My old Honda, in the countryside with the youngest member of my family.
“The oil leaks, and the engine needs to be replaced,” was what I heard from a mechanic at a shop I’d used for many years.
They knew my car well and had already tried a few less invasive and cheaper solutions to the problem.
Everyone told me that Honda engines are pretty much indestructible and that I was very unlucky that mine had started leaking like this.
That’s when the abstract idea of “a problem” turned into a decision I actually had to make.
There were a few solutions I considered: repairing the car, selling it and buying another, or selling it and living without one.
Not all of these options felt equally realistic. Ruling out the last one was the easiest. No matter how I looked at it, my family needed a car, and owning one rather than renting was almost always cheaper and more convenient. Relying on bikes, buses, or trains didn’t work for our use cases.
That left me with two real options.
Repairing the car had one big “if”. It was relatively expensive, but it would be okay if the problem was solved on the first attempt.
My car is several years old, and replacing the engine is uneconomical unless you buy a used one. But you never know what you are buying. There is no way to be sure upfront. If you get a bad one, you might need to replace it again—and the cost spirals.
Given how uncertain all this was, I wanted more opinions.
I spoke with a few trusted mechanics, hoping for clarity. I didn’t get it. One advised selling the car after a streak of bad engine replacements. Others were cautiously optimistic, but none could say how likely success really was.
After collecting different perspectives, I noticed something else: before I reached a conclusion, my body already had a reaction. I was subconsciously evaluating how I’d feel if the new engine failed.
That bodily signal made each possible outcome feel more vivid. I started asking myself: Would I feel bad that I perhaps made a bad call? Or would the additional money and trouble be acceptable, knowing the problem would be solved?
As I felt it physically, the risks, costs, and inconveniences became just factors; what really mattered was how I would feel at the end.
With that realization, I turned to the second option: selling the car and finding a new one. I figured it made sense to look for something newer, but still used. The scenario was less vivid, since I didn’t have a specific car in mind.
To make it more concrete, I needed to see an actual car. After a few conversations with my wife, we picked a model that seemed promising, and I booked a meeting at a local car dealer to have a look and a quick ride.
I took it for a short drive with my favorite music playing. It felt nice—comfortable, modern, effortless. And that was the moment I realized: I didn’t need it.
Objectively, the decision made sense. Upgrading to a newer car would be rational for many people—higher reliability and new features for the next 10 years. But for me, the money required for that difference wasn’t worth it. After mentally running through it, I realized it wouldn’t make a meaningful difference to me personally.
The engine problem, however, wasn’t going away. Even as I considered whether a new car made sense, I knew the old car still needed attention. Selling it—or repairing it—remained part of the puzzle, and I had to weigh each possibility carefully.
One of the mechanics had already offered to buy it, knowing exactly what was wrong and able to fix it himself. It was a clean exit: less risk, a reasonable price, and the chance to move on.
When I finally called him, the offer was acceptable but not great. Almost immediately, I started second-guessing myself. Was I overreacting? Was the risk really that high? I still couldn’t decide—I needed to imagine how each option would actually feel before committing.
After mentally walking through repairing the car, selling it, or buying a replacement, the decision stopped being abstract. Cold calculations gained emotional context.
That led to a second revelation. I was not only making emotional decisions, but I was also okay with whatever scenario I would go with. My options stopped being some abstract future. I could sense each one, imagine my emotional state within it.
I struggled with uncertainty, with the idea of doing something that might make me feel bad. Now, the unknown was largely gone, and I could pick any option without much worry.
Looking back, the way I made the decision surprised me.
From the outside, a rational decision looks like optimizing costs, probabilities, and outcomes.
From the inside, it feels like choosing a future you’re willing to inhabit.
By the time I decided what to do with the car, I had already lived through each option in my head. That didn’t make the risks disappear, but it made them familiar.
In the end, my choice wasn’t about logic alone. It wasn’t about the lowest cost or the smallest risk—it was about which future I could live with, the one that felt right once I had imagined it fully. By exploring how each scenario would make me feel, I didn’t just calm my nerves. I uncovered which options were truly practical, manageable, and aligned with my life.
What I experienced isn’t just introspection—research suggests it’s how humans actually make better decisions. Emotions act as signals, helping us weigh factors that can’t be easily calculated: the uncertainty of a used engine, the hassle of a failed repair, or the value of comfort and familiarity. When we bring these signals into the decision process, we can avoid costly mistakes, focus on realistic options, and choose paths that both satisfy us and make sense in the real world.
Maybe people can’t be purely rational—and maybe that’s a good thing. Because decisions that account for how we feel don’t just leave us at peace—they often turn out to be better decisions in every meaningful sense: practical, livable, and aligned with the outcomes we actually care about.