Why I Do That

For two books now, you and I have been watching other people.

In the first one we watched the room. We looked at the friend who overapologises, the relative who cannot sit still at a family lunch, the person who laughs a beat too late, and we asked the only question this series has ever really asked: why do they do that? In the second one we followed those same behaviours into the office and watched them wear lanyards. Somewhere in those pages, if the letters and messages are anything to go by, you kept having a particular experience. You would read a paragraph and think, oh, that is my sister. That is my manager. That is the man from the Thursday call.

This book is the one where you say, oh. That is me.

I want to be honest with you about what that costs, because it costs something. Noticing other people is a pleasure. Noticing yourself is a discipline, and it can sting. So before we begin, let me tell you the rules of this house, which are the same rules the first two books lived by, applied now to the person holding the mirror.

The first rule: every behaviour made sense once. Every habit in this book, including the ones I am least proud of, began as an intelligent answer to a real situation. We are going looking for the situation, and for the younger person who solved it the best way she could. We are never going looking for a villain, and that includes the one in the mirror.

The second rule: understanding is the point. This is a book of noticing. It will offer you small experiments, and it will ask you good questions, and it will stop there, deliberately. It is a mirror, and a mirror’s whole job is accuracy with kindness. The deeper repair work belongs to another kind of book, and I will point you towards it at the end.

One more thing about mirrors. You cannot loosen a habit you are still calling your personality. Naming it moves it half a step away from you, to where it can be seen, questioned, and occasionally, gently, laughed at. That half-step is this book’s entire ambition, and I can tell you from the inside that it is worth having.

The third rule: I go first. Every chapter here begins with me, because it is easier to look at yourself over someone’s shoulder. I will show you my rehearsed conversations, my polished fine, my optimised holidays and my late-night message audits, and somewhere in the middle of my confession you will quietly begin your own. That is the design. You are allowed to laugh at me. I laughed at myself several times while writing it, usually in the exact moment I realised a chapter I thought was about other people had my handwriting all over it.

At the end of each chapter you will find a small section called In the Mirror. It has three parts. Catch is the noticing practice: one specific thing to watch for in an ordinary week. Try is a small experiment, deliberately sized so that a busy person with a full life could actually attempt it between now and next weekend. Ask is a question to carry around. None of them require a retreat, a notebook system or a better version of you. They require a normal week and a little honesty.

Go slowly if you need to. Some chapters will be about someone else, and you can enjoy them the way you enjoyed the first two books. One or two of them will be about you in a way that makes your ears feel warm. When that happens, I would gently suggest that you have found your chapter, and that it might deserve a second read.

The lens is turning around now. I will be right beside you the whole time.