When You Just Need Them to Admit It (and they won’t)

When a Construction Project Became Psychological

I am building a detached garage with an apartment above it. The project started with a hopeful budget of around $150,000 for the exterior — maybe about $250k in total. I was clear about that number in the first meeting, and the contractor said the project we were discussing was doable within that range. I made the decision to move forward based on that conversation.

My partner wanted a few upgrades along the way, including hurricane-rated windows, a specific roof color, and a bay window. I understood that those choices would increase the cost. Better materials cost more money, and I had no problem paying more for things we chose to add instead of upgrading down the road.

The surprises came from basic parts of the project that apparently had never been included in the original number.

Clearing the land, preparing the building pad, foundation work, fill dirt, and grading all appeared later as additional expenses. Many of them were labeled “change orders” and received roughly a thirty-percent markup.

That phrase, “change order” started getting under my skin. A change order sounds like the customer redesigned the project halfway through construction. Like I woke up on a Tuesday and decided I wanted to add a wine cellar to the project. But I was still asking for the same garage we had discussed in the first meeting. I had assumed the price of building it included the work required to prepare the land and place the structure on usable ground.

The price moved from around $150,000 to $257,000, then passed $300,000. By the time the project is finished, it will VERY likely approach half a million dollars. Had the contractor told me during the first meeting that the realistic cost could reach $500,000, I would have walked away and never started.

I made the decision based on one number and found myself financially committed to something entirely different.

The Cost of Changing Direction

The contract made the situation feel even tighter. As the contract fine print reads: reducing the scope of the project leaves me responsible for the profit the contractor expected to earn from the original construction.

Imagine the full garage-and-office project included around $100,000 in expected profit for the contractor. If I looked at the rising costs and decided to eliminate the apartment, plumbing, and most of the upstairs construction, I could still owe that original profit even though the larger project would never be completed. This means, If I want to reduce to a 70k garage, I still owe him the $100k he WOULD have earned. I could also lose the $40,000 deposit.

The price kept rising while my ability to leave kept shrinking. At one point, the movie 127 Hours came to mind, that I was willing to “cut my arm off” (surrendering a $40k deposit) to escape the financial abyss I was feeling trapped in.

Then the foundation was prepped roughly four feet above the surrounding yard. You do not need to understand construction to see the problem. A garage has to be accessible by car. I stood outside looking at the building and wondering how my 4” ground clearance Mustang was supposed to climb that distance without scraping underneath. The contractor’s response to me addressing this was, “if someone asks me to build a fence, I don’t ask what kind of dog you have and whether it could be contained by the fence.”

Now the project needed 20 truckloads of fill dirt, new grading, drainage planning, and some kind of driveway approach that would make the garage usable. Those questions seemed fairly important, and I believed they should have been addressed before anyone poured concrete.

By then, every interaction with the contractor carried the weight of everything that had happened before: the original budget, the recurring extras, the markup, the contract language, and the feeling that I had been locked into a project whose final cost barely resembled the one I agreed to build.

I wanted someone to say, “We should have caught this” or “you should have been told this.”

I received explanations about surveys, flood requirements, plans, and elevations. Every explanation sounded like a defense of the process while the physical result remained several feet above the yard.

My anger kept building. I replayed conversations while driving. I argued with the contractor in my head while taking a shower. I rewrote emails after I had already sent them. I kept believing that one clearer explanation would finally produce the acknowledgment I wanted.

A Catfish, a Gourd, and More Oil

Last Sunday morning, I went to meditation and stayed for the Dharma talk afterward. The teacher discussed grasping and introduced a Japanese painting created about six hundred years ago.

The painting shows a man trying to catch a catfish with a gourd. A gourd is a dried, hardened squash. It is smooth, rounded, and nearly useless for gripping a slippery fish. Catfish twist, flop, and are covered in slime. The entire scene is ridiculous by design.

Thirty-one Zen monks later wrote responses to the painting. Some explored what the different elements might represent. The fish could symbolize enlightenment, reality, desire, or the human mind. The man represents the person pursuing something, and the gourd represents the strategy he has chosen.

One monk suggested pouring oil on the gourd.

That response made me laugh. The tool already gives the man almost no grip, and the monk proposes making it even slicker.

The humor exposes a familiar pattern. A strategy stops producing what we want, and we respond by becoming more committed to that same strategy. We explain ourselves again. We gather more evidence. We initiate another conversation. We convince ourselves that the next attempt will finally accomplish what the previous ten could not.

That was exactly what I had been doing with the contractor. Each phone call carried the hope that this would finally be the conversation where someone admitted the project had been handled poorly. Every email became another attempt to break through. Every imaginary argument assumed that my point still had not been explained clearly enough.

Explanation had become my gourd. Each additional argument added more oil.

The Difference Between Pursuit and Grasping

The teacher emphasized that pursuit can be worthwhile. I appreciated that because many of the things I have pursued have significantly improved my life.

I wanted to become a therapist, own my practice, earn more money, start a podcast, and build this garage. Those decisions gave me freedom, opportunity, and a life I would never have had if I stayed where I was.

Grasping enters when we assign the pursuit an emotional job it can never permanently perform.

My practice gives me autonomy. It cannot remove uncertainty from life.

Money gives me options. It cannot guarantee that another expensive problem will never happen.

The garage can become useful space that improves my property. It cannot end every frustrating project or prevent every future conflict.

The contractor could admit that the work had been poorly planned. That admission could never lower the slab, recover the additional money, or return me to the moment before I signed the contract.

My anger had a legitimate basis. The financial consequences were real, and the construction questions deserved answers. Grasping appeared when my ability to settle became dependent on another person giving me the acknowledgment I believed I needed.

Why the Finish Line Keeps Moving

This also connects with dopamine and predictive reward. Dopamine helps the brain anticipate what may be rewarding and directs energy toward pursuing it. Before reaching a goal, we fill it with possibilities: freedom, security, recognition, relief, or the feeling that we have finally succeeded.

Then we reach it and adapt.

I have seen this with my podcast. I started recording because I wanted to reach people. The analytics initially helped me understand which topics and titles connected with listeners. Eventually, I noticed that I was checking because I wanted the numbers to make me feel something. Maybe the newest episode had taken off. Maybe the audience was growing. Maybe the numbers would prove that I was getting somewhere.

Before recording the first episode, I would have been thrilled to know that the podcast would eventually reach thousands of downloads and generate messages from people who found it useful. Once those things happened, they became familiar, and my attention moved toward the next milestone.

A download count can tell me how many times an episode was downloaded. It cannot answer whether I have “made it.” A bank balance can tell me how much money is available. It cannot eliminate uncertainty. An apology can acknowledge harm. It cannot give back the years that came before it.

The Fish Outside the Net

The Dharma talk included another Zen teaching preserved by Dōgen, a Japanese Buddhist teacher from the thirteenth century. Someone asks, “What does a golden-scaled fish eat after it has escaped the net?”

The response is, “I’ll tell you after you come out of the net.”

At first, the answer sounded evasive. Then I began to understand that the refusal may be the teaching. The person wants a description of freedom while still trying to turn freedom into another answer to acquire and possess.

The net may be the conditions we place in front of peace.

I will settle once the contractor admits what happened. I will relax once the garage is finished. I will feel secure when the business reaches a certain number. I will move on when I finally understand why someone hurt me.

Each condition places relief beyond the next outcome. Once one condition is satisfied, another appears.

What Job Have I Assigned This Thing?

I still want the garage finished correctly. I still expect contractors to answer legitimate questions and take responsibility for their work. I still want my business and podcast to grow.

The question I carried home from the Dharma talk was: What job have I assigned this thing?

Am I asking money to give me options or to eliminate uncertainty? Am I asking an apology to acknowledge harm or to restore something that has already been lost? Am I asking the contractor to answer practical questions or to regulate me by admitting that I was right?

Six hundred years ago, someone painted a man standing in the water with a smooth gourd, trying to catch a slippery catfish. One monk looked at the scene and suggested pouring oil on the gourd.

The next time I catch myself replaying the same conversation for the fiftieth time, convinced that one more explanation will finally produce the response I have been chasing, I will probably picture that monk asking:

“You know what would help?”

“Pour some oil on the gourd.”