The Thinking Cap

Anna was a shy little girl whom most people barely noticed. This suited her perfectly, as being the centre of attention—especially from strangers—made her deeply uncomfortable.

Anyone who took the time to know her would find Anna to be a rather engaging child, with a good sense of humour and low self-esteem—and that was that. Or so it would have been, if an extraordinary thing hadn’t taken place one Saturday morning.

Anna was out playing with her imaginary friends. She found them far more appealing than the children at school, who seemed hell-bent on making fun of her. On this particular Saturday, as Anna charged around a field on her imaginary horse, she came upon a beautifully coloured—though somewhat battered-looking—hat.

“Goodness, I wonder what kind of person wore this hat?” she pondered as she stooped to pick it up.

It looked like a clever hat. Anna couldn’t explain why she thought that, but the idea arrived in her mind fully formed, as though the hat itself had suggested it. She gave it a shake, brushing a few bits of grass from it. A moment later, it was placed at a jaunty angle on her curly-haired little head.

Anna immediately felt important and jumped back onto her horse, marvelling at the wonderful adventure she was having. Off she charged in the direction of home, feeling resplendent in her new hat.

“Mummy, look at my new hat! I found it over the field!” she exclaimed.

“Very nice, dear. It suits you,” muttered her mother, hardly glancing in Anna’s direction. She was used to Anna’s vivid imagination and saw no point in stating the blindingly obvious—that there wasn’t a hat.

That night, Anna found she could do her homework more easily, discovering solutions that had previously eluded her.

“I shall wear this hat to school tomorrow, as I’m cleverer when I wear it,” she thought.

Sure enough, school was much easier than normal, and the other children were nicer to her—mostly because she could help them with their work.

Anna had been wearing her hat for six months now and didn’t take it off, even when having a bath or sleeping. She was convinced the hat had made her life better and that it brought her friends and approval.

And so it was that Anna sailed through her school years, winning admiration from her peers and delighting her parents and teachers with her progress. She had long since stopped telling people about her hat, as they only gave her odd looks.

Today is Anna’s birthday, and she has reached the big three-oh!

Life has been good to her. She adored her husband and two children and was proud that she had continued to educate herself despite the demands of family life. Anna had become a perpetual student, always hungry to learn and explore the depths of her own mind.

Anna had long forgotten about her beautiful hat, which still sat at a jaunty angle on her curly hair.

These days, however, she is prone to headaches and an inability to switch off. Sleep has become a rare luxury—not because of the children or a busy schedule, but because of her restless mind.

“If only I could stop thinking for just five minutes, I could get some peace,” she thought.

Fast forward to Anna’s fortieth birthday, and she has treated herself to a session with a counsellor, on the recommendation—and generous favour—of a friend who is seriously worried about her.

It is quite obvious that Anna is hurtling towards a nervous breakdown, and a little gentle persuasion—combined with the fact that the friend had already paid for the session—made it difficult for Anna to decline.

The first thing the counsellor asked Anna was, “Where did you get that hat?”

Anna looked confused. She had completely forgotten she was wearing it, and no one had ever given it any notice.

“Oh, you mean this old thing? It’s who I am,” she replied.

The counsellor was troubled. This wasn’t the first Thinking Cap she had seen. She knew she was up against it in persuading this lovely woman to remove it. It isn’t easy getting perfectionists and over-thinkers to take off their Thinking Caps—their identities are often woven tightly into the fabric of the hats they wear.

If only they could see that it isn’t being clever or perfect that makes people like them, but their wonderful personalities.

The counsellor suggested that Anna bring her husband along to the next session, if he was able.

That night at dinner, Anna shared what had happened during the session—though not the part about the hat.

Her husband was thrilled to go with her, as he was often worried about his wife’s sanity. She could escalate the smallest inconvenience into a monumental problem, and it was painful to watch her overthinking cause such distress—for her and, dare he admit it, for him as well.

And quite frankly, if she didn’t sort out her sleeping, he would soon be forced to sleep in the spare room.

Sleeping beside Anna was like sharing a bed with an octopus—arms and legs flailing everywhere. Thank goodness she couldn’t squirt black ink! She saved that for her writing projects—though not literally squirting it, you understand. No, she could certainly write beautiful words.

She had even managed to wear holes in the pillowcases from all the tossing and turning.

Anna did a lot of thinking—of course—about her long-forgotten hat.

It had made her feel important. She had gained confidence and respect through wearing it. But what would happen if she took it off?

Goodness—her brains might fall out! Surely the hat was keeping them in.

Or worse—perhaps she didn’t have a brain at all. Maybe it had shrunk to the size of a pea… or a grain of rice… or even a mustard seed.

(Overthinking again.)

Finally, she plucked up the courage to remove the hat. She expected it might hurt, but it lifted from her head as easily as when it had first settled there.

“Now what?” thought Anna.

Dare she venture out today?

She knew she had to. She had a busy day at the office, though she was ashamed to admit she was seriously tempted to phone in sick.

To her great surprise, the office did not grind to a halt when she walked through the door. No one stared at her strangely or said anything unpleasant. In fact, everything seemed perfectly normal.

She relaxed and got on with her day.

By lunchtime, she was perfectly comfortable without her hat. She didn’t feel exposed at all.

Lunch was a revelation. Sitting with colleagues, enjoying the usual banter, she realised she was witty and entertaining—even if she did say so herself.

As the week progressed, Anna felt more relaxed. She stopped using her iPad in bed, and sleep came more easily.

Anna decided she didn’t want her husband to attend the next counselling session with her. In fact, she wasn’t even sure she needed the session anymore—but her husband thought it wise they should both still go.

“Goodness,” thought Anna, “I hope the counsellor doesn’t mention my hat!”

But Anna need not have worried.

The counsellor immediately put her at ease by commenting on how lovely Anna’s hair looked today—less weighed down than the last time she had seen her.

“Have you had it cut?” she asked.

Anna thanked her and shared the progress she had made.

“I realise now that all my life I’ve wanted people to like me,” Anna said. “I thought that if I were clever, they would notice me for the right reasons. I never once stopped to think that I might be likeable just as I am.”

The session concluded with the counsellor saying she felt Anna didn’t need to return for further counselling.

Anna was delighted.

As Anna skipped out of the room, lighter than she had felt in years, the counsellor sighed to herself.

It would only be a matter of time before Anna’s husband came through the same door alone.

She had noticed the Fear-of-Failure Cap he was wearing.