While studying psychology, I spent six weeks living in a mental asylum. In that short time, I learned more about human nature from the patients than I did in six years at university.

One patient stood out: Sheila, but everyone called her Tabasco.

She was a beautiful girl who always wore long sleeves to conceal the deep scars across her forearms.

Back then, I dreamed of becoming the world’s greatest psychologist, so I’ll admit I was captivated by Tabasco and the weight of her past struggles.

I had this idea that the key to humanity’s salvation was buried in the wounds of those who had suffered the most.

For me, Tabasco was a psychology professor, and I hoped I could learn what poisoned her previous self to create a tonic with her that we could share to cure our communities.

We spend hundreds of hours talking, but one day, during an art therapy session, we were tasked with creating something meaningful out of clay.

She sculpted a vase. I molded a brain. (It’s the brain I hold in this article as a picture.)

As we worked, I glanced at her arms—her scars impossible to ignore, like an elephant in a china shop—and asked, “Why did you do that?”

She explained it was a tactic she’d discovered as a child, during the years her father molested her.

“The first time I found the technique,” she said, “was the night he slept with me. The night I lost my virginity”

Her father, she told me, was an evil man, particularly when drunk—and he was drunk often, from what she said.

“He was the smartest man I’ve ever known. Even blackout drunk, he could feel people like a therapist—see what mattered most to them—and then rip it apart in front of their eyes. He was a master torturer. What was most important to me was my sister. So when he came to my room at night, he’d whisper in my ear that he’d hurt her if I told anyone.”

“That very first night, I dug my fingernail into my arm and scratched as hard as I could. It helped me take my mind off what was happening. I was in control again and could stay quiet. One pain can silence another.”

The habit grew over time. “Sometimes I had to smuggle a knife into my room when it was too much to be in that house.”

“So why do they call you Tabasco?” I asked.

She smiled and pulled a small bottle from her pocket, holding it up. “My dad eventually died, and I moved away from that house, but sometimes, when life becomes too much or his ghost visits me, I’ll take a shot of Tabasco to snap back to clarity and take control again. Also, I think it’s delicious and love spicy stuff. And it leaves no scars.”

From then on, it became our secret ritual. Whenever something messed up happened on Station 10, we’d look at each other and take a shot of Tabasco together.

We lost touch after our time in the station, but even now, I carry a bottle of Tabasco with me in my backpack.

In moments of overwhelm, when I’m hard-pressed or in real trouble and need to think straight, I take a shot sometimes. It reminds me that leaders exist who’ve endured more than me and that there are no limits to how strong an individual can be.

I owe much of my love for humanity to Tabasco and the patients of Station 10. They opened my eyes to the suffering that binds us—the silent wars, the unseen scars. If pain is certain, then so is our need for each other.

Yours

Daniel

PS - Here is Homework

Quest: Become A Behaviour Detective

One of the things we can learn from Tabasco is that every bad habit is just an attempt to find the right thing in the wrong place.

In the following exercise, it’s your job to work on your leadership by working on your character.

Use the tool below to identify disempowering behaviors from your past that rob you of your strength and replace them with a new substitute—one that gives you what you need without the damage of the old habit.

And get a bottle of Tabasco and carry it with you.

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