I love gardening. The plants in my office are a constant source of quiet joy, and I’ve learned so much from them over the years. Each plant has its own needs — some thrive with a little neglect, while others demand constant attention. I sometimes think that families are not so different.

The family is a garden where the seeds of a child’s life are planted. But what happens when the soil is not fertile, or the hands that nurture are not steady?

A dysfunctional family is like a garden overtaken by weeds — still growing, but chaotically, without harmony. The child, delicate and absorbing like a sponge, takes on the shape of their environment.

In some families, conflict is like a storm that never clears. Arguments rage, words are hurled, and emotions clash. The child watches, not understanding the war but absorbing its blows. This constant tension creates a nervous mind, a fragile spirit. Such a child grows with an insecure heart, afraid of love, afraid of peace. Their very chemistry changes, as if the storm now lives within them.

In other homes, shadows linger in silence. One or both parents struggle with addiction or mental illness. The child, instead of playing, becomes the caretaker. The roles are reversed — small shoulders carrying heavy burdens. How can this child learn to depend on others when they were forced to grow up before their time? They walk through life with a sense of emptiness, always giving but never receiving.

Some families have no clear boundaries. Chaos reigns, and the child is lost in a whirlwind of neglect. They are not seen, not heard, not attended to. In such homes, older siblings become parents, and younger children grow up confused. These children enter adulthood searching for structure, trying to understand themselves and their needs. Boundaries are foreign to them, like a language they were never taught.

And then, there are homes ruled by dominance. One parent becomes a dictator, the other submissive, and the child learns to obey without question. They grow up afraid of their own voice, unsure of their own desires. Life becomes a series of compromises, a quiet surrender of self.

Finally, there are families where emotions are locked away, where love is hidden behind walls of silence. Affection is seen as weakness, and emotions are buried deep. The child learns to do the same, becoming a stranger to their own heart. They grow into adults who struggle to connect, to express, to feel.

Each type of family creates its own imprint. Yet, the question is not about blame or regret. The question is, can we see the pattern? Can we break it? Awareness is the key. A dysfunctional family does not have to be a life sentence. The child, once grown, can choose to heal. They can choose to nurture themselves in the ways they were not nurtured.

A family is not perfect — it is human. And within its imperfections lies the possibility of transformation. The moment we see clearly, we begin to grow. Just like a garden, with care and attention, even the wildest growth can be tamed into beauty.

Once, Buddha was traveling with his disciples and passed a lake that supplied water to nearby villages. It was a hot day, and Buddha, feeling thirsty, sent one of his disciples to fetch water from the lake. When the disciple arrived, he saw the water was muddy, stirred by a bullock cart that had recently passed through. Finding it unfit for drinking, he returned and suggested moving to the next water source. But to his surprise, Buddha instructed the group to remain there and asked the same disciple to return to the lake after an hour.

Obediently, the disciple went back. The water was still muddy but less so than before. Again, Buddha asked him to wait and try once more in another hour. The third time, the disciple found that the mud had settled, leaving the water clear and drinkable. He brought the water to Buddha, who observed it and said, “How did you solve the challenge of cleaning the muddy water? By doing nothing. You let it be, and with time, the mud settled on its own. The water became clear naturally. Our minds work in exactly the same way. A disturbed mind, like muddy water, will settle on its own if we allow it. The process of calming the mind is not through force but by letting it be.”

This profound teaching illuminates the essence of healing and restoration, which resonates deeply with how the body and mind are designed to function. The body, this miraculous creation, is not something that needs constant fixing. Like the lake, it holds within it the wisdom and capability to heal and restore itself — if only we allow it to.

Healing is not something you do. It is something you allow. Inside you lies a system so intelligent that it knows how to heal, just as a river knows how to flow or a flower knows how to bloom. But for this natural process to take place, the body needs to enter its healing state — a state of relaxation, openness, and receptivity, governed by the parasympathetic nervous system.

Unfortunately, most of us spend our lives in the opposite state — the sympathetic mode. Like the disciple rushing to fetch water from the lake while a bullock cart passes through again and again, our inner waters never get the chance to settle.

Why?

Because, as Yuval Noah Harari, a renowned historian and philosopher, eloquently puts it, there is a growing tension between us — organic beings who thrive on natural cycles — and the inorganic digital systems that are increasingly shaping and controlling the world. Being organic means we are inherently cyclical beings — we live by the rhythms of day and night, the changing of the seasons, the cycles of growth and decay. We thrive when we can move between activity and rest, exertion and relaxation. This balance is not just a preference; it’s a necessity woven into the fabric of life itself.

In contrast, algorithms, AIs, and computers are not organic. They exist outside the natural rhythms that govern us. They never tire, never pause, and never need rest. They are “on” all the time, operating in a perpetual state of activity. And herein lies the crux of the issue: will we, as organic beings, adapt to these inorganic systems, or will they adapt to us? Increasingly, it seems that we are the ones bending to their relentless pace, at great cost to our well-being.

Hence, Buddha’s teaching reminds us of a simple truth: healing happens in stillness. When we allow the body to rest — just as the disciple allowed the muddy water to settle — our parasympathetic nervous system activates. In this state, the body releases chemicals like oxytocin, which foster relaxation, connection, and joy. It’s here, in this peaceful state, that the body’s natural healing powers awaken. Tension dissipates, the mind clears, and the heart finds peace.

To heal, we must shift from survival to rest, from chaos to calm. This does not require effort; it requires surrender. Awareness is the doorway to this shift. The more we notice the tension in our bodies and the stress in our minds, the easier it becomes to let go. It is like watching a storm pass or clouds drift away, revealing the blue sky that was always there.

Healing, like the settling of the muddy water, is not about striving. It is about trusting the body’s innate wisdom. When you stop trying to control or fix everything, the body naturally returns to balance. Old wounds, trauma, and shame are not erased — they dissolve in the presence of peace. The fog lifts, and you remember your wholeness.

So, just as the disciple learned from the muddy lake, we too must learn to let go. To trust. To stop running from our pain or chasing after solutions. When we allow ourselves to be still, the healing we seek arises effortlessly. This is the power of presence, the wisdom of the body, and the ultimate truth of healing: it doesn’t happen through effort but through surrender, through letting go, and through trusting in the process of life itself.

Please, don’t feel the need to buy me a coffee or make a donation. I write simply because I love to write, and it brings me joy to think that my words might offer a bit of relief or perhaps even a new understanding to others. If you truly feel moved to do something, a clap or a bit of feedback would mean the world to me, as it allows me to learn and grow through our shared connection.

“The role of the artist is to ask questions, not answer them.”

— Anton Chekhov

I am a rebel. While so many strive to turn psychotherapy into a perfect science, I see it as more art than science. Yes, science provides the framework and tools, but the true essence of therapy lies elsewhere. It is in the humanity, the connection, the spark that occurs when two people dare to explore the depths of the mind together. It is in the way a therapist reads between the lines, weaves stories, and holds a space where creativity and healing can unfold. It is not calculation; it is creation.

In therapy, as in art, there is no final truth, no fixed formula. The value lies in opening doors to deeper understanding, holding space for ambiguity, for pain, for growth. It is not about solving or fixing; it is about creating. A therapist, like an artist, does not follow a rigid blueprint but instead works with the raw, imperfect material of the human inner world, crafting space for discovery, for transformation, for rebirth.

A therapist is a sculptor of insight, chipping away at the stone to reveal the hidden forms within. They are a painter of perspective, blending colours of emotion and thought until a new picture emerges. They are a poet, weaving threads of connection and meaning, not with definitive answers but with the endless possibilities of the human experience. Therapy, like art, requires courage — not the absence of fear, but the willingness to stand in its presence and create anyway.

When a mind comes to therapy, it is no blank canvas. It is a canvas that has been painted on again and again — streaked with the bold strokes of joy and sorrow, layered with the muted shades of fear, regret, and longing. Therapy is not about erasing the past or covering it with white. It is about stepping back to truly see what is there, examining the strokes, peeling back the layers, and deciding:

What do I keep? What do I paint over? What do I create anew?

Perfection is not the goal. Life, like art, is never perfect. It is raw, chaotic, and layered with contradictions. Therapy, too, is about authenticity, about finding beauty in the messiness. It is about realising that failure is not the enemy of progress but its most valuable companion. The misplaced stroke, the stumble, the break — these are not mistakes; they are invitations to create something unexpected, something more real.

The therapist holds the space where this can happen. Like an artist approaching a blank stretch of canvas, they bring patience, presence, and the courage to explore. Some clients will come ready to add new colours to their lives. Others will come to strip away the old paint and expose what has been buried underneath. And some will need to sit with their half-finished masterpiece, learning to accept it as it is before deciding how — or whether — to continue.

There is no rush. Art does not happen quickly, and neither does healing. Therapy is not a race to finish the painting. It is a slow, deliberate process of discovery, one that respects the client’s pace and honours their story. Each stroke, each insight, each breakthrough is part of the process, part of the creation of something unique and beautiful.

Therapy is a rebellion of sorts, a refusal to force human experiences into tidy categories or predictable outcomes. It is a dynamic, unfolding process that respects the individuality of every person who enters the space. It is not just about logic or analysis; it is about emotion, intuition, and humanity. It is more art than science, more connection than calculation.

And so, I find myself watching Young Sheldon with my children, occasionally viewing it through the lens of a therapist. In Season 1, Episode 4, titled “A Therapist, a Comic Book, and a Breakfast Sausage,” Sheldon faces a personal challenge that many of us can relate to — the struggle to overcome a deeply ingrained fear. In Sheldon’s case, it is the fear of solid food (Sitophobia/Cibophobia), which stems from a traumatic choking incident on a breakfast sausage. After receiving support from his family, particularly his mother, Sheldon’s parents seek professional help. However, what unfolds is not just therapy, but a subtle lesson in courage, self-reliance, and personal growth.

Sheldon is taken to see Dr. Goetsch, a psychiatrist — whom I must say is a rather strange character. In Dr. Goetsch’s waiting room, there are comic books for Sheldon to read while his parents discuss matters with the therapist. This simple act — giving Sheldon something to engage with — becomes the turning point. Although Sheldon had never shown interest in comic books before, he becomes absorbed in the X-Men series during the session. He devours the comic and then, without hesitation, leaves the waiting room to head to a nearby comic book store to read more.

At the comic store, Sheldon runs into his friend Tam, who is eating liquorice. Tam offers Sheldon a piece, but Sheldon, still paralysed by his fear of solid foods, initially refuses. As Tam continues reading, Sheldon has a moment of revelation:

“I didn’t have to read many comic books to understand that every superhero had a weakness — something they had to overcome through an extraordinary act of courage. For Cyclops, it was the loss of Jean Grey; for Rogue, it was human touch; for me, it was food that required chewing. So, if I truly was a mutant, I would have to do the same. On this day, I would not be defeated, because this was the day I became the cure. Just like that, I overcame my fear of choking.” 

In Sheldon’s mind, these superheroes’ challenges mirror his own — his phobia of solid food. For Sheldon, eating something that required chewing became his personal “weakness” that he would need to conquer, just as these superheroes conquered their own fears.

It is not a small victory, but rather a significant one for Sheldon. One that symbolises his growing ability to take control of his anxiety. Sheldon learns that the key to overcoming his fear lies not in avoiding it or seeking constant reassurance, but in facing it head-on, just like the superheroes in his comic books

When Sheldon, struggling with his fear, encounters his friend Tam in the comic book store, we see a key moment in his journey. Tam, takes a non-pressuring approach with Sheldon. He does not force or expect anything from Sheldon. Instead, he simply offers him a piece of liquorice, without judgment or demand. In this safe, non-judgmental space, Sheldon is able to relax, engage with the comics, and, ultimately, confront his fear in his own time.

Instead of reacting to external pressures, Sheldon experiences an internal shift, encouraged by the security he feels in Tam’s presence. This reflects a critical aspect of healing: creating a safe environment in which a person can face their anxieties at their own pace.

While Sheldon is reading the X-Men comics, he is introduced to the vulnerability of superheroes — characters who, despite their immense powers, have their own fears and weaknesses.

[This resonates with the article I previously wrote on Medium, “An Unexpected Insight from a Sea Turtle That Shifted My View on Carl Rogers 25#.” In that piece, I shared the perspective that sometimes, blocks must be removed, and more information or insight must be provided for true healing to occur]

This realisation triggers a deep insight within Sheldon: if these superheroes can face their weaknesses with courage, perhaps he too can confront his fear of solid food. Just like these characters, Sheldon sees that vulnerability is not a weakness, but an opportunity for growth.

Now, you may ask: What can you do if you are a parent or someone in a supportive role? The answer is simple, much like Tam’s approach: create a safe, accepting space where the person can confront their fear in their own time. This is crucial. Rather than pushing or forcing progress, it’s about providing the space for growth to unfold naturally, just as Sheldon does in his own way, at his own pace. Try to remain present and project a calm, nurturing energy to help reduce their anxiety.

I think there’s a notable difference between Sheldon’s mother and Tam in this context. While Mary, tries to stay calm, Tam is genuinely calm. He doesn’t need to try — he simply is. This kind of calm presence is incredibly helpful in these moments.

So, maintain your calm as best as you can, and in the meantime, support nutrition with textures, as Mary does. Also, finding a therapist who specialises in children with anxiety and phobias is key. While CBT can be helpful, it’s essential to note that the issue is not just about thoughts but also about feelings and trauma. Therefore, seek a therapist with somatic training who understands the role of emotions and trauma or one who specialises in EMDR (Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing). These therapeutic approaches help address not just the cognitive aspects, but also the emotional and somatic layers of fear and trauma

I will now give you a taste of EMDR applied to Sheldon’s scenario. Forgive me if this sounds a bit more technical, but I hope it will offer clarity.

So, we’re at the comic book store, and this is the moment where Sheldon starts to confront and rethink his fear. This mirrors a process in EMDR called self-initiated reprocessing. Instead of having an external therapist guide him through the process, Sheldon is able to face and process his fear in a safe, comfortable environment with the support of Tam’s non-pressuring presence. This process of self-exposure allows Sheldon to gradually re-evaluate the meaning of his fear, a crucial step in healing.

In therapy, we often use metaphors or alternative perspectives to help clients reprocess traumatic memories or anxieties. Just as Sheldon uses the superhero comics to gain a different perspective on his fear, EMDR encourages clients to reframe their experiences. For Sheldon, by observing the superheroes’ vulnerabilities, he starts to reframe his fear of solid food. Rather than seeing it as an insurmountable barrier, he begins to view it as a challenge that can be confronted with courage and agency.

Sheldon’s act of eating the liquorice after reading the comics is a clear reflection of the desensitisation phase in EMDR. Initially, the fear of solid food is overwhelming, just as a traumatic memory or anxiety can feel consuming. However, through gradual exposure in a relaxed and safe environment, Sheldon’s anxiety begins to diminish. The more he engages with the feared object (solid food, symbolised by the liquorice), the less power it holds over him.

‘And all that was left was my fear of dogs, birds, insects, germs, hugging, button-fly pants, rivers, ponds, lakes, oceans, estuaries, corduroy, root vegetables, squeaky balloons, tinted windows, ‘take a penny, leave a penny’ jars, fireworks, pop-belly stoves, dust bunnies, and that fuzz on peaches’.

But hey, one fear at a time, right?

Ah, decisions! We love them, almost as much as we love regretting them later. But have you ever noticed? Most decisions we make are not actually our own. They’re family-approved, society-endorsed, “expert”-recommended — I call them “Instagram decisions.” They’re polished, pre-packaged, and socially validated. Yet it’s still us left in the lurch. How convenient!

If you want to make a decision that your future self won’t laugh at (or, worse, cry over), here’s a little trick: take a break from everything and everyone. No social media, no neighbours with opinions, not even your dog with those judgmental eyes. Sit quietly, ask yourself, “If I chase this goal, will I still want it when I’m 80?” Or at least after my morning coffee tomorrow?

Now, I’m not saying I was ever a fan of Giulio Andreotti, but let’s give credit where it’s due — the man was clever. Known as one of Italy’s most influential politicians of the 20th century, he became Prime Minister of Italy seven times (1972–1973, 1976–1979, 1989–1992) and held many other significant positions.

His methods of decision-making were not the ordinary kind; Andreotti had his own peculiar methods for making decisions. He’d walk for hours, removing himself from the noise of Rome’s political life, creating space to see his problems from a distance. Like an ancient philosopher, he knew that a walk wasn’t just exercise — it was a way to order thoughts, sift through strategies, and weigh possible consequences with calm and clarity.

Andreotti didn’t rush, didn’t let pressure make decisions for him. His approach — often called realpolitik — reflected a career built on patience and pragmatism. And, just as he walked slowly, he approached decisions the same way: thoughtfully, with a quiet defiance against haste. As he famously said, “Il potere logora chi non ce l’ha” — power wears out those who don’t have it. A bit cynical, yes, but you see the point: if you want to make a decision with real substance, leave the rush for someone else.

He’s not simply talking about influence over others; he’s talking about the influence we have over ourselves.

So: real power is not about control over life, but about control over oneself.

Here’s the thing: don’t get too caught up in shaping a personality to fit every decision, as Giulio Andreotti might have understood well. Think of your personality like the political mask you wear in the corridors of power — it’s a tool that helps you present yourself in a certain way, to navigate the complex terrain of diplomacy and public life. But it’s something you shed when the day is done. Real clarity comes when you return to your own true self, free from the expectations of others, no longer playing a role for anyone else’s benefit.

Just as walking can clear the head and ground the soul, Andreotti knew that true power is found not in playing the game, but in stepping away from it, moving with intention and without the need for approval.

Please, don’t feel the need to buy me a coffee or make a donation. I write simply because I love to write, and it brings me joy to think that my words might offer a bit of relief or perhaps even a new understanding to others. If you truly feel moved to do something, a clap or a bit of feedback would mean the world to me, as it allows me to learn and grow through our shared connection.

Watching a loggerhead sea turtle crawl out of its nest and make its way to the ocean is a powerful sight. These tiny creatures scramble across the sand, beginning an 8,000-mile journey across open waters before finding their way back home. Migrating birds, honeybees, and millions of dragonflies also make incredible journeys, flying thousands of miles from India to Africa.

Scientists have long wondered how these animals navigate such vast distances. They’ve searched for clues, like special particles in the brain that might act as a guide. Schopenhauer, in 1844, reflected on the way animals seem to heal, grow, and move with mechanical precision — as if driven by an internal will or instinct, a kind of deep, innate knowledge.

Humans, like these travellers, are also part of a constant process of change and direction. This process relies on self-organisation and self-determination, and for it to flourish, freedom and safety are essential.

A client in therapy once shared:

“This is helping me to get my head in order. I like making lists, and if my head is not in order then I don’t know what I am doing. This is leading me to organise my thoughts; it makes me feel looked after and you are helping me to understand. It is an intellectual discussion. It seems like me teaching you about me, and you taking a genuine interest in me. I like when you asked ‘can you help me to understand this?’”

This sentiment underscores a broader truth: we inherently seek organisation, understanding, and a sense of being truly seen. Paraphrasing Galilei, one might say no one can truly teach anything; instead, they help others realise that the answers lie within them.

But, but, but — what happens to a loggerhead sea turtle when it becomes trapped in a net or tumbles into a hollow, unable to shift itself? Can it liberate itself through its own effort? So when we want to help someone, I think it is important to have that question in our mind: is this person stuck? Is there a block? If the answer is no, and there are no longer blocks, we can then revert to Carl Rogers’ conditions of empathy, congruence, and unconditional positive regard to support their process of discovery and growth.

Personally, I believe Carl Rogers, who was nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize in 1987, should have won it. He understood human beings more profoundly than others, and his insights can still change therapy and education for the better.

However, this is the one area where I differ from him:

Blocks must sometimes be removed, and more information provided, to enable the process of adaptation in human beings. As Michelangelo once said, ‘I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free

I think we’ve gradually lost the ability to really listen — not just to what’s happening around us, but to the voices of those who came before. And perhaps, most of all, to the wisdom of the old.

Dr. McGary, a steady guide for many and a light in darker times, passed away on September 28th, 2024. Her wisdom lives on, though, preserved in YouTube interviews and in the pages of her books. She spoke with a quiet, measured clarity — the kind that only a lifetime of experience can bring.

Listening to her, I couldn’t help but think of my own grandmother. The more I listened, the more I found myself captivated — not by elaborate theories or grand philosophies, but by the elegant simplicity of her approach to life. Perhaps, in this hurried world, it is her kind of wisdom that we need the most.

I was particularly drawn to her concept of the Five Ls — Life, Love, Laughter, Labor, and Listening. Each of these, she explained, forms the foundation of a healing, fulfilled life.

Life and love, she said, “are inseparable, like two sides of a coin.”

One of my clients who passed from cancer left me with something that still stays with me. In his final days, you could have offered him all the wealth in the world, and he would have turned it away. Nothing mattered more than life itself, the warmth of being loved, and the deep peace of knowing he had loved in return. In a way, this client also reinforced the idea that life and love are not two separate things; they are woven together, inseparable as the very breath we take.

When we think of laughter, it’s hard not to recall that familiar quote: “A day without laughter is a day wasted,” often attributed to Charlie Chaplin. It captures a universal truth — how essential laughter is to our days, to our well-being.

I think that if we look closely at Dr. McGarey’s words, what she’s really saying is that laughter is not just an expression of joy; it’s a release, a way to break the cycle of our own seriousness. No matter how grave my clients with cancer were, even close to death, it didn’t stop them from laughing now and then in our meetings. This reminds me that it’s always possible to laugh and to see life as something to be experienced, not a burden to be carried.

Dr Gladys McGarey emphasises that labour requires patience, compassion, and a deep trust in the process. Whether it’s the labour of raising a child, healing, or pursuing one’s purpose, she views it as a sacred act of love and creation. Perhaps because of my work as a psychotherapist, I feel that when labour is done with a sense of devotion and involvement, it becomes a kind of spiritual practice — a way of connecting with life on a profound level, almost a reverence for existence itself.

There’s an indescribable reward in witnessing someone shift from feeling completely lost to truly empowered.

Dr. McGarey believes that listening is an act of healing in itself. She sees it as a cornerstone of holistic care, where truly hearing someone provides comfort, validation, and a deep sense of connection. For her, listening isn’t merely about words; it’s about tuning into the energy and essence of a person, understanding what lies beyond the surface.

As a psychotherapist, listening is my bread and butter. You might think I’m joking, but when I moved to England and took my exams to qualify here as well, I had to undergo a role-play assessment with a client. There are two things about that experience that stick with me — and I promise, this is a true story. First, I was advised not to start the session by asking, “How are you?” because, apparently, the client would likely launch into their entire life story. And second, I was actually told I was listening too much — I was advised to provide more intervention!

This experience was eye-opening. It revealed something simple yet profound: even among therapists, the act of truly listening is often underestimated. To listen — without judgement, without rushing to intervene — is rare. Most are eager to impose their knowledge, to shape and direct. But real listening requires a quiet mind, a mind free from its own agenda, open to understanding the other without distortion. Only then can we meet another human being as they are, not as we wish them to be.

As a therapist, I am continually reminded that the essence of our work lies not in the advice we give but in the presence we bring. A therapist who forgets himself, who suspends his own judgments, goals, or preoccupations, creates a space for the client to be fully seen and heard. When we allow our own thoughts and intentions to take over, when we are focused on what we might say next or on the “targets” of the session, we’re not really there. The client might see us in the room, but they won’t feel us with them. We become a physical presence, but there’s no genuine connection, no shared moment. In truth, we’re only listening to ourselves.

A client once said, ‘I just want you to listen to me. I don’t expect you to fix me or make me feel better. I just want to talk and not feel worse.’

These words reflect a deep longing to be truly heard, free from judgement, free from assumptions. So many people are met with dismissal or casual reassurance — ‘Oh, you don’t look depressed’ — when what they really need is someone to listen without minimising their experience.

So, I’m not buying the idea of not asking, ‘How are you?’

I know what brought you here is Dr. McGarey’s teachings on the 5Ls, but I would also like to add some other Ls I have learned through my work with clients.

Lightness, as clients have shown me, is about not carrying unnecessary burdens. When we choose lightness, we move with greater ease through the complexities of life, unburdened by the weight of undue expectations or past regrets. Lightness fosters an internal flexibility that allows them to adapt and grow.

Light is another element that clients have illuminated for me. It represents awareness — the inner illumination that dispels the shadows of confusion and doubt. With light, we navigate life’s challenges with clarity, seeing beyond immediate struggles to a broader perspective. It’s the glow that allows resilience to flourish.

In the therapeutic space, fostering this light means nurturing a sense of safety and trust. It’s in these conditions that clients find the courage to explore their vulnerabilities, confront their fears, and illuminate parts of themselves that have long been in shadow. This light doesn’t obliterate difficulties but rather shines on them, making them manageable, approachable, and, most importantly, a part of their growth.

As Seneca once said, “When a man does not know what harbor he is making for, no wind is the right wind.”

Less has been a lesson in itself. Clients often discover that letting go — of habits, thoughts, or relationships that no longer serve them — brings them peace. Less is not about deprivation; it’s about intentional space-making. Less is more, serving as a way of inviting simplicity and a deeper focus on what truly matters.

Loss is an inevitable part of life that reshapes who we are. You can’t have life without death. I think a meaningful way to understand grief is through Dr. Lois Tonkin’s model, which shows that loss doesn’t shrink over time — we grow around it.

Picture loss as a black sphere in a jar: initially, it consumes all space. While the sphere stays constant, the jar expands as we add moments of joy, learning, and resilience. This growth allows us to coexist with loss, integrating it into our broader existence. Loss remains, but our capacity to live and hold love, laughter, and new memories grows around it, creating room for both sorrow and hope.

Lastly, Limiting social media is essential for well-being, a lesson both my clients and I have learned through experience. When we don’t manage our online interactions, it can become overwhelming and drain our energy. Unchecked engagement pulls us away from ourselves, clouds our thoughts, and adds unnecessary stress.

So Five Ls :

Life, Love, Laughter, Labor, and Listening.

plus

Lightness, Light, Loss, Less, and Limiting social media.

Moreover, among all these L-lessons, I believe there are two other important lessons I hear in between the lines of her voice:

In her words:

1. “All healing comes from within.”

This reminded me of a powerful story by Ada Luz Márquez, a renowned storyteller and writer known for her poignant reflections on life and healing.

She said:

The old soul healer said: it’s not the back that hurts, but the burden. It’s not the eyes that hurt, but the injustice. It’s not the head that hurts, but the thoughts. It’s not the throat that hurts, but what is left unspoken or what is expressed with anger. It’s not the stomach that hurts, but what the soul cannot digest. It’s not the liver that hurts, but the anger. It’s not the heart that hurts, but love. And it is love itself that holds the most powerful medicine.

It seems that Ada Luz Márquez is saying that healing is an inside job. Our pain often mirrors unspoken emotions or unresolved struggles. True healing begins when we confront these, allowing love and awareness to restore balance from within.

2. Community

Life and love, she said, “are inseparable, like two sides of a coin”. But what kind of life or love is it if we only focus on ourselves?

Thich Nhat Hanh, too, spoke of this sacred connection when he described the ‘sangha’, the spiritual community that nurtures, sustains, and heals us.

Image credit: Plum Village, source: ‘What Is Most Important Thing When Building a Sangha?’                                                             https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MDkfiWP7QJM

And have you ever come across something as captivating and mysterious as the ‘Roseto Mystery’? I discovered it while reading Malcolm Gladwell’s Outliers, and it left me spellbound.

The story unfolds around an Italian immigrant community in Pennsylvania, where the townspeople defied conventional health expectations. The Rosetans, bound by connections deeper than blood, revealed a profound truth: their collective lifestyle and unwavering sense of community were key to their health and longevity. Scientists who studied them were puzzled; the typical predictors of health simply didn’t apply. Instead, the secret lay in something intangible yet powerful — a daily rhythm of connection. Neighbours greeted one another warmly, generations shared homes under the same roof, and life was steeped in a communal spirit that enriched every interaction.

Can isolation kill, then?

Dr. Gladys McGarey, Thich Nhat Hanh, and Malcolm Gladwell all convey a similar message: success, health, and fulfilment aren’t solitary roads; they are collective journeys. When we learn to live in connection with others, we find not just longer years, but richer ones.

There is a curious phenomenon that lives deep within us, and it colours much of our daily existence. This is the impulse to seek authority outside ourselves, to look for someone or something to tell us what is right, to provide a sense of security, to give us the answers we do not find within. This need for authority — for the expert, the leader, the wise one — it begins in childhood and, for most of us, carries through life, untouched and unquestioned. We become conditioned to trust this authority, believing it holds a power that we lack.

A story shared by the philosopher Slavoj Žižek (1997) shines a light on this deeply rooted habit. An elderly woman believed that her life’s misfortunes stemmed from a change in her house number. Burglars broke in, storms damaged her roof, and neighbours turned hostile. To her, this was all because her house was now marked by the number 23. She tried, in her small way, to change it, adding an “A” to the end, but it did not work. Why? Because, she insisted, it had to be done “properly” — by the authorities, by someone official. Only they, she felt, could restore harmony.

Isn’t this what so many of us do? We feel uneasy, restless, trapped by life’s complexities and misfortunes, and we think that something outside of us — an authority, an institution, a ritual — must resolve it. We think we can’t do it ourselves, that we are somehow lacking, incomplete, incapable. We place our faith in systems, in figures of power, in symbols that promise to cure us of our uncertainty.

But what, in essence, is authority? Have we ever looked at it deeply? Authority is nothing more than an image, a projection of power that we have created. It is the same whether we speak of political power, religious authority, or even the role of a therapist or teacher. In the therapeutic space, for instance, the client often believes that the therapist holds the answers, that the therapist is a kind of wise parent figure who will give permission, who will direct, who will make decisions on behalf of the client.

But the truth is that there is no such authority, not in the way we imagine. The therapist may have techniques, knowledge, experience, but they cannot truly solve the client’s inner conflicts. The therapist cannot give the client what the client refuses to find within themselves. In reality, each of us must become our own teacher, our own authority. No one can walk the path for us, and no one can see what lies within our own hearts.

This notion became clear to me once while working with a young woman who felt deeply unhappy in her university studies. She came to me, hoping I would tell her what to do, hoping I would say, “Yes, leave,” or “No, stay.” But can you see what this means? She wanted me to decide her life for her, to bear the weight of her choice. What she truly sought was not advice but permission. She wanted me, the figure of authority in her mind, to make it all right, to bear the burden of her inner conflict.

And yet, the most important thing I could do was refuse this role.

I had to allow her to discover that the answer lay within her own awareness, her own understanding. She alone had to see her truth; she alone had to decide. To depend on my judgment would be to avoid her own freedom, to abandon the responsibility of living her own life. As Nietzsche once said, ‘He who cannot obey himself will be commanded.’ It was not enough to seek guidance or approval from others — true freedom lay in her ability to shape her path, guided by an inner compass she alone could understand. When she finally made her choice, it was hers entirely — not borrowed from someone else, not influenced by an authority.

Do we see, then, the subtle tyranny of authority, the way it keeps us passive, uncertain, reliant? To truly live, to truly understand, we must be willing to stand alone, free of the security that authority promises. This does not mean becoming reckless or arrogant, but rather discovering a clarity within ourselves that does not depend on any external approval.

True freedom emerges when we understand that we are both the one who asks and the one who knows, both the traveller and the destination we long to find. There is no figure, no therapist, no guru, no institution that can take that journey for us. The journey is within, and it begins when we let go of the need for authority. Only then can we truly see, truly understand, and live in a way that is whole, complete, and utterly free.

Žižek, S. (1997). The Plague of Fantasies. Verso.

I felt embarrassed. In the middle of my presentation, I had the sudden urge to turn to the audience, full of therapists, and ask: “But if a client says, ‘Why am I not my thoughts?’ or ‘What does that even mean?’ — what would you say?” Silence. Not the comfortable kind, but the kind that exposes the gaps we’d rather not face. It was as if, in that moment, we all realised we’d been trained to repeat these phrases without fully grasping them ourselves.

Later, while I was providing supervision, the same scenario unfolded. A supervisee hesitated when faced with the same question, and again, I saw the disconnect. Then, in a therapy session, a client told me, “I read online that I’m not my thoughts.” They wanted more than a cliché – they wanted substance. And that’s why I believe we need articles that nourish understanding – like our daily cuppa.

And that’s why I’m writing this. To offer depth, clarity, and a perspective that goes beyond the surface.

When the article Embracing Your Demons: An Overview of Acceptance and Commitment Therapy by Dr. Russell Harris was released, it felt like a breath of fresh air, a relief from the traditional “change your thoughts” approach in CBT.

Dr. Harris shifted the focus towards accepting thoughts with ACT, a branch of CBT that encourages a different kind of relationship with the mind. Initially, I thought it was manna from the heaven. But as I introduced it to clients, I realised they needed more clarity. Many of them became even more confused, asking, “Am I supposed to accept my thoughts with ACT or change them with CBT?

Clearly, talking about thoughts requires careful introduction and guidance.

I’ve collected several questions from clients, which I’d like to clarify here.

Is it true that I am not my thoughts? (Preparation ad readiness)

Imagine someone casually tells you, “The solution is 15.” Your first reaction is likely, “What does that even mean?” That’s often how people feel when a CBT therapist says, “You are not your thoughts.” It’s a powerful idea, but without context, it feels abstract, like a riddle with no roadmap.

“You are not your thoughts” is actually a gradual process, not a quick revelation. It’s a teaching originally rooted in Buddhism, where monks would meditate for years to reach that understanding. Even the Buddha himself did not promptly reveal his discoveries; instead, he waited until a disciple was ready to comprehend and embody them. But these days, with the internet and ‘Dr. Google’, profound ideas like these are often handed out without preparation, making them harder to grasp and put into practice.

CBT adapted it, backed it up with research, and then presented it as a tool in therapy. But here’s the catch: simply saying it isn’t enough. It’s like giving someone a Ferrari without teaching them how to drive: powerful, yes, but without the right skills, it could even be dangerous.

Think of it like a math equation:

(3×4)+(18÷6)=15

You wouldn’t just jump to the answer. You can’t, can you? You’d need to break it down step by step, making sense of each part.

1. First, you’d tackle (3×4)=12
2. Then, you’d handle (18÷6)=3

Finally, you’d add the results:

3. 12+3=15

Step by step, you get to “15.” Simple, right? But without breaking it down, “15” on its own doesn’t mean much. And you already need to know addition and division; it’s not just calculation — there’s some prior preparation involved, isn’t there?

In the same way, understanding “you are not your thoughts” needs more than just hearing the phrase; it requires context, patience, and the right skills to unpack it.

Now, given that you were told ‘you are not your thoughts’ — or, in other words, ‘15’ — without preparation, let’s try to fill in some of the gaps

I think for us Western people, it’s better and easier to start with Heidegger and the concept of ‘Thrownness’. Don’t let Heidegger’s name intimidate you — I’ll keep it simple. If you haven’t come across it before, the idea of ‘Thrownness’ is simply about finding ourselves in a world we didn’t choose. As an example, let’s take Esty Shapiro, the protagonist in Deborah Feldman’s memoir Unorthodox, who captures this very sense of “Thrownness.” Esty’s story brings to life what it feels like to be born into a world where so much is already decided for you. Esty is born into a strict Hasidic community in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, where she faces immense challenges. Unorthodox vividly captures the rigid rules and expectations imposed on her from a young age, revealing the intense pressure to conform to religious and cultural norms.

Esty’s journey is a testament to the human spirit’s quest for freedom, illustrating our potential to transcend the constraints imposed by our upbringing. This journey reflects the universal struggle many face when trying to break free from the limitations of their own life circumstances. As she grows, she realises that many facets of her identity are pre-set: our genetics, ethnicity, and social class, and so on. We grapple with the cultural, historical, or political forces that shape us, including our gender identity and the prejudices she faces.

How is this connected to “I am not my thoughts”? So, you want to master the idea that you are not your thoughts, and you’re already ready to jump straight to “15”? Wait – it’s a process. I’m here to help fill in some of the gaps along the way.

Her “Thrownness” — her background, religion, family, and social status — shapes her thoughts, her identity, and the paths available to her in life. In simple terms, every child is like a sponge, absorbing and storing all the information and energy around them, even before they can consciously understand these experiences. Every child is a silent witness to the tension between their parents, the arguments, stability, worries, and pressures. Does the child feel like a burden to their parents? Are they truly wanted? These experiences are imprinted as raw, unintegrated thoughts, perceptions, beliefs, ideas, emotions, physical sensations, and behavioural responses. Some of these stored experiences will become vulnerabilities, wounds, traumas, or enduring thoughts.

Let’s have a look at her thoughts, followed by the underlying process:

• “Why does everyone seem so certain, while I feel so lost?” (Confusion and Doubt)
  Esty questions her place in a community that seems unwavering in its beliefs, feeling isolated in her uncertainty.
• “What if people find out that I’m different?” (Fear of Judgment)
  Her fear of being seen as an outsider reflects the deep pressure to conform and fit in, no matter the cost to her individuality.
• “Is this really who I am? Or is this just who I’ve been told to be?” (Identity Crisis)
  Esty starts to wonder if her sense of self is truly hers or just an identity shaped by her surroundings and expectations.
• “There must be something more than this life.” (Desire for Freedom)
  This thought reflects her inner spark, a yearning to explore a life beyond the strict boundaries of her upbringing.
• “I am not enough as I am.” (Sense of Inadequacy)
  The community’s rigid expectations make her feel inherently lacking, as though she can never be truly worthy on her own terms.
• “Is it wrong to want something different?” (Curiosity and Guilt)
  Esty’s curiosity about life outside is laced with guilt, as she questions whether it’s wrong to desire a different path.

Now imagine Esty goes to a male therapist from the same Hasidic community, and he says to her, “Come on, Esty, you are not your thoughts.” Do you understand now? What would happen here? He is missing the point entirely!

This phrase is not a shortcut, and it cannot be handed over like a prescription!

I am not my thoughts or can you help me change my negative thoughts?

I often follow up by asking, “What are the ‘negative’ thoughts we’re talking about?” For instance, clients might share, something like “I have this thought that I’m gay.”

First, I think it is reasonable to ask something along the lines of, “Let’s explore what this thought means to you and where these feelings come from. Can you tell me more about why it feels negative or troubling to you?” Here, I often encounter resistance from people:

“Oh but I have SO-OCD, I am not sure you heard of this? It is a Sexual Orientation Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, I am straight and I have ‘gay thoughts’. I don’t want to have sex with women (or men). But I think about them constantly.”

Some people approach therapy with an ‘out with the bad, in with the good’ mindset (Hayes et al., 1999), treating thoughts as if they were files on a computer — something to be deleted and replaced. Maybe we’ve been a bit too enthusiastic and compared the mind to a computer a bit too much in recent times, and the metaphor doesn’t really hold. This mechanistic view, where thoughts are simply exchanged, contrasts sharply with a contextual approach. Instead of rejecting or replacing negative thoughts, the focus shifts to ‘seeing the bad thought as a thought, no more, no less’ (Hayes et al., 1999).

Hayes, S. C., Strosahl, K. D., & Wilson, K. G. (1999). Acceptance and commitment therapy. New York: Guilford Press.

Secondly, who told you it’s a negative thought?

Let’s consider what we mean by a “negative” thought. When we label a thought this way, we’re engaging in interpretation, a judgement layered over basic neurological activity. Thoughts, in their raw form, are simply patterns of neural firings. These firings don’t carry inherent meaning; it’s our interpretation that gives them symbolic weight. As Epictetus wisely noted, “What really frightens and dismays us is not external events themselves, but the way in which we think about them. It is not things that disturb us, but our interpretation of their significance.” This insight lies at the core of CBT: it’s not the thoughts themselves that hold power but how we choose to interpret and react to them.

I want to emphasise that these thoughts do not necessarily signify a different orientation (though they might in some cases) but rather may reflect areas where the person is struggling with acceptance, self-concept, and authenticity. By accepting these thoughts without judgement, their power diminishes, and distress lessens. Gentle self-enquiry can help to explore these inner conflicts with compassion and curiosity. This shift allows clients to observe their thoughts without judgement, fostering a more accepting and transformative relationship with their inner experience.

And now, a question to close: why are some people so preoccupied with this idea of ‘Am I my thoughts?’ From my observations, the answer lies in control. Some people are deeply afraid of their inner life — thoughts, emotions, behaviours, and even their own body. If they could control their heartbeat, they would. This intense need for control is often a strategy to numb their fear or anxiety. But here’s the paradox: thoughts are automatic, and the more you try to control them, the more they seem to take over. It’s in letting go of that control that true peace can emerge.