You know what to do. You just forgot how to see it.

There are moments that feel like being paused mid-scene. Something’s ended—or is about to—but the next frame hasn’t loaded yet. You’re not sure what to say, what to fix, or which way to turn. You’re in a job you’ve outgrown but haven’t left. A project that lost its shape. A version of yourself you’re ready to step out of, but no idea who comes next.

In these moments, the usual routes to clarity—talking it through, writing a list, trying to be “rational”—don’t always work. You still feel tangled. Fogged. Unsure of whether you’re hesitating for a good reason, or just afraid. There’s a simple shift that can help.

Ask yourself:

If this were a film, and I was the central character, what would the audience want me to do next? It’s a strange but quietly transformative question. Because it forces you to step out of self-judgement—and into a different kind of perspective: one where you actually root for yourself.

We’re used to seeing our decisions through the lens of fear, habit, or self-doubt. But we see movie protagonists differently. We want them to rise. We want them to act with dignity, courage, and purpose. We can’t bear to watch them play small, betray themselves, or walk in circles. This perspective shift works because it removes the internal static. It gives us emotional distance from our default defences—while still honouring what we know to be true.

In a film, we would see it clearly:

• That the character isn’t weak, just overwhelmed..

• That they’ve stayed too long in a situation that’s draining them.

• That they’re ready—but scared.

• And that it’s time.

We’d be whispering from the back row, Come on. You’ve got this.
We’d want them to take the risk. Make the move. Speak the truth. Say no. Say yes. Walk away. Begin again.

The audience would know it. And somewhere in you, you already do too.

Try this:

Pick a situation that feels stuck—something in your work, identity, or sense of direction. Ask yourself: If this were a film, what would the audience want to happen next? Write it out like it’s a scene: “She walks out of the meeting and finally says what she meant. He closes the laptop, deletes the project, and lets it go.” Don’t edit. Just let it unfold. We tend to assume that insight comes from intellect. But clarity often comes from empathy. Not just for others, but for ourselves.

This is about switching roles—becoming the director, not just the character lost in the script. It’s about using imagination not to catastrophize, but to lead. Because sometimes the problem isn’t that we don’t know what to do. It’s that we’ve forgotten how to believe we deserve a story with movement.

This isn’t about grand gestures or plot twists. It’s about the next honest scene. The small, right action that aligns with your values—even if it’s hard, even if it’s quiet. And when you think of it that way, a few things become obvious. You wouldn’t let the character abandon their boundaries for approval. You wouldn’t let them accept being dismissed, overlooked, depleted. You wouldn’t let them keep waiting for permission to change.

You’d want them to move. To speak. To choose.

We know what we need. But we lose sight of it in the mess of daily life, in the noise of external expectations and internal hesitation. So let your imagination help you remember. Not to escape reality—but to shape it. You are allowed to root for yourself. To want a story that holds integrity. And to choose—even now, especially now—to keep the plot moving.

So if this is your scene—what happens next?