The Autonomic Wheel
Learning to drive your 300,000-year-old body
You're looking at Jordan's example wheel, a composite character from Chapter 12. Change anything to make it yours, or .
Two questions per spoke, rated on a sliding scale. Answer for the last week or so, from your body's point of view, not your résumé's. Then three open questions. It takes about ten minutes and it redraws your wheel.
Saving also resets your seven-day focus cycle from today.
Drag any dot, or use the sliders. Rate each spoke for the last three to six months. Not how your life looks on paper. How your body and Autopilot actually experience it. We're not doing math. We're drawing a shape.
This is your wheel, as drawn above, rolling over the week ahead. Small things are rumble strips, medium things are rocks, big things are potholes, and your nails are hills. Where a spoke is short the hub drops. Where a hazard lands on a short spoke the rim caves in. That's what "wobble" feels like from the inside, and why a bright office can end in a meltdown.
Not sure what to add? Try one of these:
A spoke's material is a record of how often you've tended it, not how high it scores. Score is today. Material is everything you've put in. It never goes backwards, even on a bad week.
Write at night about what the day actually held. Write in the morning about what you woke up with, and catch the dream before it evaporates. Whatever you write gets read for which spokes it touched, and the site answers with something specific.
Your wheel is alive. Older wheels fade to grey behind the one you're looking at. Down is allowed. Life doesn't always move in one direction.
No saved wheels yet. Do a weekly check-in or draw one by hand.
Not prizes for doing well. Every one of these is a record of having shown up, which is the only part you actually control.
A wobble is low tire pressure. A nail is an actual hole: a loss, limit, or reality that won't fully go away. Naming nails reduces shame, resets expectations, and stops the self-gaslighting. Nails you add here show up as pins on your wheel.
No nails named yet. You don't have to do this all at once.
Not a bootcamp. Driver's lessons for your specific wheel. One or two keystone spokes, a small menu of tools, a bare-minimum version for bad days, and a weekly check-in that doesn't become homework.
Fifteen to twenty minutes somewhere quiet. No shaming, just data. The Weekly Check-in tab asks these too; this is the place to log one any time.
Test tools. Make them small and frequent enough to be real. Re-rate your primary spoke at the end.
Keep what your nervous system liked. Shrink or replace what never happened.
Add care to the structures around your spoke: an appointment, an accommodation, a conversation. Redraw your wheel and compare.
Everything from the book you might need mid-week: the full tool charts, the emergency card and GPS protocol, the glossary, and the chapters themselves.
Your place in each chapter is remembered on this device.
Which face of wobble is this? Pick the one that fits. Then try one thing. Just one.
Tools tagged for this state are filtered in the Library, and Today will lean on them while this state is set.
Codes are printed in groups of four. Spacing and capitals don't matter.
This list is a promise rather than a marketing tier. If you are having the worst day of your life, none of it is behind anything.
Everything works without an account and stays in this browser. An account adds sync between your phone and laptop, keeps your history if you clear your browser, and lets your wheel count, anonymously, toward the "you're not alone" numbers.
The Wheel is a heuristic, not an ontology. It is not a diagnosis, not a crisis tool, and not psychometrically validated. This site is for education and support, not medical, psychiatric, or psychological advice. If you're working with a therapist, coach, or doctor, show them your wheel.