The wrong car and the lens of belief

Last week we celebrated Luca’s birthday. As always, the morning of the party carried its own chaos; last-minute decorations, the cake, and the little things you only remember on the day itself. Quirin had taken the kids out in one car, leaving me with our second car. I slipped into the driver’s seat, pressed the start button, and was met with silence. The dashboard told me the key couldn’t be found.

After a few stubborn attempts, the car finally started, and I thought nothing more of it. I stopped at a nearby shop for coffee and some groceries, then returned to the car; only this time, nothing. The doors wouldn’t unlock. I pressed the key again and again, circling the car as if my persistence could force it to recognise me. Convinced it was a battery problem, I replaced it. Still nothing.

By then, I was frustrated, sure the car itself had failed me. With no other option, I left the groceries at the shop and walked twenty minutes home for the spare key. My whole morning felt ruined. When I finally returned, Quirin drove me back to the shopping villa, and he help me with the bags and was waiting by the car. Only I walked straight past him and tried to open another one, parked just two spaces away.

“Sabrina, no, that’s not our car.”

I was so fixed on the idea that the car key had broken down that I couldn’t even consider the possibility that I was standing at the wrong one. My earlier struggle with the key had set my mind in a story, and from there, every new detail seemed to confirm it.

It wasn’t just about the car. This moment brought back other times when bias blurred the truth in front of me.

I remembered being twelve weeks pregnant with Luca, walking into the scan room. The sonographer asked my age (yes, I had Luca quite late) and from that moment, it felt like her eyes carried an assumption. A wrong measurement led to a misdiagnosis of Down syndrome. For weeks, we lived under that belief, only to learn later that it was false. Her conviction shaped mine, and it coloured how I experienced those days of waiting.

More recently, I spoke with a property owner who was convinced our systems were failing her. A past mistake had imprinted itself so strongly that every new inquiry seemed to her like proof of another failure. Even when the evidence showed otherwise, her bias was louder than reality.

And it isn’t just in these personal moments. Bias is woven into the fabric of our society. It shows up in the quiet but persistent assumptions about who belongs where. That men belong in boardrooms while women belong at home. That women can lead households but not countries. That childcare is instinctively feminine, while strategy and leadership are instinctively masculine. These ingrained beliefs act like invisible keys, locking and unlocking what we believe is possible, for ourselves, and for each other.

That Saturday morning, standing in front of the wrong car with the right key, I realised how strong a story can become once we decide it’s true. Even when the truth is calling our name just a few steps away, bias can hold us firmly in place.

What beliefs are you holding onto so tightly that they’re shaping what you see — even when the truth is standing right in front of you?

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