Years ago I remember hearing John Gottman say something about childhood experiences that has stayed with me for almost a decade and a half:

Now, before anyone sends me an email, I realize “crazy” isn’t a clinical term. In fact, this concept is probably closer to what relationship researchers have described as enduring vulnerabilities. These are things like old wounds, sensitivities, and experiences that make certain situations hit harder than others.

There are lots of names for these by this point, but I’ve been using the phrase crazy buttons in my work for years because people seem to immediately understand it. I don’t have to explain attachment theory. I don’t have to define emotional triggers. And we don’t have to unpack decades of experiences.

I can simply say, “We all have some crazy buttons. Maybe this is one of yours.” And most people know exactly what I’m talking about.

A crazy button is one of those places where your emotional reaction seems bigger, faster, or more intense than the situation alone would explain. Maybe it’s criticism. Maybe it’s rejection. Maybe it’s being ignored, controlled, misunderstood, embarrassed, abandoned, or left out.

Whatever the reaction, it tends to elicit something that feels out of proportion to the moment itself. This isn’t due to being irrational or overly sensitive, but because a button that got pressed may have a much longer, deeper history than the situation that activated it.

And that’s often where friction in relationships begins. Rarely because of the thing we’re conversing about on the surface, and more often because of everything that surface-level moment happened to touch underneath.

A forgotten text message might brush up against years of feeling unimportant. A critical comment might land on top of old experiences of rejection. A disagreement that seems relatively small to one person can feel much larger to the other because it has connected itself to something older, something with a longer history.

That’s part of what makes crazy buttons so interesting. They remind us that our reactions are rarely occurring in a vacuum.

Most of us pick up our first crazy buttons in childhood. We gain them through our experiences, relationships, disappointments, fears, and losses. Sometimes they develop because something happened. Sometimes they develop because something didn’t happen.

Maybe we didn’t feel protected. Maybe we didn’t feel seen. Maybe we didn’t feel chosen. Or perhaps we learned early on that certain needs, feelings, or parts of ourselves weren’t particularly welcome.

But I don’t think childhood should get all the credit. Adulthood adds a few more for most people. Heartbreak has a way of installing one. Betrayal certainly can. Grief, failure, illness, divorce, loss, and all the other experiences that come with being human.

In fact, the longer we live, the more opportunities life seems to provide for collecting a few additional buttons. Which feels a little unfair, honestly.

You would think there would come a point where life says, “That’s probably enough emotional material for one person.” Instead, it tends to keep offering new experiences, and occasionally a few new buttons to go with them.

Something I very much like about this metaphor is that it can help people release some of the shame that’s attached to these buttons and accompanying reactions. We’re no longer talking about flaws, weaknesses, or something that’s “wrong” with us. We’re talking about the places where life left a mark.

And honestly, I think that’s a very important distinction.

Most people already know they have reactions they’d like to handle differently. They don’t need more evidence that they’re imperfect. What they often need is a framework that helps them become curious instead of critical.

A crazy button isn’t proof that you’ve failed somehow. It’s simply evidence that you’ve lived. And if you’ve lived long enough, you’ve probably accumulated a few experiences that still carry some emotional weight. Most of us have.

That’s part of being human. We move through life collecting experiences, and some of those experiences stay with us longer than others. They shape what we notice, what we expect, what we fear, and sometimes what we protect.

Understanding those influences doesn’t excuse every reaction we have. But it can help us understand where some of those reactions came from in the first place.

And as we discover the places where life has left marks, we learn more about ourselves, which in turn helps us teach other people about us.

I’ve talked a lot about context across my writing, and it comes up here again.

Familiarizing yourself with your own crazy buttons gives context to your feelings and reactions. It creates an opportunity to move beyond simply experiencing a reaction to understanding it. And it creates the opportunity for the people around you to understand as well.

I’ve lost track of how many conflicts I’ve watched soften when someone moved from, “What’s wrong with me?” to, “I think I know what this reaction is about.”

The feelings don’t disappear. The hurt doesn’t magically evaporate. But the reaction starts to have context, and context often changes the conversation.

Something I’ve noticed, though, is that people tend to approach these buttons as though the goal is to get rid of them completely. We tend to think, “Okay, cool. I’ll figure out what they are and then they’re gone.” That if we do enough work, heal enough, read enough books, or attend enough therapy sessions, maybe we can remove them altogether.

I don’t know that that’s how it works. And it’s certainly not what I’ve seen happen in fifteen years of this job.

What seems more realistic, at least to me, is simply learning them.

Learning what tends to press them, when they’re especially sensitive, and what helps settle them down after they get pushed. Learning how to recognize when a reaction belongs mostly to the present moment and when something older may have gotten involved.

Because while we may not be able to eliminate every crazy button, we can reduce the intensity and the sensitivity. We can turn the volume down, if you will. We can become less reactive and more aware of what’s happening inside us when one gets pressed.

We might learn that criticism isn’t always rejection. That conflict isn’t always abandonment. That disappointment isn’t always failure. And that being misunderstood doesn’t mean we’re unlovable.

The work here really is to develop a relationship with our crazy buttons because, like it or not, they’re here for the duration. They’re going into our friendships, our romantic relationships, our workplaces, our family gatherings, and all the other places where human beings inevitably bump into one another.

And because they’re coming with us anyway, it makes sense to get to know them.

The better we know them, the less likely they are to hijack a conversation, an argument, or an entire relationship. And because relationships are often where many of our crazy buttons were formed, relationships tend to be where they show up. Which means that if you love someone, they have crazy buttons too. Sorry to state the obvious here, but everyone has a few. Me. You. Them. All of us.

Something I'd like to point to very directly is that part of loving people well involves becoming curious about their crazy buttons and learning how to protect them. It's important to familiarize yourself with your own, but relationships also require us to learn the other person's and to treat those vulnerable places with the same care we'd hope they would show ours.

The goal isn’t perfection, because nobody gets it right all the time. The goal is intentionality. It’s taking the time to learn what tends to hurt the people you care about, what helps them feel understood, and where their tender places are so those places can be treated with care.

It also means not using that knowledge to weaponize them. It means not deciding someone should be over something by now, and not continuing to press on a tender spot after they’ve trusted you enough to show you where it is.

The reality is that we’re all going to accidentally step on one another’s sore spots from time to time. That’s part of being in relationship with other human beings. But there’s a meaningful difference between accidentally bumping into a wound and continuing to poke it after someone has shown you where it hurts.

This is part of the deal in any meaningful relationship. We learn our own vulnerabilities, and we learn the vulnerabilities of the people we care about.

Sadly, sometimes our crazy buttons become attracted to another person’s crazy buttons, and then we have to do a little more work to ensure that we aren’t inadvertently creating a feedback loop where each person’s vulnerabilities keep activating the other’s. That’s probably a topic for an entirely different essay, but it might look something like my fear of rejection bumping into your fear of criticism, or your fear of being controlled colliding with my fear of being abandoned.

In these situations, neither person is trying to hurt the other, but both people end up feeling hurt anyway.

This is one of the reasons I think getting curious about our crazy buttons is so powerful. The more we understand about them, the easier it becomes to recognize these patterns when they emerge. And the more we understand about the people we care about, the better chance we have of responding to what’s actually taking place instead of reacting to what an old wound is telling us is taking place.

Essentially more you know, the more choices you have.

So, none of us gets out of childhood without a few crazy buttons. Most of us collect a few more along the way. And the question isn’t whether you have them. The question is whether you know enough about them to understand, manage, and keep them from running the show.

And whether the people who love you know enough about them to handle them with care.

Until next time...

I’m Jenn — Ordinary Therapist is where I explore the layered, often messy work of being human — things like emotional maturity, relationships, burnout, and healing — through story, reflection, and a creative lens.

If you appreciate thoughtful takes, personal insight, and the kind of honesty that makes room for both complexity and connection, you’re in the right place.

Come back, read a little, comment, subscribe, like — or just hang out. I’m glad you’re here.

Disclaimer: The content shared on this Substack is for informational purposes only and is not intended to replace professional mental health advice, diagnosis, or treatment. Always seek the advice of your physician, therapist, or other qualified mental health provider with any questions you may have regarding a medical or psychological condition.

The views expressed in the articles and newsletters are those of the author(s) and do not necessarily reflect the views of any organizations or professionals mentioned. While every effort is made to provide accurate and up-to-date information, no guarantees are made regarding the completeness or reliability of the content.

If you are experiencing a mental health crisis or need immediate assistance, please contact a mental health professional or reach out to emergency services in your area. A list of resources is available in the “Resources” post pinned to our home page.

It starts simply enough. You share an experience layered with feelings — feelings attached to how someone treated you, “I felt confused by their ghosting behavior and think it’s rather immature, honestly. Why does someone react this way to delayed communication? Blocking someone feels disproportionate to what actually occurred.”

And what happens next is that you are suddenly flooded with responses like:

“Well, people are people.”

“Maybe they were struggling. You don’t know.”

“People aren’t doing okay right now. Maybe they were just trying to do the best they could.”

Or worse:

“Why are you bad mouthing this person?”

“You have no idea what they’re going through.”

“I can’t believe you would say this online.”

And somewhere in the middle of all of this, something very important has disappeared: the original emotional experience being shared by the person hurt in the interaction… gone!

The conversation is no longer about confusion, hurt, disproportionate behavior, or the impact of someone’s actions. Instead, it becomes a referendum on whether the person speaking about the experience is being “fair enough,” “kind enough,” “understanding enough,” or emotionally restrained enough in the way they discuss it.

In other words, the focus shifts away from the hurtful behavior itself and onto what I can only assume is managing the discomfort people feel in hearing about it. And this, I think, is where many people fundamentally misunderstand the difference between disagreement and invalidation. Or in other words, how people misunderstand the different between agreement and validation.

Because disagreeing with someone’s interpretation, perspective, or conclusions is not the same thing as dismissing, minimizing, or reframing their emotional experience until it becomes more comfortable for everyone else to tolerate.

And often, the examples are much smaller and far more subtle than people realize. For instance, maybe someone says they feel consistently left out in a friend group. They notice they’re rarely invited, conversations happen without them, or plans are made around them instead of with them. They finally express feeling hurt and unseen, only to immediately hear:

“I’m sure nobody meant it personally.”

“People are busy.”

“You’re probably overthinking it.”

“I doubt anyone was intentionally excluding you.”

Now, none of those statements are necessarily false. But notice what happens. The conversation immediately shifts away from the emotional experience being shared by the friend and toward softening everyone else’s responsibility for how their behavior may have impacted the friend.

And perhaps nowhere is this dynamic more obvious than in situations involving betrayal. So, let’s take it one step farther and discuss an example that carries a little more emotional weight. Imagine someone discovering their partner has been unfaithful. They share feelings of betrayal, confusion, humiliation, and grief. And almost immediately, someone responds with:

“Well, maybe they were lonely.”

“Relationships are complicated.”

“People make mistakes.”

“You don’t know what they were going through emotionally.”

Or worse:

“That’s just how people are, they cheat.”

Again, are some of these statements true? Sure! But notice how quickly the focus shifts away from the person who’s been hurt by infidelity, and toward contextualizing the person who caused the harm.

I could go on and on with examples like these, but one of the most painful may be the way we dismiss people’s grief and experiences of loss. Culturally acceptable phrases such as, “They’re in a better place,” or “Everything happens for a reason,” are often some of the most invalidating and emotionally dismissive statements a grieving person can hear. Yet we tolerate them. Many of us have likely even said them ourselves, believing we were offering comfort when, in reality, we were often trying to soothe our own discomfort in the face of another person’s pain.

So, why are people so uncomfortable simply allowing someone to have an emotional experience without immediately trying to reinterpret it?

And before I go any further, I want to clarify, I don’t actually think most invalidation comes from cruelty. I think much of it comes from some form of discomfort. Maybe it’s defensiveness or self-identification with the behavior or person doing the harm. Maybe it’s anxiety or an inability to tolerate emotional ambiguity without trying to resolve it as quickly as possible. Or maybe a whole host of other discomforts that bring about defensiveness, anger, or dismissal.

When someone says, “This hurt me,” many people hear something much larger than what is actually being said. They hear:

• “Someone must be blamed.”

• “Someone must be bad.”

• “I need to defend myself.”

• “I need to defend people generally.”

• “I need to restore emotional equilibrium.”

• “This discomfort needs to go away.”

And so the response becomes immediate contextualization:

“Maybe they were struggling.”

“Maybe they didn’t mean it.”

“Maybe you misunderstood.”

“People are doing the best they can.”

Again, these statements aren’t inherently wrong. Human behavior is complex, and people do struggle. But intentions matter and context matters.

But maybe context has become many people’s preferred escape hatch from emotional accountability. I talk often about context and about trying to understand people, because understanding people matters… a lot!

But in searching for context, we are NOT searching for excuses.

We are searching for explanations, which are not the same as excuses. Explanations help us understand why a behavior occurred. Excuses are often used to soften, minimize, or remove responsibility for the impact of that behavior altogether. And there is a difference between understanding behavior and rushing to emotionally absolve it before the hurt person has even fully finished speaking.

Validation

The discussion of validation is one of my favorites, and it often emerges after someone has argued with another person’s feelings or experiences, or moved immediately into problem-solving before first acknowledging the emotional reality being shared.

Humans have a tendency to skip over the step of simply acknowledging and validating someone’s experience and move straight into sharing their own thoughts, opinions, interpretations, or solutions. Most of the time, this is not intended to be invalidating. But intention and impact are not always the same thing. And when people consistently feel unheard, minimized, corrected, or emotionally bypassed, communication often begins to shut down altogether.

At its core, validation is the acknowledgment that another person’s emotional experience is real, understandable, and worthy of being heard. It does not require agreement, endorsement, or abandoning nuance. Validating someone shows you understand their feelings and point of view, even when you disagree.

Simply put, validation is not agreement. Validation is not surrendering nuance. And validation is not declaring one person right and another person wrong.

Validation is the willingness to acknowledge that another person’s emotional experience is real and that their lived experience and subjective reality influence how they interpret the world around them. We can challenge ideas, assumptions, and even worldview at times, but emotionally healthy communication cannot begin with dismissing someone’s feelings simply because we would have experienced the situation differently ourselves.

We do not become emotionally healthy by learning how to argue people out of their experiences. We become emotionally healthy by learning how to tolerate another person’s reality without immediately trying to erase, minimize, reinterpret, or defend against it.

I think many people have become deeply uncomfortable with emotional ambiguity and discomfort. We rush toward explanation, defense, correction, or problem-solving because another person’s feelings can feel overwhelming, accusatory, or difficult to tolerate.

But emotionally healthy communication requires something far more difficult than agreement. It requires the ability to remain present with another person’s emotional reality without immediately trying to reshape it into something more comfortable for ourselves.

So, I challenge everyone, myself included, to step back and practice validation more intentionally. Practice sitting with discomfort without immediately rushing to redirect, explain, minimize, defend, or correct another person’s emotional experience. And if you are able, spend a moment reflecting on what’s coming up internally when you feel that pull toward defensiveness or dismissal.

Even when the feelings being expressed are about you. Especially then!

Maybe instead of immediately defending ourselves or trying to reshape someone else’s experience into something easier to tolerate, we slow down long enough to genuinely listen and get curious. Curious about how another person arrived at their emotional reality. Curious about the experiences, relationships, fears, losses, and worldview shaping the way they move through the world.

Because people do not heal, they do not feel heard, they do not feel seen, and they do not feel loved and cared for by being argued out of how they feel.

Until next time…

I’m Jenn — Ordinary Therapist is where I explore the layered, often messy work of being human — things like emotional maturity, relationships, burnout, and healing — through story, reflection, and a creative lens.

If you appreciate thoughtful takes, personal insight, and the kind of honesty that makes room for both complexity and connection, you’re in the right place.

Come back, read a little, comment, subscribe, like — or just hang out. I’m glad you’re here.

Disclaimer: The content shared on this Substack is for informational purposes only and is not intended to replace professional mental health advice, diagnosis, or treatment. Always seek the advice of your physician, therapist, or other qualified mental health provider with any questions you may have regarding a medical or psychological condition.

The views expressed in the articles and newsletters are those of the author(s) and do not necessarily reflect the views of any organizations or professionals mentioned. While every effort is made to provide accurate and up-to-date information, no guarantees are made regarding the completeness or reliability of the content.

If you are experiencing a mental health crisis or need immediate assistance, please contact a mental health professional or reach out to emergency services in your area. A list of resources is available in the “Resources” post pinned to our home page.

There is a very uncomfortable truth I sit with, one that I can’t write around or pretend doesn’t shape the work that I do. I am a white female therapist. And more than that, most therapists in the United States are white women, with estimates often placing the field somewhere around 70 to 80 percent white and majority female. This is not a small number.

But it’s important to be precise about what that actually means. While the field is now largely made up of women, the foundations it rests on were built within white, male, Western frameworks. The theories, the structures, the definitions of what constitutes health, pathology, and healing did not emerge from a neutral place. They were shaped within a specific cultural and historical context —one that centered white, male perspectives.

So what we have now is a profession that is largely practiced by white women, operating within systems that were not originally designed by them, but that are still upheld, reinforced, and normalized through the work we do.

A quick aside: this is a much larger conversation than can be held in a single Substack essay. This is a topic that could easily stretch into a book, or probably several. But I think it’s still worth exploring here, even in a limited capacity.

To be fair, there are reasons why so many women show up here. Helping professions tend to run alongside caregiving roles, and caregiving roles have historically belonged to women. Things like teaching, nursing, parenting, and all of the spaces where being relational and attentive to others is not just valued, but expected. So it makes perfect sense that women would be deeply rooted in a field like this. That part is not the issue I am calling attention to, at least not in this essay.

Another uncomfortable truth is this: there are ways that white women, myself included, have learned to conduct ourselves in the therapy room, and outside of it, that are deeply shaped by whiteness and by privilege. These ways of being are not new, and have been present in the field for a long time.

What has changed is the level of visibility. Because of social media and the internet, these ways of engaging are no longer contained within individual offices or training programs. They are shared, circulated, reinforced, and, at times, rewarded. They become easier to recognize, easier to replicate, and ultimately, easier to mistake for the standard.

When I use the phrase “White Lady Therapy”, I am not referring to all white women in this field. I am referring to a particular version of therapy that has become highly visible and widely accepted. One that is polished, palatable, and aligned with dominant cultural norms. A version of care that translates easily, that feels familiar, and that rarely disrupts the systems it exists within.

Over time, it’s not only become the version of therapy that people have come to expect, but maybe even what healing is supposed to look and sound like.

And I want to be very clear here, because this is where conversations like this can often get derailed. This is not about calling out any one person or assigning individual blame. It is not about identifying a singular therapist and holding her up as the problem. What I am more interested in, and what feels harder to name, is how we collectively end up here. How systems, training programs, culture, and yes, our own limited awareness of our privilege, shape the way we show up and the kind of care that becomes normalized.

It’s worth noting here that most training programs in this field do not ignore these dynamics. In fact, they often emphasize them. Courses on multicultural counseling, social justice, ethics, and the broader systems that shape access to care are standard. We are asked, often repeatedly, to examine ourselves, our identities, our biases, and the ways we may impact the people we sit across from. There is, at least in theory, an expectation that we develop not just clinical skill, but self-awareness.

But also, the spaces where therapists are trained are not separate from the dynamics of whiteness. Training programs themselves are still largely white, reflecting the same broader patterns we see in the field. And while many programs have made meaningful efforts to incorporate multicultural education and faculty, diversity in theory does not always translate to diversity in experience, perspective, or depth of engagement.

So, programs do, in many ways, hold up mirrors. They ask us to examine ourselves, our identities, our biases, and the systems we are a part of. And they can provide language, frameworks, and research that help us understand what happens when we don’t do that work.

But they cannot make someone confront their own privilege.

They cannot require someone to move beyond intellectual understanding into lived awareness. They can only invite it, encourage it, and create space for it. What happens after that, how deeply someone is willing to go, is something that extends far beyond the classroom. So whether that process continues beyond graduate school, and how deeply it is taken up in practice, is another question entirely.

When we leave graduate school, we are often thrust back into environments that are shaped by the same broader cultural dynamics we were asked to examine, but without the same space to continue that reflection. And given the current state of mental health care, it’s not just this kind of reflection that’s limited, it is that reflection itself becomes difficult to sustain at all.

And as a white clinician, it is easy to move through much of life without having to think about whiteness, because so many environments are already structured in ways that align with it. Maintaining awareness, then, is not automatic. It requires an ongoing and intentional commitment to examination.

Because the reality is, I can’t separate myself from the fact that I’m white, or that I was raised within a culture that centers and rewards whiteness. That is not something I chose, but it is something I carry. And carrying it means I have a responsibility to understand how it shapes the way I see the world, the assumptions I make, and the ways I might be experienced by clients who do not share that identity.

At the same time, awareness is not the same thing as shame. Being asked to examine privilege or to understand the systems we are a part of is not an indictment of one’s character. It’s part of the work. It’s what allows us to show up with more clarity, more intention, and more accountability.

Naming systems is not about assigning guilt to individuals. It’s about recognizing the conditions we are operating within, and the ways those conditions shape both the care we provide and the care that becomes normalized.

But even with all of this training, all of this language, and all of this emphasis on awareness and reflection, before and possibly after graduation, a particular kind of therapy continues to rise to the top.

It becomes what is most visible. And over time, what is visible begins to feel familiar. What feels familiar begins to feel right. And what feels right quietly becomes the standard.

And the standard that’s emerged didn’t do so randomly. It’s been shaped by what is the most resourced, most visible, and most culturally reinforced. The more access something has, the more influence it carries. And over time, that influence begins to define what is considered normal, effective, and even what constitutes “good” therapy.

But when you look more closely at this version of therapy, it often exists at the intersection of whiteness and wealth. It is a particular kind of care that is both highly visible and, in some spaces, highly sought after.

It is important to mention that race and class can’t be easily separated in this conversation. While not all white individuals have access to wealth, the structures and norms shaped by those who do tend to set the standard for everyone else.

And this is not about dismissing it outright or suggesting that the people who participate in this version of therapy are without struggle. Of course they struggle. But the nature of those struggles, and the way they are held, often look different.

This version of therapy is frequently more expansive, more flexible, and, at times, more spacious in ways that are simply not accessible to most people. It often includes longer sessions. Expensive retreats. Workshops centered on self-discovery, healing, and personal growth that require not just emotional capacity, but financial and temporal freedom. There is often a softer, sometimes more spiritual or “woo-leaning” tone, and a language that validates the experience of navigating the world from a place of relative comfort while still feeling unfulfilled, disconnected, or overwhelmed.

And again, I want to be clear here. This is not an argument that wealth protects people from pain. It does not. But it does shape the conditions under which that pain is experienced, expressed, and addressed. When your basic needs are consistently met, when your time is more your own, and when resources are available, the work of “healing” can take on a very different form.

What begins to happen, then, is a subtle narrowing. Not just in how therapy is practiced, but in how it is understood. The conditions that shape certain experiences of pain also begin to shape what we recognize, what we know how to respond to, and what we come to expect.

And by no means am I suggesting that only white people engage in this type of therapy. People of all races and ethnicities seek it out and participate in it. But it is important to name that this version of therapy has largely been shaped by white clinicians, and continues to be most commonly practiced and consumed within white communities.

So while participation may be diverse, the framework itself, the language, and the underlying assumptions about what healing looks like do not emerge from a neutral or universal place. They are shaped within a specific cultural context — one that reflects the values, norms, and experiences of those who have historically held the most power to define what pain looks like, how it is expressed, and what is considered worthy of care.

So then this narrowing begins to shift the way pain itself is understood. It starts to take on a particular shape, as something introspective, a bit articulate, somewhat contained, and something that can be explored, processed, and eventually reframed.

But pain does not always look like that.

Sometimes it’s loud. Sometimes it’s urgent. Sometimes it’s tied to survival, instability, cultural norms, or systems that don’t shift simply because someone gained insight. Sometimes it doesn’t have the language to explain itself in ways that feel neat or reflective. And sometimes it cannot be slowed down enough to be gently unpacked. Sometimes people are living inside of it so deeply, it can only be witnessed, not altered.

And when those forms of pain meet a model that expects reflection over reaction, or processing over immediacy, something gets lost. Not necessarily out of harm, but out of familiarity. And familiarity, even when unintentional, can still cause harm.

And over time, that familiarity begins to influence what we recognize, what we respond to, and what we know how to hold. It informs which kinds of pain are most easily seen, most readily validated, and most likely to be met with care.

And when this version of therapy becomes the default, the standard, or what’s most familiar, it reveals who it works for, and who it does not work for. Because the conditions required to engage in this version of care are not universally available — time, money, stability, language, cultural knowledge, and a sense of safety that allows for reflection rather than immediate survival — but they absolutely shape what therapy can realistically look like for different people.

So a mismatch emerges. But this mismatch might not be obvious to clinicians. It can look more like discomfort, disengagement, early termination, or the quiet conclusion that therapy “just isn’t for me.”

For many people, particularly those navigating financial strain, systemic barriers, or marginalization, therapy does not look like private pay sessions, retreats, or flexible schedules. It looks like long waitlists, limited session counts, and overburdened community agencies. It looks like clinicians, of all backgrounds, who are stretched thin, carrying high caseloads, and doing their best within systems that are under-resourced.

So what we end up with is a kind of split. One version of therapy that is visible, aspirational, and well-resourced. And another that is constrained, reactive, and largely invisible in broader conversations about what therapy is.

And because this sits at the intersection of race and class, it is important to name that this is not just about people of color. Limited access to care and overburdened systems affect many people, including white individuals navigating financial strain or systemic barriers. But those impacts are also not evenly distributed.

Research has consistently shown that white individuals are more likely to access mental health services than Black, Hispanic, and other marginalized groups, even when the level of need is similar. So while barriers to care can affect anyone, they tend to fall more heavily on communities of color and those with fewer financial resources.

So the version of therapy that becomes visible, normalized, and widely discussed, even when it is not easily accessible, continues to be shaped by those who are most able to access it in the first place… white folks.

And to be honest, it’s not just therapy where this shows up. It extends into the broader world of wellness, into the practices and spaces that are often positioned as part of healing, and that are frequently shaped by the same intersection of whiteness and wealth.

Yoga classes, pilates studios, running groups, boutique fitness spaces, mom groups, women’s circles, and life coaching and wellness coaching spaces. Even retreats and workshops that promise clarity, regulation, or transformation.

Be honest, you know exactly what I’m talking about.

Again, none of these things are inherently problematic. Many of them are genuinely helpful. But they are not neutral in how they are constructed, who they are built for, or who is most able to access them consistently. Wealthy white women are the target population. There, I said it. These are the people being spoken to and the ones being asked to step inside these spaces. Because these spaces most accurately reflect them and their needs.

Again, these are often spaces that require time, money, transportation, knowledge of cultural norms, and a certain level of stability to participate in. And the messages that come out of them, often delivered in the same soft, aspirational tone, can start to sound familiar. “Slow down.” “Be present.” “Choose yourself.” “Honor your needs.” And while these ideas can be meaningful, they are also rooted in a particular set of conditions — mostly where choosing yourself doesn’t come at an immediate cost.

For someone navigating financial strain, unreliable transportation, multiple jobs, or a cultural context that carries stigma around therapy or self-focus, those same messages can land very differently. Not as grounding, but as distance. Not as supportive, but as something just out of reach. Less like guidance, and more like a quiet reminder of what is not currently possible.

And over time, these spaces and messages begin to mirror the same patterns we see in therapy, while therapy, in turn, reflects the messages circulating within them. They can begin to reinforce each other. And not just in who participates, but in how healing is framed and what it is expected to look like.

And I want to be clear, in case I wasn’t earlier, naming this is not about tearing something down for the sake of it. It is about understanding how something becomes what it is, and who it was built to serve.

Because “White Lady Therapy”, as a phrase, is not really about individual therapists. It is about a version of care that has been shaped by particular experiences, reinforced by visibility, and then quietly accepted as the default. And part of the reason it has been so easily accepted is because it aligns with the dominant culture. It feels familiar. It feels right.

So when a different version of therapy shows up, one that moves at a different pace, prioritizes different values, or expresses emotion in ways that do not mirror the dominant model, it can feel off. Not because it is ineffective, but because it does not align with what we have been taught to expect.

And those expectations are not neutral. They are shaped by systems that have historically centered white, Western ways of thinking, relating, and healing.

The reality is, therapy has never been one thing. It can’t be. Not if it is going to meet people where they actually are.

So the work, at least from my seat as an ordinary therapist, is not to abandon what has been built, but to question it. To expand it. To be willing to sit with the discomfort of realizing that what feels natural, what feels right, what feels like “good therapy,” may not be universal at all.

Because if we are not willing to examine that, we risk continuing to offer care that fits some people beautifully… and quietly misses others entirely.

Until next time…

The Edges of This Conversation

There is so much more here than I could reasonably cover in a single essay. These are entire conversations that deserve their own space. Like I said… a book! We didn’t cover what this actually looks like in the room, in real time. Why we continue to default to a “white standard” of care, even now. What it feels like for clients of color to sit across from a therapist who may not fully understand their lived experience. How white therapists, myself included, can show up differently, more thoughtfully, and more aware of the culture we carry with us. And we didn’t cover the role of white men in all of this, or how this norm also intersects with age, gender identity or sexuality.

And there is also the broader context we are all operating within. A healthcare system that does not treat everyone equally, where outcomes are still stratified along lines of race and class. We see this clearly in areas like maternal health, where Black women continue to experience significantly worse outcomes than white women, regardless of income or education. These disparities do not exist in isolation, and therapy is not immune to them.

This is a large and layered topic. One that touches culture, training, access, identity, and systems that have been in place for a very long time. It is not something that can be fully unpacked here, and it is certainly not something I have finished learning about.

But it is something worth continuing to examine.

And if this is a conversation you want to see explored further, in different directions and with more specificity, I am more than willing to keep going.

I’m Jenn — Ordinary Therapist is where I explore the layered, often messy work of being human — things like emotional maturity, relationships, burnout, and healing — through story, reflection, and a creative lens.

If you appreciate thoughtful takes, personal insight, and the kind of honesty that makes room for both complexity and connection, you’re in the right place.

Come back, read a little, comment, subscribe, like — or just hang out. I’m glad you’re here.

Disclaimer: The content shared on this Substack is for informational purposes only and is not intended to replace professional mental health advice, diagnosis, or treatment. Always seek the advice of your physician, therapist, or other qualified mental health provider with any questions you may have regarding a medical or psychological condition.

The views expressed in the articles and newsletters are those of the author(s) and do not necessarily reflect the views of any organizations or professionals mentioned. While every effort is made to provide accurate and up-to-date information, no guarantees are made regarding the completeness or reliability of the content.

If you are experiencing a mental health crisis or need immediate assistance, please contact a mental health professional or reach out to emergency services in your area. A list of resources is available in the “Resources” post pinned to our home page.

I’ve taken to recording these with my own voice. Listen at your own risk. (wink)

We tend to think of self-centered people in a very particular way. Loud, confident, maybe a little oblivious. The kind of person who dominates a conversation and somehow makes their story the center of every room they walk into. Dare I even say that we might consider these people arrogant.

But yes, these people exist. We all know them. We’ve all met at least one of them in our lifetime.

But there’s another version that I don’t think we talk about as much, and honestly, it can take a while to recognize it for what it was because it doesn’t look like arrogance at all. In fact, it often looks like the opposite.

It looks like insecurity.

It sounds like someone saying they’re not good enough, or that they always mess things up, or that they’re just… not a great person. It can even sound thoughtful, reflective, and self-aware in a way that almost feels admirable at first. And yet, if you sit with it long enough, there’s this subtle shift where you realize that everything, no matter where it starts, keeps circling back to them.

Not in a boastful way. Just… constantly.

And I think that’s the part that’s much harder to name, because we don’t usually associate self-centeredness with people who are actively criticizing themselves. But the more you observe and the more you investigate, it seems like self-centeredness isn’t always about thinking too highly of yourself.

Sometimes it’s just about thinking about yourself all the time, even if what you’re thinking is that you’re falling short.

There’s a concept in psychology that helps make sense of this, and it’s the distinction between shame and guilt, which we tend to use interchangeably but are actually doing very different things under the surface.

Shame is this global, identity-level experience. It sounds like “I’m a bad person” or “there’s something wrong with me.” Guilt, on the other hand, is much more specific. It sounds like “I forgot and it hurt you,” which might seem like a small shift in language but ends up being a completely different orientation.

Shorthand: shame is “I am bad” and guilt is “I did something bad.” See the difference?

When someone is in shame, their attention almost automatically turns inward. They’re trying to make sense of themselves, manage how they feel about themselves, figure out how they’re going to live with themselves. And that can look like reflection, it can sound like accountability, but it’s still organized around the self. Guilt does something different. It keeps the focus on behavior and, more importantly, on impact. And then it creates space for another person to exist in the conversation. In the relationship.

This difference tends to become much more obvious in moments of conflict or disagreement. Honestly, this is often when you see the pattern at all. Because when things are going well, when there’s alignment in a relationship, it can stay pretty well hidden. But when misalignment shows up, when there’s tension or rupture, it has a way of moving right to the center.

In moments of conflict, you might expect some version of repair, or at the very least, curiosity. Not perfection, not a grand apology, just some willingness to sit in what happened and acknowledge that it had an impact outside of oneself. But instead, what can emerge is language that sounds like insight. There’s talk about having to live with oneself and the decisions made, maybe about lessons learned, or even about feeling terrible.

And yet, something feels off. Because even in a moment where someone has been hurt, the focus can fold back inward so completely that there’s no space left for impact, only identity. The conversation becomes about who someone is, how they feel about themselves, and what they have to carry moving forward.

And what’s left is a dynamic where the person who was hurt is no longer being responded to, but is instead witnessing, and sometimes holding, someone else’s internal experience.

I don’t think this comes from a bad place. If anything, it often seems rooted in shame, in this deeply ingrained sense that the self is always under evaluation and always at risk of coming up short. So when that’s the baseline, it makes sense that everything gets filtered through it. Every conflict becomes a referendum on who you are as a person, rather than an opportunity to look at what actually happened between you and someone else.

But understanding where something comes from doesn’t really soften its impact.

Because the impact, at least relationally, is that it becomes very hard to exist alongside someone whose internal world is so loud that it keeps pulling everything back in. Not because they’re trying to dominate or control, but because there just isn’t much room left.

I think this is where that shame versus guilt distinction starts to matter in a very practical way, not just as a concept. Research has shown pretty consistently that guilt, as uncomfortable as it is, tends to move people toward repair. It’s associated with empathy, with taking responsibility, with actually trying to make things right. It’s one of the few emotional experiences that can shift behavior over time.

And part of that is because guilt is unpleasant, and most of us are wired to avoid unpleasant emotions. So in that way, it ends up being motivating. Not because it feels good, but because we don’t want to stay there.

Shame, on the other hand, tends to do the opposite. It pulls people inward, into withdrawal or defensiveness or this kind of self-focused distress that makes it much harder to stay connected to someone else’s experience. And as counterintuitive as it might sound, shame doesn’t actually motivate us to behave differently in the future. If anything, it keeps people stuck in the very patterns they’re trying to move away from. It’s a bit like bamboo, once it takes root, it spreads quietly and can be incredibly hard to get rid of. (I say that as someone who actually loves bamboo.)

So, even when it sounds like accountability, even when the words seem right, the underlying orientation is completely different.

And I think that’s the part that can feel so disorienting for people. Because even when someone is able to articulate that they’ve learned a lesson or how badly they feel, something can still feel… off. Not because reflection isn’t happening, but because it never quite extends outward to the other person. It stays contained within the self.

And over time, that dynamic can become exhausting.

And it’s not always exhausting in an obvious or dramatic way, but often in a quieter, harder-to-name way where the relational balance starts to shift. One person ends up doing much of the emotional work, holding space, translating, making room, while also trying to locate themselves in something that keeps reorganizing itself around the other person’s internal experience.

Please, let me be very clear here — I don’t think the answer is to pathologize this or flatten it into something overly simplistic. Because, actually, it makes sense. These patterns usually do. Context. With the right context, we can make sense of most things. But I also don’t think we do ourselves any favors by pretending that because something is rooted in insecurity, it’s somehow less self-centered or less impactful.

Because at the end of the day, relationships require at least some capacity to step outside of yourself, even briefly, and really take in another person’s experience. Not as a reflection of who you are, not as evidence for or against your worth, but as something that exists in its own right.

And when that doesn’t happen, when everything keeps folding back inward, you can find yourself in a relationship where you’re not asking for much. Certainly not perfection and not constant attunement, just… to be seen.

And realizing, slowly, that there may not be enough space for that to happen.

Until next time…

References:

1. Miceli, M. & Castelfranchi C. (2018). Reconsidering the Differences Between Shame and Guilt. Europe’s Journal of Psychology. Vol. 14(3), 710–733.

2. Scaffidi Abbate C, Misuraca R, Roccella M, Parisi L, Vetri L, Miceli S. (2022). The Role of Guilt and Empathy on Prosocial Behavior. Behavioral Sciences. 1;12(3):64.

3. Semaan, R. W. (2025). Shame Withdraws, Guilt Corrects: Distinguishing Shame and Guilt in Goal Pursuit—An Experimental Study. Behavioral Sciences, 15(6), 725.

I’m Jenn — Ordinary Therapist is where I explore the layered, often messy work of being human — things like emotional maturity, relationships, burnout, and healing — through story, reflection, and a creative lens.

If you appreciate thoughtful takes, personal insight, and the kind of honesty that makes room for both complexity and connection, you’re in the right place.

Come back, read a little, comment, subscribe, like — or just hang out. I’m glad you’re here.

Disclaimer: The content shared on this Substack is for informational purposes only and is not intended to replace professional mental health advice, diagnosis, or treatment. Always seek the advice of your physician, therapist, or other qualified mental health provider with any questions you may have regarding a medical or psychological condition.

The views expressed in the articles and newsletters are those of the author(s) and do not necessarily reflect the views of any organizations or professionals mentioned. While every effort is made to provide accurate and up-to-date information, no guarantees are made regarding the completeness or reliability of the content.

If you are experiencing a mental health crisis or need immediate assistance, please contact a mental health professional or reach out to emergency services in your area. A list of resources is available in the “Resources” post pinned to our home page.

A few weeks ago, an article began circulating suggesting we hold a funeral for the DSM. It was provocative and sharply argued. I, The Therapist Who Came Undone, initially restacked it, intrigued by its critique of diagnosis and the power the DSM holds in our field.

A fellow clinician, The Ordinary Therapist, commented on that restack and encouraged me to look more closely at the author’s broader body of work. I did. What I found was a pattern of flattening complex systems into sweeping conclusions. She was right. The critique raised important questions, but it lacked nuance. So I took the restack down.

What followed was a meaningful conversation between the two of us. Between us, we have thirty-one years of experience treating people with mental health concerns. We decided that instead of reacting to a hot take, we’d try to articulate something harder and more honest: the limits of diagnosis without dismissing its necessity.

What follows is our shared perspective, written by both of us.

Diagnosis isn’t theoretical for us, it’s part of our daily work.

The DSM, short for the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, is the primary diagnostic reference used by mental health professionals in the United States. Published by the American Psychiatric Association, it outlines the criteria for psychiatric disorders and provides the shared framework clinicians use to identify and classify mental health conditions.

It’s one of those books people in mental health love to hate. It’s imperfect, frustrating, and at times maddening, but it’s also foundational to how modern mental health care functions.

Diagnosis began as a shared language. It allows clinicians to communicate across settings, coordinate care, justify treatment, and conduct research. When Major Depressive Disorder is named in a room full of clinicians, there’s immediate understanding. The same is true for ADHD or Bipolar Disorder.

That shared vocabulary isn’t trivial. Research depends on agreed-upon definitions. Treatments are built around diagnostic categories. And in the United States, insurance reimbursement requires a diagnosable condition. Without some recognized system of classification, access to care would collapse. However frustrating the system may be, it’s the one we currently have.

That said, none of this places the DSM beyond critique.

Like much of modern medicine and psychology, the classification of mental health conditions was built within a White, Eurocentric framework. Early research was conducted largely on Western populations, and those assumptions shaped the criteria and became embedded in how we understand diagnosis. Cultural contexts were not adequately represented in those early frameworks, which meant that behaviors and expressions of distress outside Western norms were often misunderstood or misclassified. When a narrow standard becomes the baseline for what is considered disordered, people who do not fit that standard are more likely to be labeled rather than understood.

Thankfully, the DSM has evolved since its first publication in 1952. Revisions have incorporated cultural considerations, developmental differences, and research on sex and gender variations. Some interpret those ongoing revisions as evidence that the system is broken. But we see them as evidence that the field is alive. Revision isn’t failure, it’s responsiveness.

Still, diagnosis is an abstraction. It organizes symptoms, but it doesn’t capture meaning. It can’t tell you how someone learned to survive, what shaped their nervous system, or what they’re still carrying into the room. Two people with the same diagnosis can look entirely different. One person’s depression may look like exhaustion; another’s may look like despair. One person’s anxiety is loud and consuming; another’s is quiet and corrosive.

The label may be the same, but the lived experience rarely is. That doesn’t make diagnosis wrong, it makes it incomplete.

There are moments in clinical work when compression is necessary. Notes have to be written. Decisions have to be made. Time is limited. And diagnosis helps the work move forward. What it can’t do is stand in for the whole person.

The deeper risk isn’t diagnosis itself. It’s what happens when diagnosis replaces curiosity. When it becomes a conclusion instead of a starting point, and when shorthand hardens into identity.

Many of us have worked with patients who arrive carrying a long list of diagnoses accumulated over years of treatment. It’s hard to imagine that any one person truly embodies ten or twelve distinct disorders. More often, what we’re seeing isn’t a failure of the DSM itself, but a failure in how it’s been used. We’ve seen the overpathologization of ordinary distress, the labeling of complex trauma responses as personality disorders, and the treatment of diagnoses as permanent identities rather than clinical tools.

Bad use of a tool doesn’t mean the tool has no value.

The act of diagnosis is inherently complicated. To diagnose is to pathologize certain patterns of thought, behavior, and emotion. Sometimes that can feel profoundly relieving. Many people feel validated when their experience is named. Diagnosis can offer a framework and a way of saying, this has been seen before and you’re not alone.

At other times, a diagnosis can feel limiting or stigmatizing. A mental health label can affect eligibility for military service, life insurance, or access to certain medical procedures. So, diagnosis can sometimes carry unintended consequences, which clinicians need to be aware of. Again, the DSM is a tool used by humans, and humans are imperfect. The real danger is not that the tool exists, but that it is used rigidly, carelessly, or without context.

So, all in all, the answer to the question of whether or not we should be holding a funeral for the DSM is complicated… as are so many parts of life. But from our vantage point, what we need instead is humility about its limits, ongoing revision to address its biases, and better training in how to use it wisely. We need clinicians who can hold diagnostic categories lightly while still recognizing their necessity. We need systems that allow for nuance and context rather than reducing people to codes on a billing form.

Mental health can be messy. Human beings are complicated. No reference manual will ever capture the full richness of our inner lives. The DSM isn’t a perfect map of the human experience, but it’s a map nonetheless. And maps, even imperfect ones, help us orient. Abolishing diagnostic language altogether would not free us from limitations. It would leave us without a way to communicate, to research, to plan treatment, or to advocate for care.

The goal of mental health care isn’t to defend a book. It’s to help people suffer less and live more fully. Diagnosis remains one of the best tools we have to support that work, provided we remember that it’s only a tool and never the whole story.

Until next time…

Disclaimer: The content shared on this Substack is for informational purposes only and is not intended to replace professional mental health advice, diagnosis, or treatment. Always seek the advice of your physician, therapist, or other qualified mental health provider with any questions you may have regarding a medical or psychological condition.

The views expressed in the articles and newsletters are those of the author(s) and do not necessarily reflect the views of any organizations or professionals mentioned. While every effort is made to provide accurate and up-to-date information, no guarantees are made regarding the completeness or reliability of the content.

If you are experiencing a mental health crisis or need immediate assistance, please contact a mental health professional or reach out to emergency services in your area. A list of resources is available in the “Resources” post pinned to our home page.

Do you bed rot?

Gen Z has given us many things. Some of which I would like to give back. But perhaps that’s just my millennial attitude toward the world… who knows!

And something that’s come up in the therapy room with frequency over the last couple of years is “bed rotting.” Most of you have probably heard of it. Some of you may even use it to describe yourselves from time to time. But just in case, bed rotting is exactly what it sounds like — it’s long stretches of time spent in bed, not sleeping exactly, but just existing there. Scrolling, watching, avoiding, decompressing, and yes, maybe even nodding off here and there. But the point is not necessarily to sleep, but to exist.

The term itself took off in 2023 after a Gen Z TikTok creator jokingly asked who else enjoyed “rotting” in bed. It quickly became a trend and a shorthand for spending entire days in bed as a way to cope with stress, anxiety, or overwhelm.

And you might be thinking, well, who doesn’t do this sometimes? And you would be right. Humans have always retreated to bed when life feels heavy. When we are sick, heartbroken, grieving, burnt out, or simply done. That part is not new.

What is new is the environment we have built around the bed.

Before phones, staying in bed eventually meant sleeping, reading, or getting bored enough to get up. There were natural stopping points. The body shifted one too many times, hunger arrived, or maybe restlessness nudged you back into the world.

Now the bed comes with a fully functioning digital universe in your hand. Endless content. Endless novelty. Endless distraction. The bed quiets the world. The phone quiets the self. Together they make withdrawal frictionless. No effort. No transitions. No reason to move. I mean, you can even order food from the bed. Coffee from the bed. You could even hire someone to clean your house without ever getting out of the bed. All made possible by a tiny computer that fits in the palm of your hand.

And of course, the longer we stay there, the harder it becomes to leave. The body slows. Motivation dulls. Shame enters quietly. Now the place that offered relief begins to feel like a trap… you’ve been sucked into the mattress, into the sheets, and you’ve become one with your pillows. And now it’s creeping up on 6PM, so what’s the point when you’ll just be back in the bed in a few hours anyway.

And of course, there is another layer here… always. Sleep research has long suggested that beds work best when they are reserved for sleep and intimacy. When we turn the bed into an office, a dining room, a movie theater, and a scrolling station, we blur the brain’s understanding of what bed is for. It becomes harder to wind down. Harder to sleep. And easier to stay there doing everything but resting.

“Good” sleep hygiene includes not having your phone in your bed just before sleep, and maybe even keeping in anywhere else other than the night stand. Those of you who sleep with it in the bed… who even are you? So this is an obvious no-no. But this also means not to eating your dinner in bed and not working from your bed, especially into the wee hours of the morning.

So…

But I think it’s important to remember that bed rotting is not something we need to pathologize. Like so many things about life, sometimes it’s just information. Much like revenge bedtime, it could be signaling that something is overloaded, depleted or asking for care. It’s one of those behaviors that needs some examination but definitely not shame or guilt.

The question becomes: what do we do about it?

And like I just mentioned, you should first examine what’s contributing and try to understand some of the whys because this will inform the whats. So, start by simply noticing.

Do you bed rot occasionally, as a reset? Or do you find yourself disappearing into the mattress more often than you’d like? Do you feel rested when you finally get up, or foggier and more stuck? Does the bed feel like comfort, or like escape?

From there, tiny shifts matter more than grand declarations. So, things like sitting up before scrolling. Moving to the couch after the first hour. Leaving the phone on the nightstand instead of in the sheets. Eating one meal at a table. Opening a window. Letting daylight hit your face. And none of this is about productivity, but because bodies need transitions.

And sometimes the shift is not behavioral at all. Sometimes the real question is: what is making the world outside the bed feel so demanding in the first place?

Because if the bed is the only place you feel safe, it is not the bed that is the problem. It is the weight you are carrying everywhere else.

So if you bed rot from time to time, welcome to being human. And if you find yourself there often, stuck under the blankets with a glowing rectangle and a racing mind, it might not be laziness. It might be a signal.

And signals deserve curiosity, not shame.

Until next time…

I’m Jenn — Ordinary Therapist is where I explore the layered, often messy work of being human — things like emotional maturity, relationships, burnout, and healing — through story, reflection, and a creative lens.

If you appreciate thoughtful takes, personal insight, and the kind of honesty that makes room for both complexity and connection, you’re in the right place.

Come back, read a little, comment, subscribe, like — or just hang out. I’m just glad you’re here.

Disclaimer: The content shared on this Substack is for informational purposes only and is not intended to replace professional mental health advice, diagnosis, or treatment. Always seek the advice of your physician, therapist, or other qualified mental health provider with any questions you may have regarding a medical or psychological condition.

The views expressed in the articles and newsletters are those of the author(s) and do not necessarily reflect the views of any organizations or professionals mentioned. While every effort is made to provide accurate and up-to-date information, no guarantees are made regarding the completeness or reliability of the content.

If you are experiencing a mental health crisis or need immediate assistance, please contact a mental health professional or reach out to emergency services in your area. A list of resources is available in the “Resources” post pinned to our home page.

Here’s why:

Mental health is trending. More people are talking about it openly than ever before. It’s in headlines, hashtags, group chats, and therapy sessions. You’d think curiosity would be high — and in some ways, it is. But sometimes, the silence around our questions says more than we realize.

Either way, I’ll give it a shot! As I’ve mentioned in previous pieces, I’m not here to hand out one-size-fits-all solutions or claim to “fix” anything with a magic method. I don’t know your specific situation, so it wouldn’t be fair — or helpful — for me to offer advice as if I did.

But what I can do is share what I’ve seen work for others over the years — insights, tools, and perspectives that have been helpful to many of the clients I’ve worked with.

Take what resonates, leave what doesn’t.

What is anxiety?

Anxiety is a natural response to perceived danger or uncertainty. It’s part of your built-in survival system — designed to keep you alert, cautious, and ready to act. The threat doesn’t have to be immediate or even real; your nervous system just has to think something might go wrong.

Think of anxiety as your body’s internal alarm system. It’s your nervous system saying, “something’s not right — get ready.”

How anxiety shows up

Behaviorally, this can show up as feeling restless, tense, or constantly on edge. Many people describe a sense of dread or apprehension, like something bad is just around the corner and they need to stay alert.

Some might feel easily startled or flustered, while others experience it as irritability or a short fuse — a kind of emotional hypersensitivity, if you will.

Physical symptoms…

Anxiety often shows up in the body first. These physical symptoms are your nervous system’s way of getting you hyped up and ready to act — a survival response meant to protect you in the face of danger.

You might notice things like a racing heart, rapid breathing, muscle tension, or sweating. Other physical signs can include headaches, dizziness, trembling, nausea, or even gastrointestinal issues.

It’s your body preparing to fight, flee, or freeze — even if there’s no obvious threat.

Cognitive symptoms…

These can vary widely depending on what’s triggering the anxiety and what else is going on in your life. Common cognitive symptoms include racing thoughts, intrusive worries, trouble focusing, and brain fog.

You might find it hard to concentrate, communicate clearly, or even string together your thoughts. Often, there’s an overwhelming anticipation that something bad is about to happen — even if you can’t name exactly what.

Psychological/Emotional symptoms…

Emotionally, anxiety can feel like helplessness, dread, or a sense that something is wrong with you. Feelings of hopelessness or worthlessness often tag along, especially if the anxiety has been persistent.

Some people experience emotional numbness or dissociation — a kind of mental detachment from themselves or their surroundings. And when anxiety becomes overwhelming, it can escalate into full-blown panic, which is intense and often terrifying, even if it’s short-lived.

Who experiences anxiety?

Everyone! Anxiety is adaptive — it helped our ancestors survive. But modern life doesn’t often involve saber-toothed tigers. Our brains, however, still react to work emails, traffic, or unread texts the same way.

When anxiety becomes chronic and hard to manage, it may be diagnosed as Generalized Anxiety Disorder (GAD). It’s like your brain gets stuck in "danger" mode. Even basic tasks can feel overwhelming when this happens.

Instead of protecting you, this kind of anxiety starts to work against you — draining your energy, disrupting your routines, and interfering with your relationships. It can rob you of joy, spontaneity, and even your sense of identity. When anxiety reaches this level, it’s no longer just a stress response — it’s a signal that your system needs support, not more pressure.

A variety of diagnoses exist for anxiety — these are important, yet not.

They include GAD, phobias, panic disorder, social anxiety, and other expressions not formally labeled, such as high functioning anxiety and perfectionism.

Diagnosis matters, but remember, these labels were created within our social and cultural structures and are social constructs reflective of our current understanding.

The upsides of anxiety

Like I noted already, anxiety is adaptive — it helped keep our ancestors alive. And while we may not be scanning the savanna for predators anymore, anxiety still serves a purpose in modern life.

For example, anxiety can be motivating. It creates a sense of urgency that pushes us to study for an exam, prepare for a job interview, or rehearse our lines for Friday’s audition.

It also encourages practical preparation, like double-checking that your gas tank is full before a long drive or packing chains and blankets in case a snowstorm hits the mountain pass earlier than expected.

Anxiety also plays a role in keeping us safe. It heightens our awareness in potentially unsafe or uncertain situations. I always experience a low level of anxiety when hiking alone — mountain lions are a real risk, especially lately. And I’ve lost count of the number of snakes I’ve nearly stepped on.

Because of that anxiety, I stay more alert: I’m tuned into my environment, listening for sounds, scanning the trail, and staying conscious of my surroundings. So — thank you, anxiety!

Finally, anxiety can sharpen our focus. It helps us stay present and alert during high-stakes moments like giving presentations, attending important meetings, starting a new job, or listening carefully before a major exam.

That heightened attention can actually improve our performance — we’re more likely to catch important details, think on our feet, and respond thoughtfully under pressure.

The important thing to note is that anxiety shouldn’t create a sense of over-arousal — there’s a sweet spot. You don’t want to be so overstimulated that you experience something like test anxiety, but you also don’t want to be so under-aroused that you’re practically falling asleep while preparing for the exam or performance.

So much anxiety these days

I don’t have to tell you that anxiety feels like the norm these days. It’s become as familiar as a pair of old, worn-in jeans — but unlike your favorite jeans, anxiety isn’t nearly as comfortable.

So, is there actually more anxiety now than ever before, or are we just talking about it more?

The answer — both. We’re more open about anxiety today, and we have better language to describe a wide range of anxiety-related experiences and diagnoses. At the same time, reported rates of anxiety have indeed increased compared to previous decades.

That said, it’s not like anxiety didn’t exist in the past — it certainly did. But we didn’t always have the words for it. It wasn’t properly assessed, often went untreated, and people certainly weren’t encouraged to talk about it. Mental health struggles were more likely to be hidden, mischaracterized, or misunderstood. (Which still happens today — progress, progress, progress.)

What’s different today?

Constant Digital Stimulation & Information Overload: We live in a world of relentless notifications, messages, and digital noise. The constant flood of information, such as news alerts, emails, and social media overloads our cognitive systems and leaves little room for rest.

Research shows that excessive digital consumption is linked to higher levels of stress and anxiety as our brains scramble to keep up with the barrage (Destinations for Teens).

More Isolation, Less Community: We are more "connected" than ever — and yet lonelier. Social media may mimic connection, but many people report feeling more isolated than in previous generations.

Studies show that social isolation significantly increases the risk of anxiety and depression (BMC Public Health).

Cultural Obsession with Productivity and Perfection: We're told to hustle harder, do more, and never miss a step. This obsession with perfection and productivity fuels burnout and anxiety. This cultural narrative can lead to maladaptive perfectionism.

Research links perfectionism to higher rates of anxiety, depression, and even suicidal ideation (APA, AMA, Harvard).

Economic Stress and Uncertainty: Financial instability, mounting debts, and economic downturns contribute significantly to mental health challenges. Economic stress factors, such as financial hardship and perceived financial threat, have been positively associated with increased levels of stress, anxiety, and depression.

A recent survey revealed that 70% of Americans are experiencing financial anxiety, impacting both their mental and physical well-being (Science Digest)

Systemic issues: Racism, sexism, lack of healthcare, and weakened public services and social support programs. These aren’t just background conditions — they directly affect how safe, supported, and resourced people feel in their everyday lives, compounding the experience of anxiety in both visible and invisible ways.

According to the National Alliance on Mental Illness, nearly 1 in 5 adults in the U.S. lives with an anxiety disorder. Globally, that’s around 300 million people. And yet, only a quarter of those affected will receive treatment. That gap matters. Because untreated anxiety doesn’t just go away — it compounds.

High-Functioning Anxiety

People with high-functioning anxiety often appear organized and successful, but internally feel overwhelmed and consumed by worry. They push through without breaking down, but this pressure builds silently, leading to burnout and exhaustion. Just because someone is functioning doesn’t mean they’re okay.

Perfectionism and Anxiety

Perfectionism often fuels anxiety. When worth is tied to achievement, everything feels high-stakes. Mistakes become catastrophic. This can lock the nervous system in chronic tension. Letting go of perfection doesn’t mean letting go of care — it means allowing space for humanity.

So, what do we do?

As I mentioned earlier, I don’t know exactly how anxiety affects you or what contributes to your experience, so I won’t pretend to tell you what to do. There is no universal cure, but here are things many find helpful:

• Grounding techniques and mindfulness
  Help bring you back into the present moment, especially when anxiety pulls you into future-focused worry.

• Breath work and nervous system regulation
  Practices like deep belly breathing, box breathing, or vagal toning can help calm a dysregulated nervous system.

• Cognitive restructuring
  Also known as “thought challenging,” this involves identifying and reframing anxious or distorted thinking patterns.

• Therapy and medication (when appropriate)
  Working with a licensed therapist — and, when needed, considering psychiatric medication — can provide significant relief and long-term tools.

• Routine, boundaries, and rest
  Creating structure, saying “no” when needed, and prioritizing real rest (not just collapse-at-the-end-of-the-day exhaustion) supports resilience and nervous system recovery.

• Movement and exercise
  Regular physical activity — whether it’s walking, dancing, lifting weights, or stretching — can help regulate stress hormones and improve mood.

• Limiting stimulants
  Reducing or avoiding caffeine, nicotine, and other stimulants can help prevent spikes in anxious energy or panic symptoms.

• Sleep hygiene
  Creating a consistent, calming bedtime routine and getting enough restorative sleep is essential for emotional regulation.

• Reducing information overload
  Limiting exposure to constant news, social media, or digital notifications can lower background anxiety and mental fatigue.

• Creative expression
  Art, writing, music, or other creative outlets can help externalize internal stress and offer emotional release. Studies show that just 20 minutes of “acts of art” can to actually changes in the brain (Magsamen & Ross, 2023).

• Spending time in nature
  Being outdoors, especially in green spaces, has been shown to reduce cortisol levels and improve mood.

When it goes deeper: Sometimes, anxiety is rooted in trauma, early attachment wounds, or longstanding relational patterns. You can do all the “right” things — yoga, journaling, sleeping more — and still feel anxious. That’s when it’s worth asking: what deeper layers are asking to be seen?

Tough Truths

This is the part where I gently — but clearly — remind you of some uncomfortable truths. Not to shame you, not to overwhelm you, but because I wouldn’t be honest if I didn’t. Sometimes, anxiety doesn’t need a softer pillow or a better to-do list. Sometimes, it needs us to do the unglamorous, unsexy, deeply inconvenient work of showing up for ourselves in very human ways.

Here are a few truths that can sting a little, but heal a lot:

• You do need to connect with people more — even when it feels awkward.
  Avoidance might feel safe, but connection regulates the nervous system. We are wired to heal in the presence of others, not in isolation. I made a note about co-regulation recently — this is a real thing and is not just for children!

• You have to put your phone down — especially at night.

  Doomscrolling until midnight and waking up to alerts doesn’t help. Your brain needs time to settle, and blue light messes with your sleep cycles more than you think.

  Remember that piece I wrote about revenge bedtime procrastination? If that pattern is keeping you up at night, it’s worth exploring.

• You can’t outrun anxiety on four hours of sleep and a diet of caffeine and sugar.
  Your nervous system is not a machine. It needs fuel, rhythm, and restoration. No amount of productivity hacks will replace rest.

• You need to move your body — anxiety lives in your physiology, not just your mind.
  Sitting still with swirling thoughts makes them louder. Movement releases pent-up energy and signals safety to your body. But it does even more: it improves sleep, lowers stress hormones, and builds emotional resilience.

• You must go outside sometimes — nature regulates your nervous system in ways your couch can’t.

  Sunlight, fresh air, birdsong — these aren’t luxuries. They’re biological requirements. We are part of the ecosystem whether we want to admit it or not — we need the outdoors!

None of this is punishment. It’s care for your mind and body. It’s not always convenient. But it is healing. This is the boring, necessary medicine that can help to slowly rebuild your baseline.

The message…

Anxiety is complex. It’s shaped by your biology, your history, your environment, your culture, and your nervous system. So if you’re struggling, please know — this isn’t about blame. You’re not broken. You’re responding to a world that often makes it hard to feel safe, calm, and steady.

The good news? You don’t have to overhaul your entire life to start feeling better. Small, consistent shifts matter. One moment of awareness. One boundary. One stretch. One full night of sleep. One less scroll through headlines. That’s how change begins — quietly, and usually without fanfare.

You don’t have to eliminate anxiety altogether. That’s not the goal. The goal is to live with it differently — to stop letting it run the show. You don’t have to fight anxiety— you just have to find new ways to move with it.

It’s not all in your head, but it is in your hands. What will you do with it?

Until next time….

Disclaimer: The content shared on this Substack is for informational purposes only and is not intended to replace professional mental health advice, diagnosis, or treatment. Always seek the advice of your physician, therapist, or other qualified mental health provider with any questions you may have regarding a medical or psychological condition.

The views expressed in the articles and newsletters are those of the author(s) and do not necessarily reflect the views of any organizations or professionals mentioned. While every effort is made to provide accurate and up-to-date information, no guarantees are made regarding the completeness or reliability of the content.

If you are experiencing a mental health crisis or need immediate assistance, please contact a mental health professional or reach out to emergency services in your area. A list of resources is available in the “Resources” post pinned to our home page.

We’ve all done it, stayed up far beyond our bedtime to reclaim some sense of control over how we spend our time — we might watch television, read, scroll, play video games, or even just lay there doing nothing! Feels great, doesn’t it?

How is this different from simply staying up too late? Well, it’s intentional and you generally have awareness that you’re tired and should go to bed, but you also feel a genuine need for time to yourself, so you put off sleep.

It’s a form of procrastination and is in fact a real phenomenon. We might also call it sleep procrastination or even bedtime procrastination, but social media did it’s thing and it’s more commonly known at “revenge bedtime” now.

Thanks to a post by journalist Daphne K Lee, who described what the Chinese have called ‘bàofùxìng áoyè’ – or ‘revenge bedtime procrastination’, the phrase, which could also be translated as ‘retaliatory staying up late’ is the phenomenon when “people who don’t have much control over their daytime life refuse to sleep early in order to regain some sense of freedom during late-night hours”.

Recently, I posted a silly note about it when I was up late sifting through Substack articles before bed, ignoring my tired eyes. But it got me thinking…

Why do I do this?

I hear clients talk about it all the time and I know I do it, but I’ve never really thought deeply about why I do it. And, when did it start? (it ebbs and flows)

I stayed up late doing homework as a student, and I stay up reading books because I can’t possibly sleep not knowing what happens, and of course there is television so good I forget my own life exists — then I’m snapped back to reality and it’s 1AM! But when did I stop doing it for the sake of these other things and begin doing it to avenge some part of myself that doesn’t feel I have time…for myself?

Some introspection…

I thought about how I might engage a client who was discussing this “new” habit — starting with, tell me about what’s happening in your life right now.

Did something shift or was there a change?

When did you first notice this behavior increase?

What’s happening emotionally for you right now?

How do you feel when you’re engaging in revenge bedtime?

Are you feeling a sense of control in life right now? Burnout? Isolation?

What needs might not be getting met throughout your day?

In reflecting on these questions, I realized how often the lines between work and home blur — so much so that people become constantly accessible. Whether it’s colleagues, students, clients, or customers, the expectation to be available rarely ends. And if you have a family, that availability extends around the clock. It can then feel like your time is dictated by others, leaving you to feel little autonomy or control over how you spend your time.

Due to a need to be “on” for most of the day, you can feel emotionally and psychologically drained, or even under or over stimulated. The scrolling, television or social media consumption can be a way to counterbalance this. There is also a known connection between social media scrolling and dopamine, so if you are engaged in a lot of unfulfilling or mundane tasks throughout your day, you may feel in need of the dopamine.

There might also be something going on emotionally or possibly an unmet need is plaguing you — a hobby that’s been sitting idle for too long, not enough time with friends or family, a lack of fulfillment with work, increased stress, burnout, disconnection from a loved one, or the need to simply have more time to yourself throughout your day — “me time!”

Behaviors like revenge bedtime could be signaling something deeper, perhaps emotional, so it can be helpful to pay attention to them.

The message…

Revenge bedtime or sleep procrastination isn’t just about staying up too late — it’s often a quiet rebellion against a life that doesn’t leave enough room for you.

It’s often not laziness. It’s not just bad time management. It’s the psyche’s protest against days that feel too full of obligations and too empty of joy, freedom, or rest on your terms.

When we find ourselves scrolling long past our bedtime, we’re not just avoiding sleep, we might be avoiding other things too — silence, pressure, lack of fulfillment, or the emotions we haven’t had time to process. And maybe it’s simply the only time of day you get completely to yourself.

In that light, these late-night hours become a window into something deeper — the unmet needs, invisible labor, and emotional compromises we make throughout the day.

Sometimes, the path to better sleep isn’t about discipline or routine — it’s about listening…to yourself.

I’ve been in the thick of grading lately — it’s that time in the quarter! One of the ways I improve focus and reduce distraction is by listening to piano. I have a playlist of one of my favorites — Ludovico Einaudi. No number of compliments could ever do him justice and my words definitely fall short of describing how incredible he is — his music is pure magic! What sorts of things do you do to improve focus?

Until next time…

Disclaimer: The content shared on this Substack is for informational purposes only and is not intended to replace professional mental health advice, diagnosis, or treatment. Always seek the advice of your physician, therapist, or other qualified mental health provider with any questions you may have regarding a medical or psychological condition.

The views expressed in the articles and newsletters are those of the author(s) and do not necessarily reflect the views of any organizations or professionals mentioned. While every effort is made to provide accurate and up-to-date information, no guarantees are made regarding the completeness or reliability of the content.

If you are experiencing a mental health crisis or need immediate assistance, please contact a mental health professional or reach out to emergency services in your area. A list of resources is available in the “Resources” post pinned to our home page.