses