Reacting Isn’t Deciding: Tracking the Energy Beneath the Choice

He told her they needed to move the money into gold. “First thing tomorrow,” he said, scrolling through charts, toggling between finance podcasts, reading headlines like they were warning bells.

She felt it. That current. The one that floods the room before a decision even gets made.

It wasn’t new.

She’d seen it before—when he bought crypto at the top and sold it at the bottom. Or years ago, on a road trip, when he spotted a discounted generator, insisted they needed it immediately, bought it, and then realized it didn’t even fit in their van. They resold it at a loss.

It wasn’t really about the market. Or the generator. Or even the money. It was about the energy. Pressured, tight. Frantic energy dressed up as decisiveness. The kind that feels like a gambler’s pull: if I move fast enough, I’ll beat the system. The bargain-hunter’s buzz. The fantasy that you’ve outsmarted the system—whether the system is the market, your relationship, or time itself.

And sometimes? That energy does win. You buy at the right moment. You dodge a bullet. You profit. That’s what makes it dangerous. The high from a good call reinforces the urgency.

But it’s not grounded strategy—it’s a fast escape from the discomfort of not knowing. A forced resolution.

This time, she paused. She didn’t argue. She didn’t agree. She just said:

“I don’t care about what we do. I care about the state you’re in. And I don’t trust it.”

At first, he bristled. Took it as a judgment. She stayed steady.

And something landed.

Because the truth is—what’s driving the decision matters more than the decision itself.

This is especially true when the decisions touch old fears.

In his family, there was a story. The kind that gets passed down as fact, even if no one knows if it’s actually true. His great-grandfather had owned multiple properties in London. When the Depression hit, he sold them all for cash. And by the end of it, that pile of money could barely buy a loaf of bread.

That was the version his father told him. That was the organizing principle: You can lose everything unless you act. Tangible assets are safe. Cash is dangerous. Sitting still is the biggest risk of all.

This is the lineage: a grandfather who panicked and sold. A father who made impulsive, illogical financial decisions late in life. And now here he is—wrestling with the same inherited fear, trying to outpace it by acting before it catches him.

But the anxiety doesn’t go away. It just moves with him.

This dynamic is more common than we admit. It shows up in markets, in marriages, in any high-stakes moment where fear and control start holding hands.

Sometimes our choices are driven by a subtle kind of panic—masked as urgency, rationalized as strategy. A rush to act. A way to feel powerful in an unpredictable world.

But that’s not the same as fear.

Fear is fast—it’s primal, somatic, and intelligent. It doesn’t wait for logic. It moves through the body in an instant, orienting us toward danger, sharpening attention, preparing us to act. It’s what keeps you alert in the ocean after you’ve been caught in a riptide. It’s what makes you cautious when stepping into a dark alley. Fear doesn’t scramble you—it focuses you.

Panic is different. Panic hijacks. It floods the system, overwhelms your capacity to think, and demands action now—usually without discernment. It tells you: Do something or else.

Fear informs you. Panic overrules you.

So when he said, “I have a gut feeling,” and later, “I won’t be able to live with myself if I don’t listen to it,” she paused.

Because not all gut feelings are intuition. Some are just fear masquerading as certainty and wisdom.

Intuition is quiet. It doesn’t need to convince.
Panic is loud. It insists. It repeats itself.
Intuition comes from internal coherence.
Panic comes from unresolved story—loss, failure, shame, collapse.

A true gut knowing feels clear, grounded. It might even say wait.

But when someone says “this is my gut,” what they often mean is “this is the only thing that will make the discomfort stop.”
And if discomfort is calling the shots, then it’s not intuition. It’s reactivity.

“I can’t sleep,” he said. “I don’t know if it’s the right move or the wrong move. I just can’t live with this kind of risk. It scares me.”

It sounded honest. And it was.
But not sleeping wasn’t the root problem. It was a signal. He wasn’t solving the discomfort—he was trying to silence it.

When the nervous system is distressed, it looks for resolution. But what we need isn’t always action. Sometimes it’s containment. Curiosity. A willingness to ask: What’s really going on underneath this unease?

If every time discomfort shows up, it gets to dictate the next move, then panic is in charge.
And if panic is always in charge, you never actually feel safe.
You just move fast enough to feel like you’re doing something.

So how do you know if a decision is reactive or grounded?

You track the energy.

What’s moving me right now?
Am I acting from pressure or alignment?
Does the decision feel urgent or clear?
Is my body tight, breath shallow, jaw clenched?
Am I chasing relief—or moving from clarity?
What would happen if I didn’t move yet?
Am I responding to the moment—or to a story I’ve inherited?

And maybe most importantly—have I passed this through a sieve before I spit it out into the world?
Have I observed what’s moving through me—fear, urgency, memory, intuition—before asking someone else to hold it?

This is the practice: to pause before projecting, to filter before reacting, to feel before speaking.

Groundedness is quiet. It doesn’t move to soothe. It can sit in discomfort without offloading it.

The nervous system doesn’t like uncertainty. It craves resolution. That’s why fast action can feel righteous. But when the action is fueled by panic, even the best outcomes don’t settle us. They just reset the loop.

Grounded decisions are different. They carry weight—not heaviness, but coherence. They don’t need applause. They don’t fear waiting.

So before you move the money—or send the message, or change the job, or say the thing—pause.

Not to freeze.
But to feel: What’s actually driving me here?

Because sometimes the riskiest thing isn’t the market.
It’s the energy you’re in when you try to beat it.

Are you looking for help with your relationship? Do you feel that a relationship coach could help you working on your couples skills? Is communication an issue? Have you ever considered couples therapy or counseling? As a psychotherapist and relationship coach, I am uniquely positioned to help you through these moments of disconnect and conflict.

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