Photo by David Gomez on Unsplash

Conventional wisdom often casts sloths as lazy, simple creatures, drifting through life with little purpose beyond sleeping. The very name ‘sloth’ has become synonymous with idleness, and in 1749, French naturalist Buffon described them as slow, habitually in pain, and unintelligent, calling them the “lowest form of existence.” This harsh judgement, echoed throughout history, stems from a fundamental misunderstanding of the sloth’s way of life — a misunderstanding that reflects how we often misjudge not only animals but also each other.

Today, in a world full of gurus, coaches, therapists, and Instagram teachers, we are constantly bombarded with advice on how to live our lives, be productive, and overcome our flaws. These voices often tell us what to do and how to be, overlooking a key factor: the unconscious intelligence that drives much of our behaviour. This unconscious wisdom often knows what it is doing, even when we consciously do not. The story of the sloth offers a reflection on this very idea.

Sloths, often mocked for their slow movement and algae-covered fur, have a reputation for being inefficient or even unintelligent. For example, their habit of descending to the ground to defecate, exposing themselves to predators like jaguars, seems like a foolish risk. However, this ritual is actually vital for reproduction. Female sloths use this time to leave signals for potential mates and gather information about others in the area. What seems irrational or dangerous to an outside observer is, in fact, a deeply ingrained survival strategy, guided by the sloth’s unconscious instincts.

This speaks to a larger truth: just as the sloth’s actions are guided by its evolutionary intelligence, human behaviour is also shaped by our unconscious minds. Much of what we do, whether in personal life or therapy, stems from processes we don’t fully understand. While experts may offer advice based on surface-level observations, the unconscious forces within each individual often know more than any external teacher or guide.

A Therapeutic Example: Trusting the Unconscious

Consider a typical therapy session where a client feels stuck, unable to explain why they haven’t been able to make the changes they so desperately want. They might come to therapy seeking clarity, frustrated by their perceived inaction or emotional paralysis. Traditional therapeutic approaches often focus on analysing these blocks and pushing toward immediate solutions. But this approach can overlook the wisdom of the unconscious.

For instance, I once worked with a client who had difficulty making decisions regarding a major life change — a new job opportunity in a different city. On the surface, it seemed like the perfect step: better pay, new challenges, and a fresh start. Yet the client kept delaying the decision and felt immense guilt for not moving forward. External voices — from career coaches to friends — urged quick action, framing the delay as indecisiveness or fear of change.

However, when we explored the situation more deeply in therapy, it became clear that the client’s hesitation was not due to laziness or fear but a deep, unconscious awareness that something was off. Their body and emotions were signalling caution, even though their conscious mind couldn’t articulate why. Over time, the client realised that taking the job would actually bring more stress and disconnection from their family, things that deeply mattered but were initially overlooked in the excitement of the opportunity.

Like the sloth’s seemingly irrational movements, this client’s unconscious mind knew what it was doing. The delay was not a flaw but a protective mechanism, ensuring that they made a decision aligned with their values and deeper emotional needs. Once they understood this, they were able to make an informed choice — one that respected both their conscious goals and unconscious wisdom.

Conclusions: Lessons from Sloths and the Power of Unconscious Intelligence

Sloths teach us profound lessons about survival, perception, and the nature of intelligence. They remind us that judgements based on appearances — whether of animals or people — often miss the deeper, unseen forces at play. Like the sloth, we too possess an unconscious intelligence, a force that operates beneath the surface, guiding our actions and decisions even when we’re not fully aware of it. This is a critical aspect of being human, and one that is frequently overlooked, especially in today’s world, where experts abound, each offering a prescription for how we should live.

1. Unconscious intelligence is wiser than we think.
   Just as sloths instinctively know how to survive, we too have an inner wisdom that guides us, even when we don’t consciously understand it; we often call this a ‘gut feeling’. Just like a sloth descending a tree or a person hesitating over a decision, our unconscious often knows what it’s doing, even when gurus, coaches, or therapists may not. People’s judgements — including those of experts — are limited by their own perceptions. They do not have access to this inner intelligence that each of us carries.
2. Hesitation or delay can be a form of self-preservation.
   Just as sloths move slowly to conserve energy, delays or indecision in humans may be a protective mechanism. In therapy, clients often feel frustrated by their inability to move forward, but sometimes this delay reflects a deeper, unconscious intelligence guiding them toward a decision that is more aligned with their emotional needs or values. Taking the time to listen to this inner wisdom can prevent unnecessary harm or regret.

Dear reader, I know what you are thinking: What if it’s a maladaptive behaviour or habit, mistaken for a gut instinct?

This raises an important question about the fine line between trusting our inner world and recognising when certain behaviours, especially maladaptive ones, stem from trauma or unconscious conditioning rather than genuine instincts.

In my view, much of what we perceive as instinctive behaviour may in fact be learned survival strategies, ingrained during formative years when we had to protect ourselves from emotional pain or unmet needs. These behaviours, though adaptive at the time, can become maladaptive in adulthood when the context has changed. What once served to shield us from harm may now keep us trapped in cycles of avoidance, addiction, or self-sabotage.

I know you want an example. Okay, take, for instance, someone who feels a gut instinct to withdraw from intimate relationships. To the individual, this might feel like self-protection, an instinct telling them that vulnerability is dangerous. Yet, if we look deeper, we might find a history of abandonment or rejection, where emotional closeness once equated to pain. In such cases, the “gut instinct” is not a genuine guide to one’s needs, but rather a trauma response — an unconscious effort to avoid further hurt.

The work, then, is not to dismiss our instincts outright, but to inquire into them with curiosity and compassion. Is this behaviour truly in alignment with my authentic self, or is it a vestige of past survival mechanisms? True healing begins when we can distinguish between genuine instincts, which move us toward growth and connection, and conditioned responses, which are rooted in fear and avoidance.

A therapist should serve as a guide in this exploration, not as a judge of behaviour. It is their role to help us identify where we are being guided by past wounds rather than present reality. Through compassionate inquiry, a good therapist will support us in reconnecting with our authentic selves, so that we may make choices not from a place of survival, but from a place of inner wisdom.

3. Success is not always about speed.
In a fast-paced world, the sloth shows us the wisdom of slowing down. Sloths have survived for millions of years by adapting to their environment at a slow pace. Likewise, in therapy, rushing toward solutions may overlook the deeper process of emotional integration that needs time to unfold. Trusting the slower, unconscious processes can often lead to more lasting and meaningful outcomes.

4. Nature’s adaptations are brilliant, even when misunderstood.
Sloths camouflage themselves with algae, moving so slowly that even predators fail to notice them. This brilliant adaptation reflects the deeper intelligence of nature, which operates beyond human comprehension. Similarly, think of animals that sleep longer during winter, like bears in hibernation. What may seem like prolonged inactivity is actually a vital period of conservation and restoration, allowing them to thrive when the conditions are right. In the same way, what might look like indecision or delay in a client could actually be their unconscious mind adapting to complex emotional realities, ensuring they take action only when they are truly ready and able. I imagine that if a bear went to see a GP in winter, they’d be prescribed some tablets to overcome hibernation!

Let’s have a bit of fun now by imagining a dialogue between Buffon, the French naturalist who described sloths as slow, unintelligent, and habitually in pain, and one of the very sloths from which he drew his conclusions:

Buffon
“Ah, my dear sloth, I’ve been observing you for quite some time, and I must say, your lifestyle leaves much to be desired. You’re slow, inefficient, and, frankly, a bit uninspired. Allow me to prescribe a simple, intelligent plan for you to follow: First, break your day into small, manageable tasks. Climb one branch at a time, quickly! Set a timer — 5 minutes per branch should do the trick. Eliminate distractions, of course. No more staring off into the jungle for hours. And when you’ve accomplished each task, reward yourself. Perhaps a leaf snack! What do you think?”

Sloth:
“Hmm, well, Monsieur Buffon, that’s quite the plan. I’m sure it works…. But let’s see here — 5 minutes per branch? I move a grand total of about 10 feet per day. By the time your timer rings, I’ll have barely stretched out my claw! And as for distractions, staring into the jungle is my version of ‘zen,’ my friend. Plus, I don’t need rewards for each task — life is my reward! I’ve been around for 64 million years without timers or task lists, thriving in slow motion. So, thank you for the suggestion, but I think I’ll stick to my ‘unintelligent’ ways. They seem to be working just fine for me!”

In conclusion, I am sceptical of ‘overcome procrastination’ programs, which often offer a one-size-fits-all solution that ignores the complexity of human behaviour. These programs, along with self-help coaches and gurus, frame procrastination, avoidance, laziness, or lack of motivation as problems to be fixed, pushing for constant productivity without recognising the deeper purpose these behaviours might serve.

Procrastination and avoidance can be forms of unconscious self-regulation — a way for the mind to process complex emotions or cope with overstimulation. In today’s world, we are bombarded by sensory input, spend long hours in highly stimulating environments, and often lack sufficient rest. What appears as laziness or a lack of motivation may, in fact, be a necessary pause, allowing us to slow down and process the overwhelm.

As Carl Jung so insightfully said, “Your unconscious knows more than you do. It is a powerful force that is continuously and silently at work, guiding your actions and choices.” Of course, Buffon did not know this, as his rational mind rushed to conclusions.

Footballer Totò Schillaci finds the back of the net once more, but this time in the hearts of his supporters. In testament to their love and esteem for him, many people in the city of Palermo queued up since yesterday afternoon (19/9/2024) to reach the funeral of the former national team striker, pouring out affection on his wife, children, and all his family members. “I hoped that all these people would come,” confesses Giovanni Schillaci, brother of the hero of Italia ’90. “Totò is a great man and he is receiving everything he deserved.” His wife added: “We are happy for the love from the people.”

From Humble Beginnings to National Hero

Totò Schillaci, born in a working-class neighbourhood of Palermo in Sicily, rose from humble origins to become one of Italy’s most beloved football legends. His meteoric rise to fame culminated in the 1990 World Cup, where his determination and skill captured the hearts of a nation. Despite facing public scrutiny and the pressures of life in the spotlight, Schillaci eventually earned admiration for his hard work and resilience.

The Lottery and Bias of Birth

Schillaci didn’t choose to be born into a part of Italy that was often looked down upon because of poverty, crime, and violence. He didn’t choose his accent or the context of his upbringing, yet he was judged for them. So much of our lives are shaped by factors beyond our control. We don’t get to choose where we’re born, our family, or our circumstances, yet we’re often judged as if those things define who we are.

For the former footballer, being heavily judged quickly became routine, as he recalls:

The ’90s in Palermo were terrible. I opened my eyes late. I thought only about playing, for me the mafia was just a local reality. Extortion, match-fixing, illegal gambling. Until one evening, during a retreat, Trapattoni [a legendary Italian football manager and former player] came up to me and said: “You’ve killed Falcone too.” [Falcone refers to Giovanni Falcone, a prominent Italian judge assassinated by the Mafia in 1992 for his work against organised crime.] ‘I replied: “Coach, I was with Baggio, ask him what I did.”’ [Baggio refers to Roberto Baggio, one of the most legendary Italian footballers, known for his exceptional skills and influence in the game]. Although it seems absurd to provide an alibi in this way, Schillaci commented ‘He wasn’t joking; the atmosphere was tense. But I went on to repeat to him when I left Juventus: “I didn’t kill him, nor did those Sicilians who don’t deserve prejudice.”’

Trapattoni’s remark about Schillaci and the Mafia-related murder of Falcone is a clear example of stereotyping and association bias.

System 1 and System 2

According to Nobel Prize winner Daniel Kahneman, our brains process information in two distinct ways: System 1 and System 2.

System 1 is fast, automatic, emotional, and subconscious. System 2, on the other hand, is slow, effortful, and conscious. It’s almost as if we’re wired with a pre-reflective instinct, ready to react in fight-or-flight mode, driven by survival. When we encounter someone different — someone like Schillaci, with his southern accent or working-class background — our System 1 often takes over. We judge quickly and emotionally, without fully understanding the person in front of us.

These cognitive biases — like ingroup bias (where we favour people similar to ourselves) and confirmation bias (where we only see what fits our pre-existing beliefs) — shaped the way Schillaci was perceived. People in the North of Italy saw him through the lens of their biases, focusing on his accent, his origins, and using these as markers to define his worth. These biases are deeply human, but they limit our ability to see people for who they really are.

This ties into the lottery of life, a concept discussed by philosophers like John Locke, Thomas Hobbes, and Jean-Jacques Rousseau. We are born into circumstances we didn’t choose, shaped by factors like birth, culture, and society. Jim Morrison famously captured this feeling in one of his songs when he sang, “Into this house we’re born, into this world we’re thrown.” Heidegger referred to this as “thrownness” — the idea that we are thrust into life without control over where we start, left to navigate the randomness of our existence.

The concept of “thrownness” and the lottery of life are tragically described by the genius of Dostoevsky through one of his characters, Ivan Karamazov in The Brothers Karamazov: “I am trying to find out where your God is just to return to him the entrance ticket — the entrance ticket to life. I don’t want to be here. And if there is any God, he must be very violent and cruel,” the character says. “Because without asking me, he has thrown me into life. It has never been my choice. Why am I alive without choosing it?”. Schillaci did not return the ticket, nobody can. Life is then inherited rather than chosen. We are judged but we don’t choose. Schillaci’s story — it’s ours too. I remember working with a client who had been bullied for her accent. When I asked her, “Where is this lovely accent from?” it was a relief for her to hear it framed as something positive, not something to be ashamed of.

Thus people come to therapy because they want to change their accents, believing that doing so will make them more accepted. But what does this say about the pressure we feel to conform to the world’s expectations? I hope that by keeping my own Italian accent (and by the way, I am not in control of this either), I can send a message that it’s okay to hold on to the parts of ourselves that make us unique. The problem isn’t in our accents or what we still carry with us from our backgrounds — it’s in the lack of acceptance we often feel from others.

“People are just as wonderful as sunsets if you let them be. When I look at a sunset, I don’t find myself saying, “Soften the orange a bit on the right hand corner.” I don’t try to control a sunset. I watch with awe as it unfolds.”

― Carl R. Rogers, A Way of Being

Many people find themselves in therapy stuck between who they are and who they think they should be. There’s often an internal conflict between what society expects and who we truly are. The struggle is not to change ourselves to meet those expectations but to learn to accept who we are, even in a world that constantly tells us we should be different.

Schillaci’s story isn’t just about football — it’s about the emotional pain of living on the margins, constantly feeling like you’re buffering, searching for connection in a world that doesn’t offer it. His celebrations after scoring goals — running toward hostile crowds, fists raised — weren’t acts of defiance or anger. They were pleas for recognition, for dignity. He wasn’t asking to be celebrated as a hero; he just wanted to be seen as worthy of respect. And isn’t that what we all seek? To be valued, not just for what we achieve, but for who we are? This is as he recalls these moments:

‘I brought my torment onto the field. Gossip, malice. They insulted me in the stadiums. It wasn’t enough to call me a ‘southerner’ and a ‘mafioso’; the chant ‘tire thief’ wasn’t enough either. No: they even called me ‘cuckold.’

Public shaming and insults almost certainly contribute to chronic stress and emotional suffering, often impacting a person’s sense of identity and mental health. Many clients report that emotional pain manifests in physical symptoms and behaviours. In this case, the torment carried onto the field likely reflects deeper unresolved inner pain. It’s highly probable that the audience’s barbaric behaviour traumatised him. People, especially those in the public eye, often suppress or numb their emotional responses to cope with pressure, which can further detach them from their authentic feelings and worsen psychological distress.

Respect was something Schillaci rarely received. Even at the height of his success, the scars of poverty and exclusion stayed with him. This wasn’t because of any failure on his part, but because society was quick to judge. Many people, particularly those who have been bullied, wrestle with the question: Why did they do this to me? Bullying often stems from people’s insecurities, fears, and need to assert dominance. When we see someone who seems different — whether in accent, background, or behaviour — I think System 1 kicks in, not just on an individual level, but collectively. We react quickly, from a place of fear, bias, or power, without taking time to understand.

Although Daniel Kahneman didn’t specifically address a collective System 1, I believe there’s a kind of group mentality that works in the same way. When a group sees someone who doesn’t fit into its norms or expectations, a collective, automatic reaction — shaped by cognitive biases — takes over, reinforcing judgments and exclusions. The herd mentality (or bandwagon effect) drives individuals to conform to group behaviours without critically questioning them, simply because ‘everyone else is doing it.’ This leads to groupthink, where the desire for group harmony causes people to overlook their moral concerns and blindly follow the crowd.

These biases also fuel confirmation bias, where the group selectively notices and remembers behaviours that confirm their negative judgments about the ‘other,’ while ignoring evidence that might challenge these views. Additionally, in-group vs. out-group bias further reinforces exclusion, as the group favours those within their circle and sees those outside of it as less deserving or even threatening.

In such environments, everyone feels the need to conform because others are doing the same, perpetuating a cycle of judgment and exclusion. Bullying often thrives under these conditions, where people act without reflection, driven by instinctive fear and these unconscious biases. Something about the herd mentality, the primal need to belong and not be left outside the group, keeps us stuck in System 1 (quick judgement), unable to evolve into System 2 thinking (evaluating with our own minds, using rationality and empathy).

Understanding these cognitive biases helps us start to answer the painful question of why. Bullies, whether individual or collective, act out of their own unresolved fears, traumas, and insecurities. Their actions are not a reflection of the person they target, but of their own need to feel powerful or accepted within the group.

So, how can we become better human beings?

I don’t know how one truly becomes a better human being, but I do know that we are conditioned from birth by society, culture, family, and experiences. This conditioning distorts our perception of reality, and it’s deeply ingrained in our System 1 thinking. We often find ourselves trapped in ignorance and habitual reactions. So, can we look at ourselves without the lens of this conditioning? Can we observe, without judgment, how we respond to life? This, I believe, is a crucial starting point.

Please forgive us, Schillaci, for we were acting from an underdeveloped System 2, relying too heavily on our automatic, biased responses from System 1. We failed to engage the deeper, reflective thinking that would have allowed us to see you for who you really were.

We see you now, or we try to – thank you.

Photo by Neil Thomas on Unsplash

I recently engaged in an insightful discussion with Professor Giancarlo Dimaggio, a psychiatrist and psychotherapist, and Dr Natanael Lamispramis, a clinical psychologist. We delved into how invalidation, trauma, and emotional growth shape our lives. One key takeaway was the importance of understanding that not all painful experiences are traumatic, but the impact they leave can still be profound.

Invalidation: Painful, But Not Always Traumatic

Prof. Dimaggio highlighted how invalidation — a painful but common experience — can sometimes amplify emotional trauma, particularly when it comes from authority figures or loved ones. Dismissive responses like “You’re overreacting” can send the message that our feelings don’t matter. But what truly defines whether these moments become traumatic is the context and the relationship in which they occur.

Chronic Invalidation: Small Wounds, Deep Scars

I reflected on how repeated invalidation, especially in childhood, can lead to lasting emotional disconnection. Hearing “You’re too sensitive” over time can condition us to suppress our emotions, making it harder to form healthy relationships later in life. This begs the question: Can subtle, repeated invalidation cause wounds as deep as trauma? In many cases, it leaves clients believing their emotions are “wrong,” blocking them from authentic connection and healing.

Rethinking Trauma: It’s Not Just Catastrophic Events

Trauma isn’t always tied to extreme events. As I explained, trauma can also stem from subtle experiences that disconnect us from our authentic selves. A child repeatedly told “You’ll never be good enough” may not endure a dramatic trauma, but the accumulation of such messages can distort their self-worth. The disconnection caused is what defines trauma — not just the intensity of an event, but its impact on one’s sense of self.

Adverse Experiences vs. Trauma: Where’s the Line?

Prof. Dimaggio emphasised that adverse experiences don’t always lead to trauma. Instead, they can lay the groundwork for maladaptive patterns — like defensiveness or fear of criticism — without necessarily fracturing the self. The real question is: How do we differentiate between what shapes us and what truly breaks us?

The Transformative Power of Validation

Dr Lamispramis added a key point about validation, explaining how it fosters emotional connection and growth. Referencing Martin Buber, he reminded us that every person craves to be seen for who they are. A simple, empathetic response like “I understand” can be transformative. Without validation, we lose part of our humanity — the need to be seen and understood.

Knowing What to Validate and What to Challenge

However, as Dr Lamispramis wisely noted, we must discern what to validate and what not to. Validating someone’s feelings doesn’t mean endorsing harmful reactions. For example, we can acknowledge frustration without justifying anger. The key is to validate core emotions while challenging harmful responses, helping others grow without reinforcing unhelpful behaviours.

I can remember it well; there was a time at university when professors and lecturers would bring their real-life experience to young students like me. I lived through the transition of these classes, where professors would directly share their experiences with patients. At that time, everyone used the term ‘patient’ rather than ‘client’, and this was before the invention of slides. Then the slides came along, which might be fine for other fields, but for psychology, even as a young student, I wondered whether I could have just stayed at home or in a library and learned directly from the source — the book — rather than from a representation of it in slides. In those days, caught between firsthand experience and spontaneity, and the mechanical reliance on slides, I was employed by the University of Palermo in Italy. As part of my administrative role, I was co-responsible for organising an international conference. It was at this event that I met Daniel Stern, a renowned American psychoanalyst and developmental psychologist, best known for his work on infant development and his influential theories on the formation of the self. I was just a graduate, there to support the conference with practical aspects, so I couldn’t focus on everything he was saying. Later on, I heard he needed a taxi to return to the US.

My boss, in a gesture of generosity but also as an extension of her ego, suggested we drive him and his wife to the airport. Although I knew this wasn’t part of my very underpaid and exploited job description, I promptly seized the opportunity. I was fascinated by his research and his presentation. The drive to the airport wasn’t what I had anticipated; instead of gaining deeper insights into his life, thoughts, or research, we simply enjoyed a casual conversation. They were a lovely couple, sharing how much they loved Italy, especially Sicily, and even trying to impress me with a few sentences in Italian. We didn’t end up discussing his presentation, but he did recommend I read A Felicitous Meeting of Attachment and Relational Psychotherapy.

I have since summarised some of the most salient aspects, which also ties into one of the longest close psychological follow-up studies of an animal in the literature (Original paper: ‘On the Evolution of Attachment-Disordered Behaviour’ by Hedge Fisher-Mamblona, 2000). At a certain point, one of his patients, Anna, asked him, ‘Can I be a good mother?’ He replied, ‘Can I tell you a story? Can you listen to it now?’ She nodded, and I proceeded to tell her the following story:

I would tell Feli’s story like this:

Feli was born into an environment where the basic needs for attachment were denied from the very beginning. She hatched in isolation, completely cut off from any living being, not even another goose or a human to bond with. From the start, she was a subject of scientific curiosity, but what really matters here is the impact of that isolation. You see, for any creature, especially in its early stages, connection is crucial. In Feli’s case, her world was limited to mechanical feeding and the sound of a thermostat clicking, the only stimulus she had. When she heard that sound, she would run towards it, seeking something familiar, but then fear would take over, and she’d run away. Torn between the instinct to connect and the fear that came from not knowing how to, Feli developed a deep pattern of conflicted attachment.

As Feli missed the critical window for imprinting — the moment when geese naturally attach to their mothers — she was left without the innate capacity to form normal bonds. When she was finally released among other geese, it became clear how deeply that early isolation had affected her. She couldn’t relate to the other geese, who had all imprinted on their mothers and were comfortable in their relationships. Feli stayed on the edge of the flock, unsure of how to interact, not knowing how to be part of the group. She became a misfit, always on the periphery. Her aggression was misplaced — when another goose approached, she reacted as if it were a predator, unable to differentiate between a threat and a peer. Feli’s confusion, her inability to connect in the way she should have, was a direct result of that early deprivation.

As she grew older, pieces of normal goose behaviour started to emerge, but they were fragmented. She tried to build nests, she responded to male courting, but when it came time to fully engage in these social tasks, her old pattern of confusion kicked in. She’d wag her head, a repetitive, anxious behaviour, and run away. When given goose eggs to hatch, she instinctively sat on them, but not long enough — again, her fragmented capacity for care showed. The goslings never had a chance.

But then, something changed. Feli was given duck eggs. Ducklings, you see, are far less demanding than goslings. They don’t need as much from their mothers, and this difference mattered. The ducklings hatched, and for the first time, Feli didn’t run away completely. She didn’t nurture them fully, but she allowed them to exist alongside her. The turning point came during a storm, when the ducklings, terrified, sought her warmth and protection. For the first time, she let them under her wing. That night, she allowed herself to provide the comfort they needed, and in the morning, she followed them to the water. In a way, this reversed the normal imprinting process. The ducklings led, and Feli followed.

This moment marks a significant shift. Feli began to heal, albeit slowly and incompletely. The damage from her early trauma wasn’t erased, but in those small moments, she found a way to connect. She continued to live on the edge of the flock, but slightly more harmoniously. Then, an outsider goose arrived. Like Feli, he didn’t fit in perfectly, but together they found companionship. They formed a bond, and for a time, Feli experienced what had been so difficult for her: attachment.

But trauma leaves deep wounds, and Feli’s story doesn’t end on a perfectly happy note. Her mate was shot, and Feli, in her grief, sank into a depression. The loss was too great for her to bear. She had finally learned to connect, but when that connection was severed, it brought back all the pain of her early isolation. Not long after, she died.

I would now like to offer my interpretation of Feli’s story, particularly focusing on the concept of trauma in relation to attachment. Additionally, I’d like to revisit the analogy I presented in the article ‘Are therapists aware of their own attachment styles? #3.’ In that analogy, I describe attachment style as being like WiFi:

Secure is stable, anxious is always checking the connection, avoidant says, ‘I don’t need WiFi,’ and disorganised just keeps buffering

What strikes me about Feli’s story is that it speaks to how deeply early experiences of trauma shape our ability to connect. Even when we find healing, the scars remain, and the threat of loss can trigger old wounds. Yet, despite her tragic end, Feli did manage to find moments of connection, even after such a difficult start. Her life, in the end, was fuller than one might have expected given her beginnings.

Attachment styles, like WiFi, are ways in which we stay connected — or struggle to. Secure attachment is like a strong and stable connection, unwavering in its reliability. Anxious attachment, on the other hand, is always checking the connection, fearing it might drop at any moment. Avoidant attachment denies the need for connection altogether, saying, ‘I don’t need WiFi,’ while disorganised attachment struggles the most, constantly buffering and never fully stable. Feli’s story exemplifies how disorganised attachment keeps buffering, caught between a longing for connection and the fear that it might break.

Despite buffering through life, Feli managed to find those fleeting moments of stability, of connection, even amidst her disorganised attachment style.

Feli’s life may have had moments where she struggled to hold a stable connection, where her past trauma caused her to fear or even reject it. Yet she found, even in brief moments, the power of connection and healing. Though she was constantly buffering, her story reminds us that even in the most fragile states, people can still find moments of clarity and love. And as therapists, we must always be aware of our own ‘WiFi signals,’ our attachment styles, as they influence the connection we establish with our clients.

I think Stern was a precursor, as he gave Anna not just hope but also psychoeducation about attachment and the importance of timing in making a connection. He was saying something that is hard to convey these days, when people come in and say:

‘Can I have some quick therapy, please?’
‘Would it be possible to avoid talking about what the problem is?’
‘What do you want me to do to get rid of the anxiety?’
‘I told you what the problem is, now it’s up to you to fix it.’

These are real comments, I’m afraid, but there’s only a certain natural speed at which healing can progress, and it takes patience to develop a stable connection, depending on the wounds that stem from the past. So, Stern was forward-thinking in providing psychoeducation to the client, which I think was quite innovative at the time, and it’s still, in many ways, a new concept compared to our current obsession with diagnosis.

I would also add the importance of setting realistic expectations, dismantling what Heidegger called the ‘technological attitude’ — an approach rooted in ‘calculative thinking,’ where everything is framed in terms of means and ends. This calculative mindset can appear in the client, the therapist, GPs, or agencies that send referrals, driven by external pressures that have nothing to do with the client’s pace. For instance, the belief that a client must feel better within a limited number of sessions or that a client expects to be ‘fixed’ in a certain amount of time. Gosh, isn’t that exactly what evidence-based practice is encouraging? Evidence-based approaches have their place, however, they risk missing the larger, more nuanced picture of human healing, especially when they overlook the emotional, relational, and personal layers that unfold at their own pace. The implications of this ‘calculative thinking’ can be devastating (though I think this is a topic for another article).

There are clients who come spontaneously (not under obligation from family or GPs) who have nothing to say. One client in particular surprised me by spending two sessions in complete silence. I felt guilty, taking her money for what seemed like nothing, and asked if these meetings were helping her. She said they were, although she couldn’t explain exactly why. Neither could I. But then, Feli’s teaching and Stern’s approach came to me, and I understood — she was searching for connection.

What about the clients who arrive late, leave early, or stay for only 10 minutes? Of course, this is what they can tolerate, but without pressure, if they feel unjudged and free to attend even for five minutes, they learn that it’s safe to stay longer. The connection deepens, and they begin to share more, to feel better, often without knowing exactly why. This is because healing can occur on a tacit level, not just through words — while verbal expression is important, it is only one part of the larger process.

This was already understood by the genius of Dostoyevsky, as he described in The Brothers Karamazov, where [clients] ‘need to feel that they are in the room with another person, an old and trusted friend, whom they might call upon in their sick moments merely to look at their face, or perhaps exchange some quite irrelevant words with them’.

I hope you enjoyed this article, whether you’re a psychotherapist seeking insight or a client looking for guidance and psycho-education about attachment.

Benny wasn’t just any bunny — he had the biggest, goofiest laugh you could imagine. His giggles rippled through the meadow, spreading joy to every squirrel, bird, and hedgehog around. He embodied the spontaneous child in all of us: playful, free, brimming with creativity, expressing every emotion without a care.

One sunny morning, while bouncing along his usual path, Benny stumbled upon a bright, shiny juggling ball that sparkled like magic giggle dust. Curiosity got the better of him. “Why not?” he thought, giving it a whirl. He was clumsy at first, but soon enough, he was juggling like a pro, and the meadow animals were in awe. They cheered him on, chanting, “Benny! Benny! You’re the best bunny juggler ever!” Here was positive reinforcement at its finest.

But Benny, fueled by a spirit of adventure, thought, “One ball? Pfft, I can do better!” So he picked up a second ball, the Ball of Responsibility (not so shiny, but useful), and then a third — the Ball of Kindness. Now he was juggling all three: fun, responsibility, and kindness. The crowd was thrilled; Benny was thriving.

Then, ambition nudged him forward. He added more balls to his act — ambition, popularity, and perfection. With each new addition, his confidence grew, and so did his stress. He was balancing more than the Easter Bunny in high season. Before long, his laugh began to fade, replaced by frazzled fur and twitchy nerves. Benny was trying to keep up, but the juggling had turned into a chore.

Until one day, with an almost inevitable crash, Benny dropped everything. Balls rolled everywhere as he sat, dazed, surrounded by his overblown ambitions. Exhausted, he thought, “What am I doing?” This was his moment of burnout and reflection, a chance to reevaluate what really mattered.

And in that a-ha moment, Benny realised he didn’t need to juggle everything. He just needed to focus on what brought him joy. So he picked up his original three balls: fun, responsibility, and kindness. The others? He let them roll off, disappearing over the horizon.

With his newfound balance, Benny was back to his giggly, happy self. His friends cheered him on, and Harmony Hills felt a bit more harmonious that day. Together, they learned the real lesson: it’s not how many balls you juggle but how much you enjoy the ones that count.

So remember, friends, no need to juggle every ambition and goal — pick the ones that light you up, and let the rest roll on.

It’s been a couple of weeks since I watched Komorebi. The translated title, Perfect Days, hardly does justice to the beauty of the Japanese word Komorebi, which captures the quiet magic of “sunlight filtering through trees.” Reflecting on this film, or perhaps meditating is the better word, I find myself drawn to the simple, unhurried parts of life. I’m caring more for my plants, spending extra time in nature, slowing down, and discovering the subtle beauty in details I once missed. Above all, I’m cultivating a sense of perspective, calm, and serenity.

On a flight back to England, a seemingly mundane moment became unexpectedly profound. Headed to the toilet, I was reminded of the film’s protagonist, Hirayama (Kōji Yakusho), a humble public toilet cleaner in Tokyo. To me, he seemed like a man of wisdom and freedom, quietly at ease with himself and his choices. He leda life of simplicity, not as a retreat from the world, but as a conscious choice to be fully in it. Despite his modest income, he pursued knowledge and growth, spending evenings at the bookshop, reading late into the night. His contentment wasn’t about having less; it was about appreciating more.

As I approached the tiny airplane toilet, an unusual thought crossed my mind: What if I cleaned it? Initially, I felt genuine disgust at the idea — a place like this, after all, wasn’t my responsibility. But the thought lingered. Wouldn’t this act elevate my experience, even if no one would know about it? Yet, my mind quickly conjured reasons against it: “This is a private company’s job, and they pay someone for this work,” and “What would people think if they saw me?”

But then, I caught myself — these were thoughts born of ego. The narrative playing in my head wasn’t truly mine but a chorus of social expectations and identity. I almost laughed at myself: “You’re a professional, you give presentations, and here you are, contemplating cleaning a toilet.”

In that locked space, it dawned on me that I was wrestling not with the idea of cleaning but with the prisons of my own thoughts. This was a small act, inconsequential to the world, but in that moment, it was an act of dissolving the ego — a test of humility. And so, I cleaned it, discovering a peculiar satisfaction in the simplicity of the act, as if it opened up a small, hidden door to freedom.

Emerging from the toilet, I was surprised to see my 9-year-old daughter waiting next in line. Little did I know, I had unknowingly prepared it for her. And isn’t that life? We go about our tasks, sometimes begrudgingly, yet in a broader sense, these small acts ripple out, touching those around us in ways we may never realise.

This experience reminded me of a Buddhist practice I once heard about in Oprah Winfrey’s SuperSoul Conversations with Pema Chödrön. The “Just Like Me” practice encourages us to see the shared humanity in others, even those who challenge us. It involves repeating, “Just like me, this person wants to be happy. Just like me, this person wants to be free from suffering.” These words help me recognise that, beneath the surface, everyone I encounter — strangers, friends, even adversaries — shares the same instinct to avoid pain and seek joy.

In a way, cleaning that toilet was a small act of compassion, a moment of stepping outside myself to touch another life with kindness. And this realisation followed me back to my seat: we either let the ego expand until it fills every thought, or we find ways to gently dissolve it. Small, mindful acts of service can humble us, leading to clarity and freedom.

That day, I was reminded of an old teaching: let the ego die so that the self may truly live. These small acts — these tiny moments of letting go — are glimpses of what lies beyond, a path to understanding that all of us, in some way, are connected.