Who’s in Charge? How to Manage the Voices Within
About a year ago, while I was being interviewed on the Running Deep Podcast, the host asked me a question that has turned into a thought experiment—and a tool—I’ve used ever since.
He asked, “When making a decision or when you are deep in thought, who is in charge?”
The question caught me off guard. My immediate reaction was, Well, it depends. What’s the decision about? Who will it affect?
Our conversation continued, but the question stuck with me. Eventually, I interrupted him. “Can we circle back to the ‘who is in charge’ question?” He smiled and nodded. I paused for a moment and said, “The answer is, I am. I am in charge.”
He looked at me a little puzzled, almost as if to say, Well, of course you are. Who else would it be? But I wasn’t done. I had started picturing something in my mind.
A giant boardroom, high on the top floor of a skyscraper—the kind you see in movies. Sleek and modern, panoramic views of the city, a long table surrounded by chairs, with one seat at the head. That seat belongs to me.
This boardroom isn’t running a company in the traditional sense.
The company is my life. And sitting around that table are all the different versions of me.
To my left sits “husband me.” He’s usually dressed casually—T-shirt, shorts, the kind of clothes I wear around the house. But if we’re discussing something serious that deeply impacts my marriage, maybe he shows up in a suit. To my right is “father me.” His job is to make sure the decisions we’re making are ones my kids can be proud of.
Around them sit the other versions of me: nonprofit founder, speaker, ultra-runner, friend, brother, mentor, and more. Each gets a seat. Each gets a voice.
Depending on the decision, one version of me might have more input than the others. If I’m making a decision about my marriage, “husband me” gets a lot of say—but “father me” and “friend me” may have something to contribute too. If it’s about the foundation, “nonprofit founder me” is going to have a strong opinion, but “husband me” still keeps an eye on things. Because life doesn’t happen in silos.
And then, at the far end of the table, sits “alcoholic me.”
This version of me isn’t front and center anymore. But he’s still there.
For most of my adult life, “alcoholic me” wasn’t just sitting at the table—he was running the damn show. He didn’t quietly offer his opinion. He sat right next to me, and sometimes he took my seat at the head of the table.
He dictated how we lived, how decisions were made, and how we could make sure alcohol played a role in nearly every choice, plan, and thought. He was loud. Brash. Obnoxious. He didn’t care what “husband me” or “father me” thought. His decisions were selfish and focused on one thing: drinking.
He planned our days around when and where we could drink, how we could hide it from family, and how we could maintain that life without being found out. And he was good at his job.
Then things changed. As I got sober and began rebuilding my life, “alcoholic me” lost his power. He doesn't make the decisions anymore.
For a long time, I thought his new role was simply to sit quietly at the far end of the table. He couldn’t be fired—he would always have a seat because he is part of me—but maybe we would only listen to him when we needed a reminder of where we never wanted to go again.
Then a good friend challenged me on that. I was explaining this boardroom exercise to her when she said, “Can I make a suggestion?”
“Of course.”
“You need to give alcoholic you a job,” she said. “He needs something to do. Just because he’s an addict doesn’t mean he can’t contribute.”
That stopped me. Because she was right.
“Alcoholic me” had been contributing all along. Maybe his new job was consultant. He has a lot to offer the rest of the boardroom.
He understands obsession. He understands persistence. He understands what it means to become completely focused on something. Those traits nearly destroyed my life when they were pointed toward alcohol. But pointed somewhere else? They can be incredibly powerful.
Years ago, I heard a friend in recovery talk about how ashamed he had once been of his addiction. Like me, he tried to “beat the addict” out of himself with running. Marathon after marathon. Mile after mile. Trying to make himself feel normal.
I understood exactly what he meant. I spent years embarrassed and ashamed of what I had allowed myself to become and the people I hurt along the way. I wanted to outrun the addict. I wanted to leave him behind.
Eventually, I realized I didn't need to. That part of me isn't something I have to spend the rest of my life being ashamed of. In fact, some of the traits that fueled my addiction are now among my greatest strengths.
That obsessive focus can become determination. Stubbornness can become perseverance. The ability to endure discomfort can become resilience.
The guy who once organized his entire life around alcohol now helps “ultra-runner me” keep moving when everything hurts and my brain is telling me to quit. He helps “nonprofit founder me” keep going when building something meaningful gets difficult. He reminds “husband me,” “father me,” and “friend me” about humility, honesty, and the consequences of forgetting what really matters.
A friend once described being an addict as a kind of superpower. I like that. But like any superpower, it has to be wielded for good instead of evil.
If I let “alcoholic me” take over the boardroom again, he could very quickly become the villain of my story. But if I recognize his strengths and give him a productive role, he can be an asset instead of a liability.
And that's the bigger lesson I've taken from this exercise: I am not any single person sitting at that table.
I am not just “husband me.” I am not just “father me.” I am not just “ultra-runner me.” And I am certainly not just “alcoholic me.”
They are all parts of me. But I am the person sitting at the head of the table. I'm the CEO of the boardroom.
And that distinction matters. Because identities change.
Imagine that one day I developed terrible arthritis in my knees and could never run another ultramarathon. Would I be sad? Absolutely. I would mourn that part of my life. There are races I still want to run and goals I haven't achieved.
But I would be okay. The company would be okay. Because my entire identity isn't tied up in “ultra-runner me.”
If the day comes when he has to retire, we'll throw him a going-away party. We'll have balloons and cake. We'll thank him for his service. And then we'll hire somebody else.
Maybe the new board member will be a mountain biker. A swimmer. Maybe even a bird-watcher. Who knows? The point is that the boardroom remains. And the person at the head of the table remains.
So take a moment and think about your own boardroom. Who is sitting at your table?
Leader. Parent. Spouse. Employee. Entrepreneur. Athlete. Caregiver. Friend.
Maybe there are also versions of yourself you're less proud of. The person who failed. The person who made a terrible decision. The person who struggled with addiction, anger, fear, insecurity, or shame.
Do any of those people have too much power? Have you confused one of them with who you are?
What would happen if one of your most important identities disappeared tomorrow? If you could no longer be a teacher, lawyer, executive, runner, parent, business owner, or whatever title you've built your identity around—would you still be you?
I believe the answer is yes.
We are all multifaceted. We're made up of different identities, experiences, strengths, failures, relationships, and roles. They deserve seats at the table. Some deserve louder voices than others. Some may need to be moved to the other end of the room. And some of the parts we've spent years trying to get rid of may simply need a better job.
But none of them gets the chair at the head of the table. That chair belongs to you.
So the next time you're facing a difficult decision, take a seat in your own boardroom. Look around the table. Ask who has the best input. Ask who has been running the show for too long. Ask whether there's a voice you've been trying to silence that might actually have something useful to contribute.
Then remember the most important part:
You're in charge. Lead accordingly.
