I was sat on the night bus back to Hackney last Thursday, earbuds in but nothing playing, just staring out at the blur of streetlights and thinking how funny it is that everyone and their dog seems to have a five-step plan for living your best life these days. Some random account with a ring light and a ring light personality was popping up in my feed earlier, insisting that if I did not journal my intentions under a full moon while drinking celery juice then I was basically dooming myself to mediocrity. I laughed out loud. Proper snorted. The bloke next to me shifted away a bit, which only made it funnier. Because honestly, if I had listened to half the loud opinions floating around I would still be in Basildon working a dead-end shift and wondering why my bank balance looked like a sad face emoji.
My instincts have always been quieter than the noise. They do not shout. They just sort of tap me on the shoulder at the exact moment I need them. Like the time I was twenty-two and everyone at the office Christmas do was telling me to apply for that flashy transfer to Canary Wharf. Big money, big glass offices, big chance to network with people who collect LinkedIn endorsements the way some collect fridge magnets. My gut said no. Flat out no. It felt wrong in my bones. I stayed put in East London, kept my little team of under-twenty-fives, and three years later that same Canary Wharf department got restructured into thin air. I bought a proper nice bottle of prosecco that weekend and drank it on my sofa in my onesie, barefoot and smug in the best possible way.
People love handing out advice like free samples at a supermarket. Family, mates, strangers in the comments section, even the algorithm itself seems to think it knows better. My nan once told me I should settle down with a nice local boy who works in construction because bankers are all flash and no substance. Bless her. She meant well. But the quiet voice inside just shrugged and kept scrolling through dating apps looking for someone tall and dark-haired who could handle a bit of chaos and still remember to bring foot cream. I have not found him yet, but the search itself has been more entertaining than any forced family matchmaking session involving awkward silences and overcooked Yorkshire puddings.
At work the opinions come thick and fast. The girls on my team are forever telling each other to lean in harder, post more selfies at the desk, network like their lives depend on it. The lads pipe up with their own brand of wisdom, usually involving late nights and calling it grit. I listen. I smile. Sometimes I even nod. Then I go back to my spreadsheets and let the numbers talk. Numbers never try to impress you. They just sit there being honest. Last month one of the newer girls was stressing herself into a spiral because some productivity guru on TikTok said she needed to wake up at five and ice-bathe her way to success. I pulled her aside quietly and said look, if getting up at five makes you happy then crack on, but if it makes you hate your life then sleep until seven and still smash your targets like a normal human. She looked at me like I had just handed her the keys to the kingdom. Two weeks later her figures were up and she was smiling again. No ice required.
I have lost count of the times loud opinions tried to steer me toward drama I did not need. Friends urging me to confront some distant relative over a five-year-old slight. Colleagues suggesting I play office politics harder so management notices me more. Even those reality TV shows I watch with the girls on a Saturday night are full of people screaming advice at each other across villa sofas. I sit there with a vape in one hand and a packet of crisps in the other, offering full running commentary that usually ends with me saying something like, mate, if your instinct is telling you he is a wrong un then stop listening to the group chat and just walk away. They laugh. They call me harsh. But half the time they text me later admitting I was right.
There is a particular joy in ignoring the chorus. It feels a bit rebellious, like wearing mismatched socks to a formal meeting just because you can. My instincts once told me to skip a big industry networking event that everyone swore was career-changing. I stayed home, ordered a takeaway, and watched three episodes of some trashy dating show while painting my nails a ridiculous shade of pink. The next day half the people who went were complaining about the awkward small talk and the warm white wine. I felt no FOMO whatsoever. Just pure contentment and slightly sticky fingers from the sweet and sour chicken.
Family Sunday roasts back in Basildon are another masterclass in loud opinions. Aunties and uncles pile in with their theories on everything from house prices to how I should be living. One uncle is convinced I need to move further out for a garden. Another insists the bank is a soul-sucking trap and I should retrain as a teacher. I sit there cutting my roast potatoes into neat little pieces, smiling, and letting the quiet voice remind me that my flat in Hackney is exactly where I want to be right now. The train ride home always feels lighter once I have tuned them out. Not in a rude way. Just in a self-preserving way. Because if I tried to follow every piece of advice at that table I would need a spreadsheet just to keep track of the contradictions.
Dating brings its own special brand of noise. Every app is full of profiles declaring what you should want, how you should present yourself, which hobbies make you interesting. Friends chip in with their own lists. Be more mysterious. Be more available. Never text first. Always text first. My instincts have saved me from more than one walking red flag by simply whispering not this one the second the conversation started feeling like a job interview. I have walked away from perfectly pleasant evenings because something in my chest said the spark was forced. No hard feelings. Just a quiet no thank you and a bus ride home with my dignity intact and my onesie waiting.
Even the wider world likes to shout. News cycles, opinion pieces, viral threads, all insisting you must feel a certain way about whatever is trending this week. I keep most of my views to myself because honestly who has the energy. But the quiet voice still filters it all. It tells me when something feels performative and when something feels genuine. It reminds me that most people are just trying their best with the information they have, and that getting worked up over strangers on the internet rarely improves anyone’s Sunday. I would rather spend that energy on a long walk along the canal or texting my tight little circle of mates to see who is free for a proper catch-up that involves actual eye contact and zero filters.
There was a stretch last year when I nearly let the noise win. Targets at work were brutal, my social battery was running on fumes, and every podcast seemed to be yelling about optimising every second of the day. I started second-guessing myself. Maybe I should be louder. Maybe I should post more. Maybe the stern supervisor façade needed a softer public rebrand. Then one evening I was out for a run, nothing fancy, just trainers and a hoodie, and the quiet voice cut through clear as anything. It said you already know who you are. You do not need a rebrand. You need a takeaway and an early night. So I did exactly that. The next morning the numbers still added up and I still liked the person staring back in the mirror.
Instincts are not perfect. Mine have occasionally nudged me toward a dodgy kebab at two in the morning that I later regretted. But even then the lesson landed softer than any lecture could. I have learned to treat that inner voice like a slightly sarcastic best friend who has seen me at my worst and still sticks around. It does not demand attention. It just waits until the loud opinions have exhausted themselves and then offers a simple alternative. Stay. Leave. Speak. Stay quiet. Order the chips. Skip the drama.
I think about the people who seem to live entirely by external volume. Always chasing the next hot take, the next life hack, the next person telling them who to be. It looks exhausting. My way is quieter and, if I am honest, a lot more fun. I get to keep the parts of myself that feel soft and hopeful without explaining them to a committee. I get to be strict at work and silly at home. I get to dream about that tall dark-haired someone who might one day match my energy without needing a focus group to approve the choice.
Last weekend I ignored every productivity tip in existence and spent Saturday afternoon in my baggy hoodie watching reality TV with the girls, offering commentary so savage it had us all crying with laughter. No one optimised anything. No one journaled. We just existed. And my instincts were right there the whole time, quietly approving, because sometimes the best decision is the one that leaves you happy and a little bit ridiculous.
The bus finally rolled into my stop that Thursday night and I hopped off still smiling at the celery juice memory. Somewhere out there an influencer was probably filming another video about the correct way to breathe. I walked home under the streetlights, keys jangling, already deciding that tomorrow I would trust the same quiet voice that has never once tried to sell me a course or a detox. It has guided me through promotions and heartbreaks and family dinners and late-night decisions that looked odd from the outside but felt exactly right from the inside. And that, more than any trending opinion, feels like the real win.
