Mistaking Sticks for Snakes

How we unintentionally become the snake

My friend and fellow non-violent communication (NVC) acolyte said to me, “I saw snakes where there were only sticks.”

Photo by Crisoforo Gaspar Hernandez on Unsplash

Much to my chagrin she was referring to me.

Spend enough time with another human being—even those that we work really, really hard to stay in positive and healthy connection—and you are bound to have a rupture at some point. Could be minor. Could be major. I’ve experienced both, and I’ve been the cause of both.

This time, M and I were having one of our usual Tuesday night meetings to practice NVC. We’ve been reading Marshall Rosenberg’s book, Non-Violent Communication: A Language of Life. At one point in our out-loud reading, M wanted to zig where I wanted to zag.

Details don’t matter, but at the heart of it we had a moment of misunderstanding that then escalated. This was new terrain for us. We usually hold the space in a gentle and kind way. Didn’t happen this time. We both got activated. I could literally write 5 Substack pieces on this one rupture.

We got off our call without a clear repair. Over the next few weeks each of us emailed the other with clear acknowledgement of our commitment to address what happened. When we next met, we took the entire hour to unpack what happened.

Why did M say what she said about snakes? She experienced a version of me that does not come out very often. I was, as she said, uninsulated—my reaction to her “zigging” came through without a buffer. She added, “I come to these conversations undefended, so I was even more sensitive to your words and tone.” And then she said the thing about snakes. I was the snake! I’d landed in a particular way in her nervous system.

The funny thing is that because I felt safe with M, I let my guard down and actually said the thing I was feeling in the moment. I was frustrated and I let it show in my words and tone of voice. She was right. I didn’t insulate my reaction. I didn’t practice NVC, speaking for my frustration rather than from my frustration. But, man, I felt a lot of relief and it felt like celebration to me that I actually said the thing.

But for M, it was startling. And she retreated.

Our subsequent conversation was a beautiful thing. How often do we take a full hour to unpack a difficult moment? It taught me that even if I’m a snake in someone else’s eyes there can be room to recover. M was able to explore real-time how previous wounding caused her to see snakes where there really was only a stick. An activated and unfiltered stick, but nonetheless a stick.

Buddhists often talk about distortions of the mind—illusion, misinterpretation, story. The many ways we can turn a stick into a snake.

There’s a term in psychology for this—inherent bias. It’s our tendency to lean in a particular direction by default—not because of a deliberate choice, but because of previous conditioning. M saw a snake (based on her past experiences), and, with time, could see why it (me!) looked and felt like a snake.

Inherent bias isn’t just personal—it shows up everywhere. In relationships like mine with M, and also in the systems we build. For example, a hiring process might favor certain types of candidates without anyone intending it. Or someone exhibits a behavior once, and suddenly they are that kind of person.

Inherent biases impact what we pay attention to, causing misperceptions to harden into erroneous views. The field of organizational development (particularly Chris Argyris’ work) established the ladder of inference theory. It’s impossible for us to take in all the data from our environment, so our helpful brain takes in selective data. Then our brain keeps climbing—we make meaning of the data and then make assumptions, draw conclusions, solidify beliefs, and take action.

Before you know it, you’re at the top of your ladder.

M and I took the time to walk each other down our ladders, explaining, to the best of our abilities, how the events unfolded inside our psyches during our rupture and then we unpacked what happened externally between the two of us. Whew, hard work, but worth it.

We didn’t let our initial experience harden into a distorted view.

For Buddhists, mindfulness is the key. If we practice the skill, it helps us see directly what’s happening in the moment without painting a vivid and interpretive picture of what we think is happening based on what’s happened in the past.

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Try This.

It turns out we’re all walking around with our own collection of sticks appearing as snakes.

The work isn’t to eliminate them.

It’s to get curious enough—in the moment or after the fact—to ask:

What am I actually seeing?

Because sometimes it’s a snake. And sometimes—it’s just a stick.