Wednesday Survival Tip — The 3-second pause

Survival Strategies
1

First weekly survival tip, and I’m starting with something small that made a bigger difference than I expected.

The 3-second pause.

When that message arrives — the one designed to provoke you, the one wrapped in just enough subtle accusation to make your fingers start typing a furious response — just stop. One. Two. Three.

Those three seconds create a tiny space between the provocation and your reaction. And in that space, you get to choose who you want to be.

During my divorce and the years of conflict that followed, communication with my ex was reduced to strained, formal text messages. Every exchange felt like walking through a minefield. She was looking for anything that could be used against me — any reaction, any sign of anger that could be twisted into evidence. And I knew it, but the urge to defend myself was overwhelming.

Before I learned to pause, I’d respond immediately. Explaining, defending, sometimes getting sharp. And every single time, it made things worse. Gave ammunition. Made me look reactive.

The pause doesn’t make the anger disappear. I still felt that surge of injustice. But those three seconds reminded me of something I write about in the book — Viktor Frankl’s insight: “Everything can be taken from a person but one thing: the last of the human freedoms — to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances.”

That’s what the pause gives you. Not control over the situation, but control over your response. And in a PA situation, your response is often the only thing you actually control.

Sometimes after those three seconds, I’d delete my draft entirely and respond hours later with just the facts. No defending, no emotion, no fuel for the fire.

It’s not about being passive. It’s about not letting someone else’s hostility become your identity.

Three seconds. Try it this week.

Malcolm

2

I learned this lesson the expensive way. My lawyer actually told me to print out some of my early text exchanges with my ex and read them back like I was the judge. Holy hell, was that a wake-up call.

The worst part? I thought I was being so reasonable in those messages. Explaining why I wasn’t late, why the soccer cleats were in my car not hers, defending every little accusation. But reading them later, I just looked… exhausted. Reactive. Like someone getting pulled into every single fight.

Now when that familiar ping comes at weird hours — and it’s always weird hours — I literally put the phone face down and walk away. Kitchen, bathroom, wherever. Come back when I can respond like the dad I want to be, not the ex-husband she’s trying to trigger.

Your Sunday 11pm thing hits home. Mine favors Thursday afternoons, right when I’m trying to wrap up work and get ready for my weekend with my kids. Clockwork.

3

This is gold, Malcolm. I’ve been in family court for eight months now and I wish someone had told me about this pause thing back in March when everything started going sideways.

My ex does the exact same Sunday night special, except she waits until around 10:30pm — just late enough that I’m winding down but not quite asleep yet. Always about the kids needing something or me apparently screwing up some detail about pickup times. Last Sunday it was “Jake is really disappointed you didn’t pack his soccer cleats in his overnight bag — he had to sit out practice today.” Classic move, right? Makes me sound like the neglectful dad while she gets to be the concerned mom just looking out for our son.

Before I started working with my lawyer Sarah, I would’ve been typing paragraphs back explaining that Jake never mentioned soccer practice, that I asked him twice what he needed, that maybe if she actually communicated the schedule properly instead of changing things last minute… you get the picture. Sarah actually showed me some of those old text threads during our second meeting and just shook her head. “Mike, every one of these responses makes you look defensive. The judge is going to read this as two parents who can’t communicate.”

That was my wake-up call. Now when that phone buzzes late at night, I literally put it face down and count. One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi. Sometimes I have to do it twice because that first surge of “oh hell no” is still pretty strong. But you’re absolutely right — those three seconds let me remember I’m building a case here, not just defending my ego. My response now would be something like “Will make sure he has cleats next time” and that’s it. No explaining, no defending, just acknowledging and moving on.

The hardest part is remembering that every single text exchange could end up printed out and sitting on a judge’s desk someday.

4

Same here with the Sunday night texts — it’s like they have a playbook. Those three seconds are gold.