Нет экзамена

Эрик Салинас

Нет экзамена

Chapter

Copyright © 2025 Eric Salinas

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including information storage and retrieval systems, without the written permission of the author, except for brief quotations in book reviews.

Dedication

To Sylvanas, my love and faithful navigator, who sees the way as I do.

You showed me that words can be guides.

Preface

Since I started living a new life, my headaches have become much less frequent. Most of them were caused by stress—that same anxiety I carried around without even realizing it. I didn't cure myself of stress. I simply stopped adding fuel to a fire that was already blazing.

The changes happened gradually. I began to notice patterns I'd previously ignored. Things everyone considers normal may not be so immutable. Questions no one asks because the answers seem obvious.

It turned out that this was not the case.

I've been living differently for over a year now. It's not a method or a daily routine—it's a way of thinking. Something fundamental has changed in my perception of goals, competition, success, what's important and what's not.

I started sharing this with a colleague at work. He said it completely changed his perspective on the world. That's just one person. And I thought: if it resonated with him, maybe it will resonate with someone else too.

That's why I decided to write this book.

Not to teach you how to live. Not to convert you to some philosophy. Simply to share what I've noticed, what has changed in me, and to see if any of this resonates in your soul—something you felt but couldn't put into words.

I'll be telling stories from my life. If any of them resonate with you, then we're on the right track. If not, that's okay too. Everyone has their own life experiences, and therefore their own paths.

This is a dialogue. I'm not here to dispense ready-made wisdom or pose as an expert. I'm here to share what I've lived through firsthand.

If you're reading this, it means you're already curious.

Ready? Let's start the engine.

Introduction: Fasten your seat belts

Let's go for a ride (yes, in a car). During this ride, I want to show you something you might immediately recognize yourself in.

Do you know that feeling you get when you get into a brand new car? That smell, that thrill of discovery. You start figuring out where everything is. What this button does. What this or that setting does. Days pass, and you discover features you never even knew existed. Some work exactly as you expected. Others are a complete surprise.

This book will feel much the same. We'll make discoveries—press buttons we've never touched before, test them out, and realize that some things work completely differently than we've always thought. Things we took for granted may look completely different from this new perspective.

Along the way, we'll make stops when we need to process what we've seen. To stretch our legs. To sit alone with a thought before moving on.

You drive every day, right? To work, to school, wherever. You know the route. The usual route. Traffic. Other cars around.

This is your path to a happier life.

You didn't come here empty-handed. You've lived long enough to understand things. You've been through a lot and developed instincts. You've made many choices to understand what's valuable to you. Whatever prompted you to pick up this book—curiosity, disappointment, good timing, or chance—you've arrived here drawing on all your accumulated experience.

You know your starting point, and you've probably overcome many obstacles along the way. But now you see other drivers on the track. And you're going to pass them to achieve the success you need. You already understand who you're competing against. You already know what 100% means. You know the decisions that brought you to this moment. You're here. You know that not everyone will go the same distance as you. Previous generations taught you how to drive, but now you understand that your eyes must be focused solely on the road ahead. No distractions. You know all this. You always knew.

Ready? Get behind the wheel.

Part 1: Beyond the Familiar Circle

Going beyond familiar territory, discovering new routes.

Chapter 1: You're Here

Your brain does this every time you get behind the wheel, and you probably never even noticed.

Have you ever noticed that any driver who drives faster than you is a reckless idiot, and anyone who drives slower is a klutz who doesn't know how to drive at all? This is no coincidence. It's the foundation for everything we're about to explore.

Driving in the middle lane

We've left the residential area. Look at the car in the next lane. Now look at the one in front. One of them is going faster than you, and your brain instantly labels it: aggressive driver, probably speeding, thinking he owns the road. The other one is going slower, and your brain goes back to his old tricks: why are they even occupying this lane? Didn't they learn to pull over to the right when you're crawling like a snail?

And here's the trick: both reactions arose because of YOUR speed. You are the reference point. You are zero on the speedometer of your world.

That car going 130 km/h? Its driver looks at the one doing 150 km/h and thinks exactly the same thing about him you just thought about him. And that driver you called slow? He looks at someone even slower with the same irritation you felt toward him.

Everyone is the center of their own coordinate system. You may have been told you're not the center of the universe, but you are definitely the center of YOUR universe, YOUR life. Everything you perceive as "fast" or "slow," "smart" or "stupid," "successful" or "unsuccessful" is measured relative to you as the baseline.

The endless cycle of competition

And this creates a problem. As soon as you start measuring yourself by others, you get trapped in an endless cycle.

Let's say you're driving along and you see someone ahead of you going faster. You accelerate to pass them. It's a nice feeling, right? But wait—now there's a new car ahead, and it's going even faster. You accelerate again. Pass it, too.

Only now another car has appeared, one you haven't seen before, and it's going even faster than the previous one.

And there's another one behind it.

And another one after that. And another.

In this race, you haven't really made any progress. You've simply changed the cars you're comparing yourself to. The moment you overtake the "fast" cars, a NEW set of even faster cars opens up in front of you, ones you couldn't see before. Think you're the last one left? There will always be someone else ahead. It's never over.

And it's not just about highway driving. It applies to everything.

Salaries: “I make 100k” sounds good until you meet someone making 200k, then someone making a million, then ten…

Fitness: "I can bench press 70 kg" – until you see someone who can bench press 100, then 150, then 200…

Subscribers: "I have 1,000 subscribers" – until you see an account with 10,000, then 100,000, then a million… Don't have a YouTube "golden play button"? Pfft…

The cycle never closes because you keep shifting the point of comparison every time you think you've "reached the goal."

Your odometer, not their speed.

Here's the paradigm shift: stop looking at the speed of other cars. Look at your odometer. At the distance you've traveled.

Your odometer measures distance traveled, not speed. Yesterday it read 1,000 kilometers. Today it reads 1,050. That's progress. Another fifty kilometers of experience, learning, life. That's the only measurement that matters.

Some days you'll travel 200 kilometers because the road is clear and the weather is perfect. Other days you'll travel only 10 because you're on a mountain road that requires caution. Both days added kilometers to your odometer. Both days moved you forward.

Maybe you're going 60 km/h today, but yesterday you were cruising at 110 km/h. That doesn't mean you're declining. It might mean that today's road requires you to slow down and admire the scenery—for example, while driving along the coast overlooking the ocean—or to carefully navigate a difficult section. Speed isn't what matters. What matters is the miles you're accumulating.

Is the person next to you driving faster or slower? Their odometer shows completely different numbers because they started from a different location, took different routes, and made different stops. Their mileage has nothing to do with your journey. Have a safe trip.

Compare your odometer with YOUR odometer from yesterday. It's the only comparison that makes sense.

The illusion of lane ownership

And while we're debunking ideas of false competition, let's deal with another illusion you live by: the right to own public space.

You're driving as usual, returning from work. You want to make it to your significant other's house on time, where they're waiting for you to go to the movies. You're momentarily distracted and suddenly don't notice a car swerve in front of you. You slam on the brakes, but end up rear-ending it.

A minor accident. No one was hurt. Plans? Ruined. The movie can wait. Everyone makes sure the other driver is okay. The insurance company arrives. A traffic police inspector. You tell the inspector your story: "I was driving within the speed limit, and suddenly this car cut into my lane. I just didn't have time to brake…"

There it is. Let's zoom out. The point of this story isn't the accident—this example was just needed to clarify something. "Your lane"?

Since when did this row become yours? Did you buy it? Is your name on the title deed? Do they give you title deeds when you drive onto the highway?

Traffic lanes are public. They belong to everyone. That other driver has exactly the same right to use that lane as you do.

But here's what happens when you think you own a lane: road rage. Once you believe that space is YOURS, any car entering it feels like an intrusion. Like someone breaking into your home. Your stress levels skyrocket because someone has "taken" something from you.

But they didn't. Because it was never yours.

I'm not saying you should be thrilled when someone changes lanes without signaling or cuts you off. I'm saying that the intensity of your anger is directly proportional to how much you feel like you own public space.

Reducing the level of rage

Look, I'm not going to tell you to never honk your horn or to never lose your temper. That's unrealistic and, frankly, not even a goal (and I'd be a terrible role model if I said otherwise).

Sometimes you NEED to honk. If someone is about to hit you, honk. If someone didn't notice the green light and there's a traffic jam building up behind you, a short blast of the horn will be helpful. If someone is moving into your lane, honk for safety.

The goal isn't to reduce road rage to zero. The goal is to have it at, say, 10% instead of 90%.

Be human. Get annoyed sometimes. But do it consciously. Ask yourself: "Am I honking for safety or for my ego?" Also, think about others and honk for them from time to time, for their safety. Sometimes they need it.

If a car cuts you off and you honk the horn for 10 seconds while yelling curse words, that's ego. At that point, you're not preventing an accident—the car has already cut you off. You're simply punishing the driver for disrespecting "your" lane. Revenge is a strange thing. And someone is always watching.

Your honking won't change their behavior. They'll either be indifferent, defensive, or give you an obscene hand signal. No one has ever thought in a moment of road rage, "You know, that angry honk actually taught me a valuable lesson about lane changing."

The only important coordinate

So, let's establish a fundamental rule for our entire journey:

You are your own [0,0] in your coordinate system [x, y].

Everything around you—speed, success, intelligence, beauty, wealth—is measured relative to YOUR position. And that's not arrogance. It's just physics. You can't measure anything without a reference point, and YOU are your reference point.

Other people are THEIR reference points. They measure you against themselves, just as you measure them against yourself.

No one makes mistakes. Everyone is simply driving their own route at their own pace, and their odometers show different numbers.

The problem isn't that you're the center of your own universe. The problem is thinking you should be the center of EVERYONE'S universe. Or, worse, believing in some kind of objective celestial scorecard that grades everyone you meet for their driving.

It doesn't exist.

There is no exam.

So stop comparing your speed to others. Stop thinking the lane is yours. Stop honking over every imaginary slight. Focus on YOUR route, YOUR progress, YOUR odometer compared to what it was yesterday.

That's where we'll start. Right here. In YOUR coordinates.

Ready to continue?

Chapter 2: 10,000 Rearview Mirrors

Nothing else in life reveals the different facets of your personality like driving a car.

Think back to all the times you've had passengers. Kids in the backseat on the way to school. A spouse in the front passenger seat on a long trip. Elderly parents driving to the doctor. Friends crammed into the car for a weekend getaway. A coworker you gave a ride to while their car was being repaired.

Each of them saw a completely different driver. From the passenger seat, the world looked different.

And it's not that you were pretending or putting on a show. It's just that different situations, different companions, and different roads awaken different versions of who you are behind the wheel.

Different passengers – different drivers

If you have kids, remember those family road trips. You grip the steering wheel tightly, worrying out loud about the gas mileage. You snap at them, "Stop fighting!" because the traffic jams are fraying your nerves.

Your voice is tense as you lose your way, yet stubbornly refuse to trust the GPS. You think the kids are thinking about the destination—the beach, the amusement park, or the mountains. But they're not.

They're focused on you. Children absorb everything. They watch the driver. Because the driver is in charge of their safety, their comfort, and their entire experience of the ride.

They don't care where they're going. They're watching how you get them there.

Now imagine your spouse or partner in the front seat.

This person sees a completely different driver than the one children see. They see you quickly changing directions when you're late—aggressively changing lanes, taking shortcuts, running yellow lights. But they also see you in the parking lot, wasting time reversing perfectly because you don't want to park crooked.

On the same trip they see you as both impatient and pedantic.

Your children see only a nervous driver. Your partner sees nuances—competence mixed with impatience, concern tinged with irritation. They know you're not just "one" driver; you're several different drivers, depending on the context.

And when your elderly parents are in the car? Suddenly, you become a completely different person.

You brake on yellow instead of accelerating. You keep a good distance from the car in front. You avoid changing lanes unless absolutely necessary. You verbalize your actions: "I'll change lanes now, just to let that car pass."

It's not fake. It's appropriate. You adapt your driving style to the needs of your passengers.

But if kids saw THIS version of you, they'd barely recognize the driver. Where did that person go who curses in "turtles" and races through courtyards to save three minutes?

And then there are those weekend trips with friends—windows wide open, music blasting, and you take the scenic route because no one's in a hurry. You even drive slower than the speed limit just to admire the view. You stop at random roadside cafes. You laugh about the wrong turn instead of freaking out.

Your other half would be shocked: “Since when do you like getting lost?”

But you haven't become a different person. You're just a different driver in a different context, with different passengers and different priorities.

Every weekday at two o'clock in the afternoon, you stand in line outside the school. You're patient. You're focused on safety. You move slowly. You let other parents pass. You're careful not to run into a child.

But three hours later, you leave work and hit rush hour. And then the game begins. Aggressive overtaking because you need to get home, cook dinner, and get the kids to activity by six.

Same driver. Same day. Completely different approaches.

So which one is the “real” you?

All.

Each of these versions is authentic. You're not putting on a mask—you're reacting to different roads, different passengers, and different circumstances.

If you tried to please ALL of your past passengers at once, you simply wouldn't be able to get going. Trying to do that is madness.

Children need you to be calm. Your partner needs you to be decisive and effective. Elderly parents need you to be careful and unhurried. Friends need you to be spontaneous and cheerful.

You'd have to be 10,000 different drivers to impress everyone who's ever sat in your car.

An unattainable ideal

We create an idealized image in our heads—the "perfect driver"—who would please everyone. Calm but decisive. Patient but efficient. Cautious but spontaneous.

And we exhaust ourselves trying to BE that version for everyone, all the time.

We feel like those around us are judging us based on how close we are to this ideal. We imagine passengers commenting on us: "When I was traveling with him, he was so nervous. Where's the cheerful, relaxed person he's supposed to be?"

Such a universal ideal version does not exist. And never has.

You're not "failing" to fulfill the role. You're pursuing something that was inherently impossible.

Your kids don't need the "happy travel version" of you when they're scared in the backseat during a thunderstorm – they need the confident, "I'm in control" version. Your elderly parents don't need your efficiency – they need your patience and caution. Your partner doesn't need the perpetually happy version of you – they need the honest, genuine you.

There's no test that determines whether you've become the "right" version of yourself. There are simply different roads that require different approaches, and different passengers who need different things from you.

Stop trying to perfect some "universal self." Start recognizing which version of yourself is truly useful in the moment you find yourself in.

Choosing passengers

You can't be all of them at once. But you can choose the version that best suits the route you're taking right now.

If you're driving children, it might be worth having a patient driver who comments on every step, rather than a nervous and rushed one. Not because one version is "real" and the other is false, but because this version will create the best memories for those who matter most on this particular trip.

If you're driving alone to clear your head, perhaps you should choose the "scenic route" over the "aggressive efficiency" route. Not because you "should" relax, but because that's the version that will benefit you right now.

Some people bring out in you a kind of driving behavior that you yourself don't really like.

Maybe there's someone sitting next to you who makes you feel judged, and you start driving more carefully than necessary—hesitating before every lane change, justifying every decision. Or, conversely, there's someone next to you who makes you feel competitive, and you start driving recklessly to prove a point.

The question isn't: which version of me is real? The question is: which version do I want to be and who do I want by my side?

You choose who gets in your car. You choose who takes the front seat. You choose who influences your driving.

Some passengers make you drive better. Others make you nervous. Some you just enjoy. Some you give rides to purely out of a sense of duty.

There's no exam that decides which passengers you keep and which version of yourself you'll be. But you do have a choice: who you allow into your car and what routes you take with them.

Let them have their version.

Here's a thought that can be uncomfortable: the people in your life have already formed their own version of you. And you have no idea what that version is. It's like hearing your voice on a recording. It may not match the image you've created for yourself—or the one you're trying to convey to them.

Let's say your child tells a story over family dinner: "Remember that trip when Dad got so lost that we ended up in that weird diner? It was so much fun!"

But you remember it differently. You didn't get lost—you deliberately turned off to check out the surroundings. And you were on the verge of a breakdown from stress, not having fun.

You have two options:

Option A: Correct them. – Actually, I wasn't lost. I was driving along a scenic route, and I wasn't feeling funny at all; I was terribly nervous.

Option B: Leave them their version. Because in THEIR memory, this moment remains a happy one. They remember laughing with their siblings. They remember that unusual cafe. They remember you as part of the adventure, not as someone who made a mistake.

Why take that away from them for the sake of technical accuracy?

It's their version of you that fills them, not your corrected reality. Their "distorted" memory of you is what they love. What they need from that moment. Your "correct" version won't help them—it will only feed your ego and your need to be understood correctly.

This applies to everyone. Your spouse remembers the version of you that's important to their story—often a version you're unaware of. That amazing person they married. The one who makes them feel safe, who notices them, or challenges them when they need it most. Your parents remember the version of you that fits their experience. Your friends remember the version of you from the time in their lives when you were there.

You can't force them to update their version to your current reality. And frankly, why would you?

Let people keep their version of you. If it's not harmful and gives them something important, let it be.

You're not a frozen image of a driver, perfectly imprinted in someone's memory. You're 10,000 versions of yourself in 10,000 different memories, and every single one of them is real. They'll stay there whether you like them or not.

There is no test that requires you to make someone else's memory match your official biography.

You are not trapped

You're not trapped in a single role. You're a collection of driving styles that manifest themselves in different contexts.

But just because you CAN drive nervously, impatiently, and anxiously doesn't mean you SHOULD continue to do so—especially if it's not serving you or the passengers you care about.

You can't control how past passengers remember you. Your children may remember you as a nervous wreck, even though you tried your best to be a better person. That's not in your control.

But you can control how you drive from now on. You can decide which version will manifest more often. You can decide which passengers will ride with you on a regular basis.

You don't have to remain the same driver everyone else saw forever. You choose which version of yourself will get behind the wheel tomorrow.

At the end of the journey, there will be no exam to judge the "correctness" of your choice. It will be just you, your car, your route, and the passengers you decided to take with you.