I notice that I often try to bring situations and unfinished matters to some kind of closure, especially when they concern me directly. It is not that I need everything to be completely finished. I would rather know where I stand in a particular situation and what I am going to do about it.
I used to feel that bringing things to a conclusion did more than give me satisfaction and peace of mind. Above all, it made everyday life feel stable. That sounds reasonable — except for one thing: something new always appears, and something else remains unfinished.
And it is not only about the outside world, which I obviously cannot stop. I think I was also trying, internally, to reach a point where everything was finally in its place.
Today, I can see a certain naivety in that.
Life is not a structure made of iron and steel that simply needs to be maintained. It is more like a river. It is always moving. Sometimes calmly, almost imperceptibly. Sometimes quickly and unevenly, demanding my attention.
And I am beginning to understand that the movement itself is not the problem. The problem is my attempt to stop it.
Then something very concrete happens in everyday life.
A few months from now, my passport will expire. I need to renew it. I am going on holiday in the summer. There is something I need to sort out, but I do not yet have all the information about how to do it. So I leave it for later.
And then the tension appears. Slight, but noticeable.
The next day, from the moment I start work, I cannot quite let go of it. The tension grows. It is no longer just a thought — it is something that clearly stays with me in the background. As if I had wrapped a bandage around my chest and, for a brief moment, pulled it tighter.
I used to treat this as a mistake.
I am at work. There is nothing I can do about it now, I would tell myself.
But my body did not respond to those arguments.
Today, I am beginning to see it differently.
This is not a mistake. It is a signal.
My body and mind are trying to find their way in a situation that is still unresolved. They do not yet know what comes next, so they remain alert.
As if they were saying:
This is still going on.
And perhaps this is where something important begins.
Instead of immediately trying to calm this state down, I can simply notice it for a moment.
Without giving it a meaning.
Without fighting it.
I began to wonder where this subtle tension comes from when something remains unresolved.
At the moment, I assume that my brain is not simply observing reality. It is constantly trying to predict what is going to happen next.
And when a situation is still open — when some information is missing — it may begin preparing my body for possible future effort. Almost as if it were managing energy in advance, before I even know whether I will need it.
This is not just a thought.
There are physical changes as well: slightly faster breathing, subtle muscle tension, attention searching for the missing information.
I am beginning to look at my body a little differently.
Almost like a barometer of what my brain is predicting.
If there is not enough information to form a clear picture of the situation, alertness may appear.
Because missing information means one thing:
I do not know what is coming.
And that calls for readiness.
Perhaps this is why I sometimes have the feeling that something is hanging in the air.
When I got home from work, it took me only a few minutes to book an appointment at the consulate.
I checked what I needed to prepare. I did everything I could at that stage.
The matter was not finished.
But it was no longer uncertain.
The tension disappeared.
This leads me to a simple conclusion.
If I have taught myself that uncertainty means a problem, then my brain may generate tension as a form of protection — trying to prepare me for something it expects could be difficult.
I remember similar situations with headaches.
Toward the end of a working day, I would sometimes notice tension and interpret it as a sign that a headache was coming.
My mind would quickly start finding evidence that seemed to confirm the story. Sometimes even before the headache had actually appeared.
Today, I can see a similar pattern.
Prediction → tension → interpretation → experience.
So I am beginning to learn something simple:
how to stay with something that is still unfolding.
Instead of immediately trying to close, check or solve everything, I pause for a moment.
Not in order to change anything.
More to see what is actually happening.
I pay attention to my body.
Where exactly does the tension appear?
In my breathing?
My chest?
My neck?
My stomach?
I do not try to make it go away.
I simply watch what my body is doing.
Almost as if it were preparing for something that has not happened yet.
And sometimes a question appears:
Is this tension about what is happening now, or about what might happen next?
I do not always have an answer.
But noticing the question itself seems to change something.
What I am discovering is new to me.
My sense of stability does not come from having everything in order.
It appears when I begin to understand the language of my own body.
When I feel tension, I can say to myself:
My brain is trying to prepare me for the future.
Or:
I do not have to act on this right now.
And sometimes that is enough.
I do not have to respond immediately.
I notice something else as well.
When I stop treating every signal from my body as a problem that needs to be solved, many of those signals simply fade away.
Almost as if they were not threats, but information.
And I have the feeling that this is only the beginning.
Because I can see the same pattern elsewhere.
In relationships — when I try to predict what someone will think, say or do.
And deeper still — in the predictions I make about myself.
Who am I?
What do I expect from myself?
For now, I am staying with the body.
But I have a feeling that this is only the first level of the same story.
Paweł Kosiński
This text was originally written in Polish (Przewidywanie w ciele i codzienności) and translated into English with the assistance of ChatGPT. The ideas, reflections, and personal experiences presented here remain my own.
