Who’s Driving Your Car? — The Inner Parts That Hijack Your Reactions
There’s a moment most of us know too well — that split second when something in you takes the wheel, floors the gas, and later you’re staring at the emotional wreckage thinking, Why the hell did I do that?
IFS calls these protectors. Daily life just calls it being human.
This is the deeper story of what’s actually happening in your mind when you get hijacked — and how you start getting the keys back from parts of you that have been driving for decades.
The Car Ride That’s Your Inner World
Imagine your mind as a car. Not a perfect metaphor, but close enough that once you see it, you can’t unsee it. You think you are behind the wheel, but the car is full of passengers with their own opinions, their own anxieties, their own lived history, and their own sense of urgency.
Anger leans up from the backseat ready to grab the wheel the second something feels unfair.
Shame is slumped against the window pretending not to watch you, but cataloging every move you make.
Fear has one hand hovering over the emergency brake.
Hesitation whispers worst-case scenarios.
Joy sometimes rides shotgun with her feet up, but she’s not always allowed in the car on the days you need her most.
Half the time, the part that reacts isn’t chosen — it’s the one with the fastest reflexes.
IFS doesn’t pathologize this dynamic. It says: This is what a normal, layered human mind looks like. We are a system of parts, not a single unified personality. Some of those parts have been driving for so long they assume the title “default driver.”
And most of them learned their roles a long, long time ago.
From “I Am” to “A Part of Me”
One of the cleanest, most transformative moves in IFS is also the quietest:
Replace “I am” with “A part of me.”
“I’m overwhelmed” becomes “A part of me feels overwhelmed.”
“I’m jealous” becomes “A part of me feels threatened.”
“I’m vengeful” becomes “A part of me wants payback right now.”
That tiny linguistic shift creates psychological space — just enough room to breathe, observe, and stay conscious instead of fusing with whatever emotion is slamming on the gas.
For me, this was the crack of daylight.
I realized:
I am not the anger.
I am not the shame.
I am not the impulse.
A part of me carries those things. And if it’s a part, then the rest of me is still available. Still capable of leading.
That’s where change starts.
My Own Story: When Anger Drove the Car
For a long time — years, honestly — anger was the one behind the wheel, even when I pretended it wasn’t.
I spent entire seasons of life trying to “rise above it,” stay reasonable, be the composed one. And then someone would touch the exact bruise I’d been hiding, and the whole thing would blow open. I’d look around the table at family dinner and see the shock on their faces before I even realized how fast I’d accelerated.
“Man, you need to deal with that anger.”
“You have to let that go.”
As if shame ever helped anyone calm down.
Early on, IFS sounded ridiculous to me. Too soft. Too emotional. Too “feel your feelings” for a guy wired through law enforcement, child protection, and the unspoken rule that vulnerability gets you hurt.
But when I revisited IFS years later — from a different level of maturity, recovery, and insight — I brought only a drop of that anger into the room. Just enough to test the safety.
And the therapist didn’t recoil.
Didn’t call it a defect.
Didn’t moralize.
Didn’t try to smother it with positivity or “skills.”
They welcomed it.
They respected it.
They let it speak.
That was the first time I heard, in a way I could actually receive, the core of this entire model:
Not metaphorically. Literally.
Even the parts that blow up your life.
Even the ones that drag you into chaos.
Even the ones that want revenge or oblivion.
Even the ones that think burning the whole thing down is the safest plan.
Those parts were shaped by what hurt you.
So I let anger talk. And something strange happened — it softened. Not because the story changed. Not because anything got fixed. But because, for the first time, that part wasn’t fighting for legitimacy.
When a part finally feels heard, the grip loosens. The wheel gets lighter in your hands.
Underneath all that anger was a simple throughline:
“How do I make sure this never happens again?”
And if you’ve lived through betrayal, abandonment, incompetent or abusive leadership, spiritual shaming, or emotional blindspots in the people who were supposed to protect you, then of course anger grabs the keys.
It believes it’s the only one capable of keeping you alive.
Protectors: What They’re Actually Doing
IFS breaks protectors into two broad categories, and you’ll recognize them instantly once you see it.
Managers
Managers are planners, controllers, perfectionists, overachievers, and hyper-responsible parts that try to prevent anything painful from happening again.
They micromanage everything:
your tone
your decisions
your relationships
your emotional “appropriateness”
They believe safety comes from control.
Firefighters
Firefighters rush in after the system gets triggered. They don’t plan — they react. Their job is to shut the emotion down right now by any means necessary:
anger
revenge fantasies
shutting down
overspending
sex
substances
impulsive escapes
numbing
blowing everything up so nothing can hurt you
Firefighters care about speed, not consequences.
Both types carry good intentions: keeping you from feeling pain you once couldn’t handle.
But they don’t trust your Self. Not at first. They’ve been in charge since childhood, adolescence, trauma, betrayal, early recovery, or whatever shape your story took.
They want proof — not insight — that you can lead.
The Recovery Layer: Who Am I Now?
This is where your newer podcast material changes the texture of the story.
For years, I called myself an alcoholic because that’s the language handed down in peer-led recovery. And for a stretch of life, maybe I needed it. Maybe it was a stabilizer. A reminder. A container that kept me alive long enough to grow.
But that language eventually stopped fitting.
I don’t drink because my nervous system cannot safely interface with alcohol — period. That’s not a moral defect; that’s neurobiology and lived history. My recovery isn’t fragile, but the risk is real.
So today the most accurate description is:
I’m a person in long-term recovery who knows that abstinence is the only safe lane for my system.
Not alcoholic as an identity.
Not fragile.
Not cured.
Just aware.
But stepping into that language lit up old protectors trained to fear “ego.”
To fear autonomy.
To fear owning my life without outsourcing authority to a group.
Self-leadership once felt dangerous — spiritually dangerous, emotionally dangerous, recovery-dangerous.
IFS reframed all of that.
Self isn’t ego.
Self is the opposite of ego — quiet, grounded, steady, non-defensive.
And when I let Self drive, those recovery-conditioned protectors finally exhaled.
Who Should Be Behind the Wheel?
IFS says the driver should be Self — the calm, centered, grounded presence underneath the noise.
Not the angry 17-year-old.
Not the humiliated version of you that swore “never again.”
Not the early-recovery voice terrified you’ll slip.
Not the child who learned compliance kept you safe.
Self doesn’t exile them.
Self listens.
Self leads.
When Self drives:
anger rests
shame loosens its grip
fear stops scanning the horizon for betrayal
the revenge part finally puts down the torch
and the old identity labels stop dictating your destiny
It’s not about becoming less emotional.
It’s about becoming more present.
Practice: Who’s Driving Right Now?
Here’s an experiment you can run this week.
When something spikes your system, ask:
“Who’s driving the car right now?”
Name the part.
Shift the language: “A part of me feels ___.”
Then ask:
“Can I invite Self to take the wheel?”
Not as a rejection.
As leadership.
When parts trust your Self, the whole emotional ecosystem reorganizes.
The car gets quieter.
Your choices get clearer.
And your life starts moving in the direction you actually meant to go.
