How Do You Know Whose Advice to Listen To?

The people who love us usually mean well. That doesn’t mean every fear, warning or opinion deserves the same weight.

There’s something very interesting that happens when you make a decision other people wouldn’t make.

Suddenly everybody has questions.

Have you thought about this?

What about that?

Aren’t you worried?

What if it doesn’t work?

What about the children?

What about your family?

What about your job?

What about the house?

What about the thing you’ve already thought about seventeen times and discussed at length but apparently haven’t considered properly because somebody else has only just heard about it?

Usually, they mean well... Which somehow doesn’t always make it any less irritating.

Because there’s a difference between somebody asking whether you’ve considered something and somebody deciding that because they wouldn’t make the same choice, you probably shouldn’t either.

And those two things can sound remarkably similar.

It might be one of the harder parts of making any decision that sits outside what people expect from you.

You don’t just have to work out what you want, you also have to work out whose advice to listen to and which of the many opinions arriving around it are actually useful.

Because people love giving advice.

We’re all very good at it.

Particularly when we’re not the ones who have to live with the outcome.

Advice or projection?

There’s a big difference between someone saying:

I did something similar and this part was much harder than I expected. Make sure you’ve thought about it.

And:

You don’t understand how difficult this is going to be.

One gives you something to consider.

The other feels like has already decided what your experience is going to be.

That doesn’t necessarily mean the person is trying to control you or bring you down... Often it’s the opposite.

They’re worried.

They care about you.

They genuinely think they’re protecting you from something.

But loving someone doesn’t suddenly make any of us completely objective.

We all look at other people’s choices through our own experience.

Our relationships.

Our childhood.

Our fears.

Our regrets.

Our tolerance for risk.

Our idea of what a responsible parent looks like.

What a good daughter looks like.

What financial security looks like.

What family is supposed to do for family.

What scares us.

And sometimes:

“I’m worried this is wrong for you”

is sitting uncomfortably close to:

“I would be absolutely terrified to do this myself.”

They’re not the same thing.

That distinction matters.

Because there’s nothing wrong with someone saying, God, I couldn’t do that.

Fair enough.

There are plenty of things other people do that I couldn’t imagine enjoying either.

I personally have no desire to climb Everest, run an ultramarathon or voluntarily sleep in a tent without a toilet nearby.

But that doesn’t make those things inherently terrible ideas.

It makes them terrible ideas for me.

And that’s where advice can get messy.

We can very easily take something that tells us about ourselves and accidentally present it as information about somebody else.

Not every opinion deserves the same weight

This doesn’t mean the answer is to ignore everyone and dramatically announce that you’re “following your heart.”

Other people can see things we don’t.

Sometimes someone points out a risk we genuinely haven’t considered.

Sometimes someone with experience can save us a huge amount of grief.

Sometimes the person annoying us most is actually making a very good point (Why Does Being Wrong Feel So Personal?).

Which is inconvenient, but unfortunately possible.

The question, then, isn’t:

Do I care what other people think?

Of course we care sometimes.

The better question might be:

What makes this particular opinion worth listening to?

Have they actually done something similar?

Do they understand the situation beyond imagining how they would feel in it?

Are they giving you information?

Are they showing you a blind spot?

Are they saying:

This was difficult for me and here’s why.

Or are they saying:

This would frighten me, therefore you shouldn’t do it.

Two very different contributions.

Someone who has actually moved countries with children, started the business, left the relationship, changed careers, taken the financial risk or lived through the thing you’re considering may have something genuinely useful to offer, even if their experience was awful.

Possibly especially if their experience was awful.

Because they can tell you what actually happened.

What surprised them.

What they underestimated.

What they’d do differently.

That’s useful.

It doesn’t mean their outcome becomes yours.

It just gives you more information to work with.

And maybe that’s what good advice should do.

It should help you see more clearly.

Not make the decision for you.

We’re very good at interrogating change

There’s another strange thing we do when somebody chooses something outside the usual path, we immediately start listing everything that could go wrong.

What if you hate it?

What if the kids struggle?

What if the business fails?

What if you regret leaving?

What if you lose money?

What if you feel isolated?

All fair questions... But we don’t tend to interrogate staying the same with anywhere near the same enthusiasm.

What if you stay and you’re still unhappy five years from now?

What if the job you’re scared to leave never becomes any better?

What if the relationship you’re afraid to end keeps making you miserable?

What if the supposedly safe financial decision costs you an opportunity you actually wanted?

What if doing nothing turns out to have a cost too?

The familiar option often gets treated as neutral.

It isn’t.

Staying is a decision.

Keeping the job is a decision.

Keeping the house is a decision.

Remaining in the relationship is a decision.

Not moving is a decision.

We just don’t notice those choices as easily because they don’t require an announcement.

Nobody gathers the family around and says:

We’ve made a huge decision. We’re going to continue doing exactly what we’re currently doing.

There’s generally less concern.

Less commentary.

Far fewer phone calls.

But that doesn’t mean the decision has no consequences.

It just means they’re familiar ones.

And familiar risk has a funny way of feeling safer than unfamiliar possibility.

Sometimes your choice isn’t about anyone else

There can also be something strangely confronting about watching somebody make a decision very different to your own.

Not always.

But sometimes.

If someone says, I don’t want this pace anymore, another person can hear:

You shouldn’t want it either.

If someone leaves a corporate career, somebody still in theirs may hear criticism that was never actually made.

If someone chooses not to have children, a parent can somehow hear a judgement on parenthood.

If someone downsizes, moves overseas, quits drinking, leaves social media, changes religion, changes careers, gets divorced, stays married, starts over - a personal decision can somehow end up feeling like a public statement. It isn’t necessarily.

Someone else choosing differently doesn’t automatically mean they’re saying your choice was wrong.

Sometimes it just means there was more than one option all along...

And perhaps that’s uncomfortable because it reminds us that some of the things we treat as inevitable were actually choices, too.

Listening isn’t the same as obeying

The people who love us are allowed to worry.

They’re allowed to be sad.

They’re allowed to say:

Have you thought about this?

They’re even allowed to disagree.

If they matter to us, it’s probably worth listening.

But listening doesn’t mean handing them the steering wheel.

At some point, adulthood has to include accepting that other people may not approve of decisions we’ve thought through carefully.

Sometimes they’ll think we’re making a mistake.

Sometimes they’ll be right.

Sometimes they won’t.

None of us gets a guarantee.

And maybe that’s the part we struggle with.

We want enough reassurance to know we’re making the correct decision.

But most meaningful decisions don’t come with that kind of certainty.

You can research.

Ask questions.

Talk to people who’ve done it.

Look at the risks.

Look at the benefits.

Try to take the rose-coloured glasses off.

Ask yourself whether you’re moving towards something or simply running away from something.

You can do all of that... and then eventually, there’s still a choice.

A choice somebody else might not understand.

That doesn’t automatically make it reckless.

And someone else being frightened by your decision doesn’t automatically make their fear evidence.

That might be the thing worth remembering.

Fear is information. But whose fear it is matters.

Because another person can tell you what happened to them.

They can tell you what they’ve seen.

They can warn you about something you’ve missed.

They can give you experience.

They can give you perspective.

But they can’t tell you with complete certainty what your life will feel like once you make the choice.

Neither can you.

And perhaps that’s okay.

Maybe confidence isn’t reaching a point where nobody can make you question yourself...

that sounds slightly unhinged, actually.

Maybe confidence is being able to hear somebody out without automatically absorbing what belongs to them.

To listen.

To consider it.

To ask:

Is there something useful here?

And if there is, take it... but if what’s being handed to you is mainly somebody else’s fear, expectations or version of what a sensible life should look like, perhaps you’re allowed to leave that part with them.

They don’t have to be wrong.

You don’t have to prove anything.

You can simply want something different.

Because at the end of all the conversations, advice and concerned phone calls, there’s one fairly important detail...

They don’t have to wake up and live your life.

You do.

The Question

How much are you letting someone else’s opinion shape a decision they don’t actually have to live with?

Decide well.