Rumi once said, “Rise up nimbly and go on your strange journey.” Strange indeed. I never expected that one of the most transformative experiences of my life would be discovering that, well… I am not alone in my own head.
Many years ago, I stumbled upon Internal Family Systems (IFS), a therapeutic model developed by Richard Schwartz. Before IFS, I assumed that the competing voices inside me were just the byproduct of an overactive brain—one part confident, another part anxious, another loudly reminding me to buy milk at the worst possible moments. But as I learned, these voices weren’t just random noise; they were parts of me, each with its own role, its own wounds, and, in many cases, its own sense of urgency.
IFS gave me a framework to understand myself in a way I never had before. I began to recognize my inner world as a system of parts—some protective, some exiled, some desperately trying to manage everything. And when I started the work of truly listening to those parts, of meeting them with curiosity instead of frustration, something profound happened: they softened. They didn’t have to react so intensely because they were finally being heard.
Mark Nepo wrote, “From the moment we open our eyes, we are meaning-seeking creatures, looking for what matters though we carry what matters deep within us.” This is exactly what IFS revealed to me. The healing wasn’t about erasing parts of myself but about integrating them, recognizing that I wasn’t broken—I just needed to understand and care for the different aspects of my being.
Of course, the work of healing is never quite done, and IFS didn’t suddenly make all my internal conflicts disappear. I still have parts that show up in difficult situations and cause me to completely blank out—what I now recognize as a form of dissociation. When I’m overwhelmed or facing something I’d rather avoid, a part of me hits the “off” switch, as if my brain has decided that silence is the safest response. For years, I felt ashamed of this, believing it was a personal failing or a sign of weakness. But IFS helped me see that this part isn’t trying to sabotage me—it’s trying to protect me, the way it once learned to do in moments of distress or uncertainty.
Then there’s the part of me that absolutely cannot say no to sugar. I would love to say that with all my knowledge and training, I have complete mastery over my cravings. But the moment I see sweets, my rational mind takes a backseat, and some deeply committed, sweet-loving part of me takes the wheel. It’s the same part that rationalizes, “You deserve this,” or, “One won’t hurt,” despite knowing full well that one often turns into three (or ten). This part of me means well—it believes in joy and comfort—but let’s just say we’re still working on our communication.
And then, there’s my stubborn part. Oh, this one is special. This is the part of me that refuses to admit when I’m wrong, or that digs in my heels the moment someone tells me I need to do something. (Yes, even when they’re right.) This part has led to some truly ridiculous arguments, including an all-out war over the game Uno with my children while we were on vacation in Hawaii. (The game rules were unclear, and I will maintain to this day that my interpretation was entirely reasonable.) It’s this part of me that resists being corrected, that equates being wrong with some kind of existential threat. IFS helped me realize that this part is really just trying to protect my sense of competence and autonomy—it’s afraid of feeling small or powerless. The more I can approach it with compassion, the more I can recognize when it’s taking over and (hopefully) step back before my next board game-related meltdown. But I want to report that after the silly Uno argument, my children and I were able to have the most beautiful discussion that lasted for hours, allowing us to talk about things that had never been said before. Sometimes, conflict is not all bad—it can be an unexpected doorway to deeper connection.
In Richard Schwartz’s book You Are The One You’ve Been Waiting For, he explores how these internal dynamics play out in our relationships. Lately, I’ve been recommending this book to many of my clients because so much of our struggles—whether in relationships, work, or self-worth—stem from parts of us that are still trying to protect us in outdated ways. Understanding that we can lead ourselves with compassion instead of shame is a game-changer.
IFS has taught me that healing isn’t about getting rid of these parts, but about understanding them. My stubborn part, my sugar-loving part, my dissociative part (and so many more parts within me)—they all have a history, a purpose, and, ultimately, a deep desire to help me. Instead of waging war against myself, I’m learning to build relationships within myself. It’s not always easy, and I still have my moments (see: Uno). But IFS has given me a way to be with myself differently—to see my reactions not as personal failures but as invitations to go deeper.
I have also discovered that any time I have a reaction to something—whether it be a sharp retort, defensiveness, or an overwhelming emotion—I know it is coming from a part within me, and that part is attached to my ego. Conversely, any time I have a response filled with compassion, curiosity, calm, or creativity, I recognize that it is coming from my soul, my Self—the part of me that is connected to Divine. Learning to differentiate between these two has been one of the most liberating aspects of my journey.
So, what about you? Have you ever paused to listen to the different parts inside of you? What might change if you approached them with curiosity instead of judgment? If you’re looking for a new way to understand yourself, I highly recommend diving into IFS.
So many people I see in therapy come because they are dealing with someone in their lives who would never dare step foot in a counselor’s office. At first, they focus entirely on that other person’s faults, frustrations, and impossible behaviors. But as they slowly begin to understand that the annoyances in their lives are actually pointing them back to themselves, they experience one of the biggest ah-ha moments of their journey. The people who challenge us the most often reveal the parts within us that need the most attention. You might just find that you are, in fact, the one you’ve been waiting for.
Consider diving into therapy, whether it be with an IFS-informed counselor or another therapeutic approach that resonates with you. If you want to start exploring these ideas, listen to Richard Schwartz on podcasts—he was just featured on The Andrew Huberman Podcast last week (I also loved his guest appearances on the We Can Do Hard Things podcast). Bring a sense of curiosity to your reactions—to people, relationships, politics, and workplace annoyances. See if you can have compassion for the parts within you that get easily triggered.
And, if you’re open to it, could you even take it a step further? Can you appreciate the things in your life that push your buttons, recognizing that they are showing you something about yourself?
As Rumi reminds us, we are all on a strange journey indeed.
Peace my Friends,
~Travis
PS: I cannot mention Rumi without sharing one of my all-time favorite poems of his. Enjoy!
