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Running after the wrong train

Dear Blog Readers, Coaching Fans, and Workshop Riders,

This is my most recent post on Medium. I would like to share t with you.

One day, some moons ago, I was on my way to school. I had just moved on to High School which was some distance away from my house. So I had to learn to ride public buses, trams, and trains.

Exciting stuff.

It wasn't easy for me, because I am an HSP* (my full empathy to my parents here, because the trait had not yet been detected and wouldn't be for some more years. They couldn´t know what to do with me), and I easily get lost. My personal HSP-ism expresses itself most loudly in lousy geographical skills. Turn me around in a circle and I will walk in the direction I came from, without realizing it.

To make the point clearer: I walked our dog Gustave the other day (he is a German shorthair pointer) and we both know the territory around my house well. It´s a nature reserve, it´s wild in places, it´s a wide open space, Heather and Pines, and it´s gorgeous. We come to an intersection of horse riding trails and hiking paths and I stop dead in my tracks. The rangers had done massive work, taking out shrubbery, rotting logs, and more. Tire tracks of heavy vehicles had messed up “the map” in my brain. Gustave sits and looks at me.

“Where to?”

I am lost. Totally lost. Been here hundreds of times.

Do you know what that feels like? Woohoo, not good. Disorientation is an unkind spot to be in. Or is it?

Back to High school for a moment. So I was late one morning and had to run after the tram. Made it. Barely. Only to find I took the wrong one. Since that day, I have never ever run after any train, chased through any airport gate, or run after a high-speed train.

Never ever again.

That day, way back then, taught me how it feels to put all your energy into something (being in time for the all-deciding math test for instance) and never make it. My body registered once and for all, how destructive it feels to create such a sharp pointed memory and to transpose it to many, many other events. Related or not.

Being on the wrong train was and is a blessing.

It is a zero-point energy field. The compass needles don´t turn, my brain can´t figure it out. So I learned how to master this spot. I have long learned how to use the Alpha brain waves in moments like this. I just “sink” like a stone in a pond and when I have reached the “zone”, I expand.

Everything seems to just float away, no stress, no pressure, no fear, no anxiety. Nada.

From the zone, I ask. “Where to…?” just like Gustave.

I ask, “what then shall I do?” and I wait.

And every time there is a solution. Sometimes an uncomfortable one, like not appearing for the Math test would inevitably result in trouble), but it ALWAYS leads to a solution. The math test stuff resulted in my parent´s realization, that they had sent me to the wrong school (thank God). I am not a scientist, because my brain doesn´t work like that. I am a thoroughbred creative.

Gustave and I lost in the woods resulted in realizing that I have to overthink my professional path. Something is not clicking here… I was thinking about Hänsel und Gretl, two fairy tale archetypes lost in the woods.

I need path markers.

My brain kicked in like my washing machine in maximum revolution. I have been working like mad on a new concept in coaching. My fingers are flying across the keyboard and my mind´s walls have been blown away.

I am realizing I have been running after the wrong train.

I have been bleeding out my energy, my self-worth, my creativity, and my tribe. I told Gustave “run” and he picked the path. After a few minutes, I started recognizing my environment, but it wasn´t the same, because I had changed.

Every time I hit one of those “lost” places, I make huge leaps into my most desired future.

See you there?

Thank you for reading, thank you for sharing, and thank you for taking the time to write a comment,


  • HSP, Highly Sensitive Person, trait, discovered by Dr. Elaine Aron in 1996, sensory disorder around perception. I consider it a blessing.

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