The gut feeling that won’t tell you why

On the kind of intuition that makes it harder to keep doing whatever you were already doing

Sometimes a gut feeling arrives as an answer.
Other times, it only becomes noticeable because it keeps nagging.

AI-generated image

One Saturday afternoon during university, the first sign was that I had suddenly become bad at a game I was usually pretty good at.

It was one of those competitive online games with five people on each side, each playing a different character with different abilities. Everyone relied on their teammates to know what they were doing.

I kept making mistakes I normally didn’t make. I walked into situations where I should have known I would die. I reacted more slowly than I knew I could.
After losing focus during the second ranked game in a row, I decided to stop.

I was irritated, uneasy, and unable to settle into what I was doing. I also didn’t want to keep playing badly and watch my ranking fall while I tried to understand why.

So I went for a walk.

Walking has always been a good way for me to clear my head. That afternoon was windy but warm. I followed familiar roads and chose to pay more attention to my surroundings: the houses, the trees, and whatever else happened to be moving around me.

Noticing my surroundings usually quiets my thoughts enough that I can hear what is underneath them.

I began going through the last few days in my head.
Was there a conversation I should have had?
Had I forgotten something?

I worked backwards through my most recent memories, listing possible reasons until something felt relevant.

There is sometimes a vague sense of which part of life the nagging is pointing toward. The exact problem may still be unclear, but at least it gives somewhere to start looking.

That afternoon, my thoughts eventually settled on the company we were building.
There was something there I needed to pay attention to.

I no longer remember exactly what it was. It was probably one of the numerous small things that needed dealing with. I also suspect it could have waited until Monday.

Still, once my attention moved there, it felt right.

I called my dad while walking along a road through a neighbourhood. We often talked through things related to the company, and this time we brainstormed what might need doing.

By the time I returned home, I had a clear idea of what I needed to do.
And I got started.

A couple of hours later, I was finished, and the uneasy feeling disappeared.

This is one way a gut feeling can make itself known.

Sometimes our intuition is clear, where one option feels better, or a particular person comes to mind, or one direction just feels right.

The nagging kind is different. It points toward something that deserves attention, then leaves the rest to be worked out.

Even when it identifies the right area, the first explanation may still be wrong. It can lead to action before there is enough information, or make the first plausible answer feel more convincing than it should.

This kind of feeling can also be annoyingly persistent.

It can arrive at a very inopportune moment. Continuing with whatever was already happening and hoping it will go away can seem easier than stopping to investigate.

Even after years of experience, there can be a small hope that ignoring it might work this time.

Sometimes no cause appears. In those cases, there may be nothing to do except let the feeling lie and see whether it returns.

Back in my university years, it sometimes appeared while I was on my way to a student party. Alcohol usually silenced it for the evening, but once I sobered up, it would still be there, like an annoying friend who had simply waited for me to become available again.

It has interrupted work, games, classes, dates, and ordinary afternoons.

Sometimes it has led me to realise that I should call someone.

Once, it kept drawing my attention toward a short relationship until I admitted what I already knew: I needed to end it.

The nagging feeling doesn’t seem to care much about scale. It can return over something that could have waited until Monday, or something that has been avoided for much longer.

I don’t know when I started trusting this part of myself.

Maybe someone told me often enough that I should trust my instincts.

Maybe it began during arguments with my mum, when I would retreat into my own head and listen to my own voice because everything outside had become too loud and scary.

Or perhaps I have always trusted it, without ever having a logical reason.

I could choose whichever explanation made the story cleanest. It would probably be no more accurate than flipping a coin.

There are reasonable objections to this kind of trust.

The occasions when it proved useful may simply be easier to remember. A fitting task may eventually appear because the search continues until something feels relevant. The relief may come from acting rather than from discovering what the feeling was pointing toward.

I may remember the times it proved useful more clearly. The times it led nowhere are easier to lose, and with some decisions I never find out whether another choice would have been better.

Maybe that explains some of my trust in it. It still hasn’t stopped me from paying attention.

“Trust your gut” sounds more certain than what I mean. The nagging kind does not give me an answer. It just keeps bringing my attention back to the same place.

I still don’t know where the feeling comes from, or whether it knows anything I don’t.

When it keeps coming back, I usually stop and look.

---

If this made you think of someone who trusts a feeling they can’t quite explain, you’re very welcome to share it with them.

---

I write The Adaptive Human for people trying to put words to what they notice before they understand it.

---

If you’d like to support the work directly, you can buy me a coffee. It helps me keep writing these pieces and leaving most of them open to everyone.