I started my morning with an article in The Guardian that was funny, harrowing, and so psychologically insightful that I haven't been able to stop thinking about it. The headline alone is a masterpiece: Thrillseeking made me feel alive – until the day I hurtled down a volcano on a mountain bike.
The writer, Gary Nunn, tells a story you've likely heard a version of before: the hero's tale of a spontaneous, adrenaline-fueled adventure. But this isn't that story. This is an honest post-mortem of a bad decision, a broken wrist, and a £4,000 medical bill.
It's also a brave exploration of a question so many of us grapple with: Why do we sometimes override our own instincts? Who are we really trying to impress when we push ourselves beyond our limits? And what can that teach us about living a more authentic life?
This is the heart of the matter, and it goes far beyond adrenaline junkies. How many times have we pushed past our own internal "no" not for the thrill, but because we were afraid of seeming boring, difficult, or awkward?
Who was Gary Nunn trying to impress? The guide he'd just met and would never see again? Himself? The invisible audience he might tell the story to later?
As a therapist, I see this dynamic constantly. It's the pressure to take on an extra project at work to appear dedicated, to agree to a social plan that will exhaust you to avoid seeming unfriendly, to stay quiet when our boundaries are being crossed. We betray our own intuition to please an imagined audience.
In a culture that often equates spontaneity with bravery and caution with fear, we learn to override the quiet, wise voice within us that knows our limits.
I used to teach yoga, and one of the most important lessons in an advanced practice is learning not to take risks. As the poses become more extreme, the only thing standing between you and a serious injury is your good judgment. It's the ability to listen to your body instead of your ego, which is always whispering, "Just a little bit further."
It took me a couple of injuries to learn that lesson. The work of maturity, I believe, is the process of learning to honour our limitations—not as a sign of weakness, but as a source of wisdom.
Gary Nunn's article is a brave act of self-reflection. He dismantles the hero narrative and shows us the reality: that sometimes the most courageous choice isn't to hurtle down the volcano, but to have the simple, awkward, and profound strength to say, "No, this isn't for me," and to be okay with that.
The real question isn't about how much risk you can tolerate. It's about whose voice you're listening to when you make a choice: the loud, performing ego, or the quiet, grounding wisdom of your own needs. Part of the work of growing up is learning to tell the difference.
If you find yourself in a repeated pattern of overriding your own instincts, people-pleasing, or struggling with impulsivity, working with a therapist can be a powerful way to get clearer on your needs, values, and boundaries.
I started my morning with an article in The Guardian that was funny, harrowing, and so psychologically insightful that I haven't been able to stop thinking about it. The headline alone is a masterpiece: Thrillseeking made me feel alive – until the day I hurtled down a volcano on a mountain bike.
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