I used to think people made choices for obvious reasons.

Good choices. Bad choices. Healthy choices. Destructive choices.

But the older I get, the more I’ve realized that most people are not acting from conscious decisions nearly as often as we think they are.

Most people are acting from patterns.

Patterns they learned long before they had the ability to question them.

Patterns they inherited from families, faith communities, schools, relationships, cultures, and experiences.

Patterns that taught them what it means to be safe.

What it means to be loved.

What it means to belong.

And once I understood that, I stopped asking, “What’s wrong with them?“

I started asking, “What happened to them?“

One of my earliest memories happened when I was four years old.

I was helping my mother prepare for my grandmother’s visit. I felt important. Like a big girl.

I remember the smell of fresh bread.

My father’s guitar playing softly in the background.

The whistle of a tea kettle.

Then an accident.

I reached for a cup of boiling water and spilled it onto my arm.

The pain was immediate.

The burns were severe.

My mother wanted to take me to the hospital.

My father refused.

He believed prayer would heal me.

As I screamed, he held my arm and prayed.

As blisters formed, he peeled them away.

As my mother begged him to stop, he continued.

Forty years later, I still carry the scars.

Not because of the accident.

Because of what happened afterward.

Looking back now, I realize something important. That moment wasn’t just painful. It was educational.

Not intentionally. But educational nonetheless. I was learning lessons about the world. Lessons I never consciously agreed to.

Lessons like:

Pain should be endured.

Authority should not be questioned.

Faith matters more than intervention.

Strength means silence.

Your feelings are less important than obedience.

Those weren’t lessons someone sat down and taught me.

They were lessons I absorbed.

And that’s how most of our beliefs are formed.

Not through instruction.

Through experience.

I call these hidden lessons our blueprints.

A blueprint is the invisible instruction manual you learn for how to survive, be loved, and belong.

Before we ever choose who we want to become, someone hands us a set of plans.

Some of those plans are helpful.

Some are harmful.

Most are a mixture of both.

But we spend years living inside those designs before we realize they exist.

As a child, my blueprint taught me that being good meant being accepted. Being quiet meant being safe. Being needed mattered more than being cared for. Self-sacrifice was love. Questioning was dangerous.

And while those strategies helped me survive childhood, they became obstacles in adulthood.

Because survival skills don’t always translate into healthy relationship skills.

What protects us at one stage of life can imprison us in another.

The more people I meet, the more I realize this isn’t unique to me.

I’ve seen it in addiction.

I’ve seen it in relationships.

I’ve seen it in faith communities.

I’ve seen it in recovery.

I’ve seen it in leadership.

I’ve seen it in myself.

People often call someone difficult when they don’t understand the blueprint driving the behavior.

The person who won’t accept help.

The person who sabotages healthy relationships.

The person who keeps returning to destructive patterns.

The person who seems defensive, resistant, controlling, or avoidant.

What if they’re not difficult?

What if they’re protecting something that once kept them safe?

One of the most profound lessons I’ve learned came through the people I’ve loved.

My father believed faith alone would heal him.

He died from heart disease.

My grandmother believed God would heal her cancer.

She died without treatment.

My mother struggled with a deep belief that she was never enough.

Alcohol became her escape.

My ex-husband believed he could always outrun consequences.

Addiction eventually took his life.

Different stories.

Different outcomes.

But underneath them all were beliefs. Blueprints. Invisible instructions shaping visible behavior.

That’s why I believe curiosity is one of the most powerful forms of compassion.

Instead of asking: “Why would they do that?”

What if we asked: “What taught them that?”

Instead of saying: “They just need to make better choices.”

What if we asked: “What beliefs are making those choices feel necessary?”

Curiosity changes everything.

Because curiosity creates safety.

And safety creates change.

The greatest mistake we make is assuming people need better instructions.

Most people already know what they should do.

The problem isn’t information.

The problem is fear.

The problem is shame.

The problem is a lifetime of experiences teaching them that something unhealthy feels safer than something healthy.

And until that changes, behavior rarely does.

Today, whether I’m coaching, speaking, writing, or simply sitting across from someone sharing their story, I try to remember one thing:

Most people aren’t difficult.

They’re patterned.

They’re living out instructions they learned long before they had the ability to choose differently.

And perhaps the greatest gift we can offer one another isn’t judgment.

It’s curiosity.

Because when people feel safe enough to examine the blueprint, they finally get the opportunity to redraw it.

And that’s where healing begins.

with all my love, xoxo J