Finding Flow in the WTF Moments: A New Take on Adaptability
November was a month of losses. After escaping into December adventure travel, I returned to New Orleans just in time for what I can only call the month of WTF. January brought a terrorist attack in the French Quarter, followed by our first blizzard in over a century and record-breaking snowfall – all bizarrely sandwiched between two 70-degree Sundays. Add to this the immediate and seismic shifts in our country's administration, and we found ourselves navigating a landscape of perpetual whiplash.
It would be easy – and completely natural – to freak out. Our human brain is hardwired for survival, with emotion serving as our primitive alarm system. When a lion jumps out from behind a bush, we react with fight, flight, or freeze. But here's where it gets interesting: our brain then associates that type of bush with danger. The bush itself becomes a trigger, launching us into that same survival response.
But what if we chose a different F-word? (Not that one.) What if, instead of fight, flight, or freeze, we chose flow?
Let me share a story. During my holiday travels, I booked what should have been a simple island-hopping excursion. Instead, a typhoon stranded us for two days in bamboo huts without electricity or weather radar. When the Coast Guard finally gave us clearance to sail, our motor flooded and died, leaving me and a group of strangers marooned on an uninhabited island for Christmas Eve.
The high seas presented each of us with a choice. Some sought refuge below deck, battling seasickness despite the Dramamine I shared. Others huddled under towels, counting the hours. But something shifted when I remembered – wasn't this the adventure I'd been seeking? Standing at the bow like a character from Pirates of Penzance, bending my knees with the waves, letting the wind whip across my face, transformed what could have been miserable into something exhilarating.
That Christmas revealed how perspective shapes reality. Some saw disaster – cold, wet, and far from comfort. Others discovered magic. Our makeshift family – representing several nationalities – sang carols in different languages, danced around a foil tree someone had miraculously packed, played beach volleyball, and discovered blue starfish while snorkeling. Same circumstances, different choices, wildly different experiences.
This is more than resilience or grit – those imply merely surviving. We're talking about thriving. About choosing curiosity over combat, creativity over fear, and courage over hiding. The result? A deeper confidence in our ability to navigate whatever comes our way.
So how do we access this flow state when our brains are screaming for fight, flight, or freeze? It's a three-step dance we can all learn:
1. Recognize that our brains are doing exactly what they're designed to do – protecting us from perceived threats.
2. Create a pause – through breathing, stepping outside, or simply taking a drink of water. This isn't solving the problem; it's buying our brains time to shift gears.
3. Get out of our heads by externalizing our thoughts. Whether through journaling, verbally processing with a thinking partner, or finding someone to reflect our ideas back to us – the key is moving from internal rumination to external clarity. This helps us shift from catastrophizing to problem-solving, from worst-case scenarios to actionable steps forward.
Think of it like building a sandcastle. When the tide comes in, we have choices. We can rage against the waves, retreat in defeat, or – here's where flow comes in – adapt our creation to work with the water. Maybe we add moats and channels, letting the waves enhance rather than destroy our creation. We can change it, play with it. The flow state invites a sense of play where we move from reactive emotion to curious exploration.
We saw this play out recently when snow blanketed New Orleans. Some stayed inside, understandably anxious about the cold or frustrated by thwarted plans. Others grabbed cookie sheets, wheel-less skateboards, and pool floats, transforming the levee into an impromptu sledding hill. Running, jumping, and giggling at the sheer miracle of it all.
The question isn't whether life will throw us WTF moments – it will. The question is: How will we meet them? What might change if you approached your next challenge not as a threat to fight but as an invitation to flow? How might your experience transform if you traded your armor for adaptability?