Most days, I play Wordle from the NY Times.

On the days when my son Briggs is with me, we do it together. On days like today, when he’s with his dad, I typically text them how many tries it took me to solve it, and then they tell me the same.

His dad and I are divorced, but the three of us are still (and always) a family.

The Wordle play is both connective and playfully competitive.

Truth: Briggs and his dad typically solve Wordle in fewer tries than I do. I usually credit them with being better at puzzles. It’s 100% all in fun, and none of us are engaged in any kind of “who’s smarter than who” competition… though our son is a teenager, so by default, he knows everything. 😉

I had a bit of a revelation during my solo Wordle match yesterday.

I was approaching my third guess. I already knew four of the five letters: I, E, L, and T, and I knew that the T was at the end. Even though I had all this information, my brain couldn’t unsee the word “FIELD”—even though I knew that couldn’t be right.

After getting stuck on “FIELD” for what felt far too long, all I could hear were words that rhymed with “FIELD”—none of which could be the solution.

I was in a loop…until…I allowed myself to play with an answer I knew wasn’t “it.”

I submitted F-I-E-L-D and saw all the letters, except for the D, signal that I was getting closer.

Suddenly, “FILET” became visible, and I solved it in four.

It feels almost silly, but up until yesterday, I was approaching the game as a race to win with the fewest guesses. Now, I don’t think that’s the point whatsoever.

I think the object of the game is to show me how to shift my thinking, recognize when loops are hurting or not helping, and remember that not every attempt is about getting it right but rather about getting new information.

It’s a mindset I’ll carry into tomorrow’s biopsy.