Die Unterschrift unter meinen Problemen

Recurring conflicts bear a signature—my own. That sounds uncomfortable, yet it is a relief: where my signature appears, I can change something. The rest I can leave to others.

That is how Philippe Ramakers introduces his Substack essay on his own area of ​​responsibility. An image that says it all—read it for yourself; it’s worth it:

There are conflicts that stick with you. You change jobs, cities, or the person by your side, and after a while, you find yourself in the same situation again. The cast is new, but the play is the same old one.

When it reaches this point, we seek clarity. From friends, tarot readers, clairvoyants—and nowadays, from machines, too. Usually, we come back with the very thoughts we started with. We hear what we want to hear, and that is deeply human.

With that, the guilty parties are identified, and a trial without a judge begins. Conversations about the other person, messages rewritten three times, nights spent replaying the argument in one’s head. This can go on for months. It exhausts everyone involved, yet nothing is resolved. The next time around, the same curtain rises.

Blame and Leverage

The need for clarity is healthy. Yet it usually asks a question that leads nowhere: Who is to blame? We make more progress with a different question: Where is my point of leverage?

The two are constantly confused, yet they have little to do with each other. The other person may bear the greater share of responsibility. Their part remains theirs, nonetheless. I can ask, explain, stand my ground, or leave; only they can change themselves. What I can actually address is my own part—however small it may be.

The Signature

There is a sentence that is uncomfortable. I tell it to myself over and over again: You are the "common denominator" of all your problems. A look at one’s own situation as a whole reveals whether this holds true. People, places, and occasions change. Yet something remains constant: a tone that suddenly shifts; a moment of withdrawing or giving too much; a certain type of person one repeatedly encounters. These recurring points of friction bear a signature, and the handwriting looks familiar.

Observing others confirms this. Millions of people live in similar circumstances yet do not face these specific problems. They have their own, of course. Everyone has their own particular struggle, and no two are alike.

Whatever recurs bears my signature. Where my signature appears, I have leverage. Everything else belongs to others.

This statement is harsh, yet it also grants permission to act. If I had no connection to my problems, I could do nothing to change them. All that would remain is waiting, hoping, and complaining.

There is a limit to this line of thinking, however. Illness, accidents, violence suffered, the state of the world—these cannot be laid at one’s own door, and no one should take responsibility for them. The signature reveals itself in patterns—in things that take the same shape across different settings. A single misfortune does not bear it.

Two Fields

In practical terms, it comes down to two fields. My field contains what I say and how I say it, the promises I make and keep, the times I say "yes" while meaning "no," and the expectations I harbor without ever voicing them. The other person’s field holds their mood, their history, and whether they understand or change.

We prefer to talk about the other person’s field, yet that is where we achieve the least. Our own field is narrower and requires more arduous work. It is the only sphere of influence where we are truly called upon to act. During an argument, almost everything shifts over to the other person’s field. That is why it is worth constantly redrawing the boundary.

Everyone knows best where to start. A single pattern suffices—ideally the one that currently demands the most energy. The question to ask is simple: What did I do every time, regardless of what others did? That is where one’s signature lies. And that is where, next time, a slightly different move might be possible—one small enough to feel truly capable of making.

If nothing comes to mind, one can borrow a question from the millions of others out there: How does someone behave for whom this conflict never even arises? Everyone knows such people. It is worth observing them more closely.

Slower than desired

All of this takes longer than one might wish. What has grown over years does not dissolve in weeks. One slips back into old ways but notices it a little sooner the next time; that in itself is progress. One tends to one’s own field as far as time, inclination, and energy allow. Often, the whole shifts when one part moves. There are no guarantees. At the very least, one’s own side is put in order—and that is something one carries into every subsequent space.

Having such patterns is part of existence. Everyone brings something along that they did not ask for, and life leads them into the very situations that bring it to light. One can call it bad luck. One can also call it a task.

My conclusion

My patch of ground is small—certainly smaller than the world I would like to set right. Yet it is the only place where something grows, if I order it.

The clairvoyant could have told you all that, by the way. He likely has his reasons for not doing so. Anyone who explains to their clients that they can solve the case themselves rarely sees them again.

And then there’s that yellow sign found at every German construction site: *No Entry – Parents Are Liable for Their Children*. I spent a long time looking for one at my own construction site. There isn’t one there. Nor, I fear, at yours.