Insights into Psychotherapy and Personal Growth

There is a moment in development that rarely announces itself.
No clear threshold. No ritual to mark its arrival.
And yet, without it, something in us remains unfinished.

It is the moment we begin to let go of mother.

Not in the sense of rejection or distance.
Not in blame.
But in the deeper, more demanding sense of differentiation—
the gradual recognition that the voice we have lived by
is not entirely our own.

As children, we do not simply form relationships—we organize ourselves within them.
Our earliest bond becomes the ground from which we understand the world:
what love feels like, how safety is found,
what must be done to belong.

John Bowlby described this as the formation of internal working models—
templates of self and other that guide us long after childhood has passed.
These models are not ideas we think about.
They are assumptions we live inside of.

At the same time, Alfred Adler observed that children develop a style of life—
a coherent, often invisible strategy for securing connection, significance, and place.
From very early on, we begin to answer questions like:
How do I matter?
What must I do to be loved?
Where do I stand in relation to others?

These answers are not chosen freely.
They are shaped in relationship—refined through experience,
and reinforced through repetition.

This is where James M. McMahon offers a crucial insight.
He suggests that we do not simply bond with our mothers—we mesh with them.
Their way of seeing becomes our way of interpreting.
Their emotional world quietly informs our own.

Again, this is not dysfunction.
It is how development works.

But what allows us to survive does not always allow us to live freely.

In adulthood, the early bond often persists—not necessarily in behaviour,
but in structure.
We may find ourselves still seeking a particular kind of recognition:
to be fully seen, accurately understood,
responded to in a way that resolves something unfinished.

This longing is not trivial.
It reflects the enduring power of early attachment.

Yet it can also signal that the original relationship
is still being asked to do work it can no longer complete.

McMahon frames this as the task of “letting go.”
Adler might describe it as relinquishing a lifestyle that no longer serves.
Attachment theory would understand it as revising internal working models
in light of new experience.

Different language—same developmental movement.

Letting go, in this sense, is not about severing ties.
It is about reclaiming authorship.

It often begins with noticing:

• the inherited interpretations we mistake for truth
• the emotional reflexes that feel inevitable
• the quiet loyalties that shape our choices

There can be resistance here.
Even guilt.
As though stepping into one’s own perspective
risks betraying the relationship that first sustained us.

Adler understood this tension well.
What once secured our belonging can become the very thing
that limits our participation in the wider world.
To change is not only to grow—it is to risk a shift in belonging.

And yet, the movement toward differentiation does not end in isolation.
Quite the opposite.

As early models soften and personal authorship strengthens,
a different kind of connection becomes possible—
less driven by approval, less organized around old expectations.

More mutual.
More present.

This is where Bowlby’s work evolves through later attachment thinking:
the idea that security can be earned.
That we can come to relate differently—not by erasing the past,
but by no longer being confined to it.

To let go of mother, then, is not to lose her.
It is to release the unconscious structures that keep us
oriented toward the past as if it were still unfolding.

It is to step out of inherited emotional time
and into the present,
where experience can be named directly,
held more fully,
and lived with greater freedom.

And perhaps this is the quiet paradox at the center of the task:

Only when we are no longer organized around the need
to be understood in a particular way
do we become capable of genuine understanding—
of ourselves, and of those who first shaped us.

Letting go, in the end, is not an act of separation.
It is an act of integration.

A way of carrying forward what is alive,
while allowing the rest
to finally be set down.

Alfred Adler spoke about symptoms as having purpose—sometimes serving to safeguard the ego. For Adler, emotions were not simply things that happen to us. They were not accidental storms we are caught in. They were, in many cases, used—often outside of awareness—in the service of belonging, protection, and our position within a social world.

This can be difficult to accept at first.

We are accustomed to thinking:
“I feel anxious because something is wrong.”
“I feel angry because I’ve been hurt.”
“I feel depressed because life is heavy.”

Adler did not dismiss these experiences. But he invited a different question:

What is the feeling doing?

Not just where it comes from—but where it is going.

In Adlerian thought, emotions are part of a person’s style of life—a patterned way of moving through the world, shaped early and repeated because, in some way, it works (even if it comes at a cost).

Anxiety, for example, may function as a way of avoiding failure.
If I am too anxious to try, I am protected from discovering I might not succeed.

Anger may function as a way of establishing control.
If I escalate quickly, others step back, and I regain a sense of power.

Withdrawal may function as a way of preserving dignity.
If I disengage first, I cannot be rejected.

Even sadness can carry purpose.
It can draw others close, soften expectations, or communicate a need that cannot yet be spoken directly.

This does not mean people are choosing their suffering in any simple or conscious way. It means that emotions can become solutions—creative, human attempts to solve problems of belonging, worth, and safety.

And like many solutions, they can outlive their usefulness.

When we begin to view emotions this way, something shifts.

We stop asking:
“What’s wrong with you?”

And begin asking:
“What might this be helping you do?”

Or even more gently:
“What would happen if this feeling wasn’t here?”

Often, the answer reveals the hidden risk.

Without the anxiety, I might have to face the classroom alone.
Without the anger, I might feel small.
Without the withdrawal, I might have to risk being known.

Now the symptom is no longer random.

It is intelligent.
Protective.
Relational.

And importantly—it is connected to others.

This is where Adler and Salvador Minuchin begin to overlap in a meaningful way.

If emotions serve a purpose—and that purpose is social—then they do not exist in isolation. They are shaped, reinforced, and maintained within relationships.

A child’s anxiety is not just internal—it is part of a dance.
A partner’s distance is not just personal—it is part of a pattern.
A teenager’s anger is not just expression—it is communication within a system.

The work, then, is not to strip the emotion away.

It is to understand the role it plays—and to help create conditions where it is no longer needed.

The instinct in many psychological approaches is to locate problems inside people.

The anxious child.
The defiant teenager.
The depressed partner.

The system diagnoses—and quietly begins organizing the world around the idea that they are the issue.

But what if the symptom is not the problem?
What if it is a message?

Minuchin, one of the pioneers of family systems therapy, proposed something both simple and unsettling: pathology does not live neatly inside individuals. It lives in relationships—in patterns, in the invisible architecture of how people organize themselves around one another.

Adler similarly understood many psychological struggles as fundamentally interpersonal.

A child’s anxiety may not be a disorder to eliminate, but a signal—an expression of tension that has no other language.
A teenager’s defiance may not be rebellion for its own sake, but an attempt to restore balance in a system where roles have become blurred.
A partner’s withdrawal may not be indifference, but a way of surviving in a relationship where closeness has become overwhelming.

Seen this way, symptoms begin to look less like defects and more like adaptations.

Minuchin spoke of structure: the unseen rules that govern a family’s life.

Who holds authority?
Who is aligned with whom?
Who is too close—and who is too far away?

And this is where Barbara Coloroso brings the picture into focus.

Coloroso described three common parenting styles:

The brick wall — rigid, controlling, immovable.
The jellyfish — permissive, inconsistent, without structure.
The backbone — firm, flexible, and grounded.

These are not just parenting styles. They are relational structures.

A family once came into session because of their 10-year-old son.

He was refusing school. Complaining of stomach aches most mornings. Tearful at night. The language of anxiety was everywhere—and loud enough that it had become the center of the family’s life.

At first glance, it would have been easy to locate the problem in him.

But as we sat together, a different pattern emerged.

His mother spoke quickly, often answering for him, her voice filled with worry. His father sat back, quiet, stepping in only occasionally with firm, absolute statements about what should happen. When the parents spoke to each other, it was brief, functional, and edged with tension—something unresolved sitting just beneath the surface.

The boy watched them constantly.

When asked about school, he hesitated. Looked to his mother. Then to his father. Then down.

Nothing about this was random.

Through a structural lens, the picture became clearer.

The boundaries between mother and son were soft—almost fused. The father stood at a distance, entering mainly during moments of escalation. The parental subsystem—meant to provide leadership—was fractured.

In many ways, the child had become the emotional center of the system.

His anxiety was not simply his.

It was organizing the family.

It kept his parents aligned around a shared concern. It prevented deeper conflict from surfacing. It gave form to something that had no other expression.

In a different language, this was a blend of what Coloroso might call jellyfish and brick wall:

One parent over-involved, the other distant and firm.
Too much closeness in one direction, not enough in another.
No clear backbone.

The work was not to “fix” the child.

It was to gently reorganize the system.

To help the parents speak directly to each other, rather than through him.
To strengthen their shared leadership.
To create space where he no longer had to hold so much.

There was no dramatic breakthrough.

But over time, something shifted.

The mornings became quieter.
The stomach aches less frequent.
The boy began to look less at his parents—and more at the world in front of him.

This perspective does not remove responsibility—it redistributes it.

It asks each person:

How am I participating in this pattern?
What role have I taken on?
Where am I too close—or too far away?
What kind of structure am I helping to create?

Change, in this view, does not come from fixing a person. It comes from shifting relationships.

A parent softens without collapsing.
A parent steps forward without controlling.
A boundary is drawn where none existed before.
A conversation happens that has long been avoided.

These are small changes—but they reorganize the system.

They move a family, slowly, toward backbone.

There is something deeply humane in this way of seeing.

It allows us to hold compassion for the person who suffers without isolating them as the source of suffering. It invites curiosity instead of blame. And it reminds us that we are always participating in something larger than ourselves.

We live in systems—families, relationships, communities—each shaping and being shaped in return.

And sometimes, what looks like pathology is not a flaw in a person, but a reflection of the structure that surrounds them.

And the quiet, persistent hope is this:

When the structure changes, the symptom no longer needs to speak.

How could an ant know it is living on Mt. Vesuvius?

It moves across warm stone, feeling only what touches its body—grain, heat, the faint trembling of the ground beneath its feet. It knows the path to food, the scent of its colony, the urgency of its small and necessary tasks. But the mountain? The fire beneath it? The ancient pressure gathering in silence? These things do not belong to the ant’s world.

Not because they are unreal—but because they are too vast to be needed.

We are tempted to believe we are different.

We look out at the stars and imagine that we are seeing the universe as it is. We trust our senses, our instruments, our equations. Donald Hoffman discusses a more unsettling possibility: evolution did not shape us to see truth—it shaped us to survive. What we perceive may not be reality itself, but a careful translation. A useful illusion. A set of symbols that keep us moving, like the colored icons on my computer screen that conceal a deeper, unreadable code.

The world, as it is, may be far stranger than anything we can perceive.

Even our most precise sciences begin to blur at the edges. In the double-slit experiment, light forgets what it is. A photon moves like a wave until it is asked a question—until it is seen—and then, suddenly, it becomes a particle, as if reality itself hesitates under the weight of observation. As if the universe is not fixed, but responsive. Not fully decided until it is encountered.

We stand inside this mystery, not outside it.

And yet—there is something in us that feels like more than survival.

We do not only navigate the world; we wonder about it. We imagine other minds. We carry an inner sense that others feel, think, and dream as we do—what philosophers call a theory of mind. It is a fragile miracle: the ability to step beyond the boundaries of our own perception and reach, however imperfectly, into the experience of another.

And sometimes, it feels like we reach further still.

There are moments—quiet and unguarded—when the world seems to thin. A photograph holds more than one image. A room carries a presence long after someone has gone. Memory breathes. Grief speaks. Love lingers. We sense patterns we cannot prove, meanings we cannot fully explain. It is as though we hear echoes—faint, persistent—of something that does not vanish when the body does.

Call them ghosts, 

If our senses are only an interface, then perhaps consciousness is something else entirely. Not a perfect lens, but a listening instrument. Not a map of reality, but a tuning fork resonating with parts of it.

The ant cannot know the volcano.

But we can wonder about the mountain beneath our feet. Many of us have a strong feeling that there is more here than what we can see. 

And in that feeling—in that restless, searching awareness—there is something unmistakably human. Something that leans, however slightly, beyond survival.

Something that listens for the deeper music of the universe, and, now and then, hears it. 

An Adlerian-Informed Framework

Understanding Your “Priority”

In Adlerian psychology (especially in the work of Rudolf Dreikurs), we understand that people organize their lives around a primary psychological priority.

This priority is not conscious.
It is something you learned early in life as a way to answer one core question:

“How do I belong and feel worthwhile?”

Each priority works—it helps you survive and function.
But each one also comes with a predictable emotional cost.

At the core of each priority is a simple organizing idea:
“I belong… only if.”

These patterns are not flaws—they are adaptive strategies developed to secure belonging, safety, and worth. The work is not to eliminate them, but to bring flexibility, awareness, and choice.

1. Moral Superiority – “I belong if I am good, right, or admirable”

Core Belief (“Only if…”):
Only if I am good, right, or beyond reproach do I truly matter.

Primary Fear:
Being wrong, flawed, or fundamentally “less than”

How It Shows Up

• Being competent
• Being right
• Being useful
• Being the victim
• Being the martyr

The movement is toward:
being morally strong, correct, or “better.”

What Happens Internally

• Constant self-monitoring
• Pressure to maintain high standards
• Difficulty tolerating mistakes
• Identity tied to being “good”

Impact on Others

Others may feel:

• Guilt
• Inferiority
• Pressure (“I can’t measure up”)
• Quiet resentment

The Price Paid

• Over-responsibility
• Burnout and fatigue
• Chronic pressure
• Emotional distance

Clinical Insight

Often the most common and most defended priority.
It provides identity and worth—making it difficult to loosen.

“Can I accept myself—and still live with less strain?”

Reframe

Even when I make mistakes, I still belong.

Reflection

• When do I need to prove I am right or good?
• What happens inside me when I’m wrong?

2. Control – “I belong if I am in charge and in control”

Core Belief (“Only if…”):
Only if I am in control will I be safe and secure.

Primary Fear:
Vulnerability, humiliation, or dependence

How It Shows Up

Control of Others

• Directs, leads, or manages situations
• Struggles to delegate or share power

Control of Self (“Tightness”)

• Highly disciplined and restrained
• Emotionally contained, “held together”

The movement is toward:
reducing uncertainty by increasing control.

What Happens Internally

• Sensitivity to unpredictability
• Anxiety when control is lost
• Need for order and certainty
• Difficulty trusting others

Impact on Others

Others may feel:

• Resistance or defensiveness
• Managed rather than met
• Disconnected or constrained

The Price Paid

• Emotional distance
• Difficulty with intimacy
• Reduced spontaneity and creativity
• Chronic tension

Clinical Insight

A protective response to unpredictability or exposure.
Letting go can feel unsafe—not freeing.

“Can I feel safe—even when I’m not in control?”

Reframe

Even when I’m not in control, I still belong.

Reflection

• How do I react when things don’t go as planned?
• What do I fear would happen if I let go?

3. Comfort – “I belong if I feel safe and avoid discomfort”

Core Belief (“Only if…”):
Only if life is easy, safe, and manageable will I be okay.

Primary Fear:
Stress, pressure, or overwhelm

How It Shows Up

• Avoids stress, expectations, or responsibility
• Withdraws or procrastinates under pressure
• Seeks ease, distraction, or relief
• May rely on substances or numbing strategies

The movement is toward:
reducing discomfort and preserving ease.

What Happens Internally

• Low tolerance for frustration
• Relief-seeking becomes primary
• Anxiety rises with demands
• Tendency to disengage

Impact on Others

Others may feel:

• Frustration (“They won’t step up”)
• Annoyance
• Disconnection

The Price Paid

• Reduced growth and resilience
• Avoidance of meaningful challenges
• Fear of responsibility
• Underdeveloped confidence

Clinical Insight

A method for safeguarding oneself from feeling overwhelmed or experiencing failure.

“Can I tolerate discomfort—and stay engaged?”

Reframe

Even when life is hard, I still belong.

Reflection

• When do I choose comfort over growth or connection?
• What discomfort do I avoid most?

4. Pleasing – “I belong if I am liked and approved of”

Core Belief (“Only if…”):
Only if others like me will I belong.

Primary Fear:
Rejection or disapproval

How It Shows Up

• Focus on keeping others happy
• Difficulty asserting needs or limits
• Avoids conflict or disagreement
• Self-worth tied to approval

The movement is toward:
maintaining connection by avoiding disapproval.

What Happens Internally

• Hyper-awareness of others’ reactions
• Anxiety about conflict
• Suppression of personal needs
• Tension between authenticity and acceptance

Impact on Others

Initially:

• Warmth, kindness, agreeableness

Over time:

• Frustration
• Discomfort
• Disconnection (lack of authenticity)

The Price Paid

• Loss of self-respect
• Emotional exhaustion
• Resentment
• Feeling unseen or unvalued

Clinical Insight

Develops where connection depended on approval.

“Can I stay connected—without abandoning myself?”

Reframe

Even if not everyone likes me, I still belong.

Reflection

• When do I prioritize approval over authenticity?
• What am I afraid would happen if I said “no”?

A Deeper Insight: You Can’t Avoid the Price

A key Adlerian idea:

Your priority will always “work”… but it always comes with a cost.

People usually come to therapy not to change their priority, but to:

• Reduce the discomfort
• Avoid the consequences

Unfortunately:

You cannot keep the benefit without paying the price.

The Goal of Therapy

The work is not to eliminate your priority, but to:

• Recognize it
• Understand how it shapes your life
• Accept it without shame
• Learn flexibility

Over time, this allows for:

• More choice
• Less rigidity
• Healthier relationships

Connection to Early Patterns

Dreikurs also described four “mistaken goals” in children. These often evolve into adult priorities:

Final Reflection for Clients

• Which priority feels most like you?
• What do people tend to feel around you?
• What price do you notice yourself paying?
• Where might a little flexibility help?

Adlerian Priorities Workbook

Understanding How You Try to Belong

This questionnaire is based on the work of Alfred Adler and later developed by Rudolf Dreikurs.
The idea is simple but powerful:

Every person develops a strategy for how to belong, feel safe, and feel worthwhile.

We call this your priority.
Your priority is not right or wrong. It is simply the way you learned to survive and function in relationships and in the world.

Each priority helps you, but each also has a price.

The goal of this exercise is to help you understand:

• How you try to belong
• How others experience you
• The price you may be paying
• Where you might want more flexibility

Part 3 – Reflection Questions

Write a few sentences for each:

1. Tell me about a time you were laughed at or mocked. What did you feel? What did you decide about yourself?

2. Tell me about a time you felt very sad or hurt.

3. Is there a time you felt rejected (employer, friend, partner, parent)?

4. What gives your life meaning?

5. Have you stayed in a job or relationship longer than was good for you? Why?

6. What is your self-esteem based on most?
   • Looks
   • Income
   • Intelligence
   • Being good
   • Being liked
   • Being in control
   • Being comfortable/safe

Circle one or more.

Part 4 – The Important Insight

Each priority gets you something, but each priority also costs you something.

You cannot have the benefit without the price.

The goal is not to eliminate your priority, but to ask:

Where is my priority helping me, and where is it hurting me?

Final Reflection

• My main priority is: __________________________
• The price I pay for this is: ___________________
• Where I might want more flexibility is: ________
• One small change I could try: _________________

When people come to therapy asking whether they should stay, leave, or deepen a relationship, they’re rarely asking, “Do I care?”

More often, they’re asking something quieter and more complex:

“Is this the right relationship to build a life in?”

This question sits far beneath the surface of most relationship conflicts. Arguments about dishes, money, in-laws, sex, or time are often not really about those things. They are about a deeper uncertainty: Are we building something together that can hold the weight of our lives?

In the work of Irvin Yalom, relationship crises often emerge when people confront the big existential realities of life: time passing, freedom and responsibility, loneliness, aging, illness, and death. At these moments, a person naturally begins to ask:

• Who is beside me?
• Can I rely on this person?
• Are we facing life together?
• Or am I alone in this relationship?

So the question “Should I stay or should I go?” is often really a question about fear, hope, time, and the desire to build a meaningful life with another person.

Fixable Problems and Unfixable Problems

Research from John Gottman helps clarify something that many couples find relieving: not all problems in relationships are meant to be solved.

Gottman found that relationship problems tend to fall into two categories:

Fixable Problems

These are usually situational and practical:

• Chores
• Scheduling
• Parenting logistics
• Communication habits
• Finances
• Household responsibilities

These problems improve with better communication, clearer agreements, and emotional regulation.

Perpetual Problems

These are deeper differences that do not fully disappear:

• Personality differences
• Different social needs
• Different levels of ambition
• Different relationships to money
• Different sexual needs
• Different ways of handling conflict
• Different ideas about family, time, or lifestyle

Gottman’s research suggests that most long-term relationship problems are perpetual. The goal is not to eliminate them, but to learn whether they can be lived with respectfully, talked about openly, and managed with goodwill.

So the real question becomes:

Are this couple’s problems workable, or are they gridlocked?

Gridlock happens when partners stop being curious about each other and start trying to change each other. Dialogue happens when partners begin to understand the meaning behind each other’s positions.

This is why many couples are not actually deciding whether they love each other.
They are deciding whether their differences are livable.

The Four Pillars of a Strong Relationship: An Adlerian Perspective

One helpful way to think about long-term partnerships is through four core pillars: Commitment, Trust, Passion, and Intimacy.

Through the work of Alfred Adler, these pillars can be understood in a grounded and practical way. Adler believed that psychological health — and relational health — comes from contribution, usefulness, cooperation, and belonging. From this perspective, love is not just a feeling. Love is cooperation.

1. Commitment: Are We Moving in the Same Direction?

Commitment isn’t just about staying — it’s about shared direction.

Many couples have stability, peace, and familiarity, yet still feel uncertain about where the relationship is going. Important questions often remain unspoken:

• Are we actually building a life together?
• Can I imagine fully integrating this person into my future — family, children, values, long-term plans?
• Do we want the same kind of life, or have we simply avoided naming our differences?

Commitment becomes fragile not when love disappears, but when direction remains unclear.

2. Trust: Can I Put My Weight Down Here?

Trust is more than loyalty or dependability. At its core, it’s an internal sense of emotional safety:

“If life gets harder, will this person stand beside me?”

People often wrestle with questions such as:

• Do I trust my partner’s judgment?
• Do I feel respected for the responsibilities I carry?
• Can I trust them with what matters most — my children, my values, my vulnerabilities?

Trust isn’t dramatic. It’s quiet. And when it hasn’t fully settled, that uncertainty deserves attention.

3. Passion: Do I Feel Admiration and Aliveness?

Passion in long-term relationships is often misunderstood. It’s not primarily about chemistry or sex — it’s about admiration.

Ask yourself:

• Do I admire my partner?
• Am I proud of who they are in the world?
• Do I experience them as engaged, curious, and alive?

From a clinical perspective, concerns that appear to be about attraction often symbolize something deeper: a longing for energy, growth, and participation in life.

4. Intimacy: What Am I Not Saying?

True intimacy requires more than kindness and low conflict. It requires honesty.

Many relationships are emotionally steady but limited in intimacy because one or both partners are holding back important truths — especially around needs, expectations, contribution, or resentment. Without those conversations, peace can exist, but being fully known cannot.

An Adlerian Lens: Love as Contribution and Cooperation

Adler believed that love and work were the two central tasks of life. In relationships, love is expressed through contribution and cooperation.

Helpful questions include:

• How do we each contribute to the relationship and to life beyond it?
• Do we feel useful to one another?
• Are we building something together, or simply coexisting comfortably?

Contribution doesn’t have to mean income. It can take many forms:

• Emotional support
• Caregiving
• Creating a home
• Parenting
• Community involvement
• Encouraging each other’s growth
• Carrying responsibility during hard times

Relationships begin to suffer not only when love disappears, but when one or both partners no longer feel useful, valued, or part of a shared project.

Why This Framework Matters

The goal of reflecting on these four pillars isn’t to judge a relationship — but to understand it honestly.

Clarity creates choice.
And choice is essential for relationships that are not only stable, but deeply fulfilling.

So when someone asks:

“Should I stay or should I go?”

A more useful question might be:

“What kind of relationship am I choosing to build?”

Because in the end, the real question is rarely about love alone.
It is about whether two people can build a life together with trust, direction, admiration, honesty, and a shared sense that they are contributing to something that matters.

And that is a question worth taking the time to answer carefully.

Recently, a Los Angeles jury handed down an unprecedented decision: a young woman successfully sued Meta and YouTube, arguing that the platforms were intentionally designed to be addictive and that this addiction harmed her mental health. She was awarded $6 million in damages. Meta and Google say they will appeal, arguing that teen mental health is complex and cannot be blamed on a single app.

They are not entirely wrong.
But they are not entirely right either.

Because this case is not really about one young woman. It is about the kind of technological world we are building, and what that world is doing to us in return.

I remember an evening around 2001. My wife and I were invited to dinner at a colleague’s house — the colleague had cooked for us. While we were visiting in the kitchen and around the table, her husband sat in the living room playing video games for much of the evening. I remember feeling that the interaction with him was childlike and avoidant. Since then, I have had many clients describe losing not just evenings, but years inside games. One client told me he had spent more than 20,000 hours on three games. He spoke about responsibility to the server, to the other players, about keeping morale up, organizing events, making sure everyone succeeded. In another context, we would call him a leader, a manager, a community builder.

But the world he was holding together existed on a server that could be turned off.

And yet, I have also seen technology function as something like medicine.

In 1992, when the Toronto Blue Jays won the World Series, I was volunteering at a hospital in Mississauga. This was just before the dot-com explosion, before the internet became what it is now. There was a patient there with many complications stemming from his diagnosis of multiple sclerosis. His wife had left him, and he was largely alone. But someone — maybe even a small group of dedicated people — had set him up with a HAM radio.

Through that radio, he could leave the hospital without leaving the hospital. He could talk to truckers on the major highways running through Toronto. For some of the time he could participate in conversations, communities and friendships. You could see the change in him. It was connection. It was dignity. 

I remember thinking at the time: this is good medicine.

I was reminded of that again recently. A friend of mine was caring for his dying mother — she was 95 years old. In her final days, they spent hours together watching YouTube videos of life back in China. They followed one particular channel — a grandmother planting vegetables, harvesting them, cooking simple meals, living close to the land. My friend told me how peaceful it was, how it seemed to comfort his mother, how the two of them sat together watching scenes that reminded her of earlier life, earlier rhythms, earlier worlds.

How wonderful that technology could give them that.
A window back into memory.
A shared space at the end of a life.

So the question is not whether technology is good or bad. That is too simple.

The real question is: When does technology expand a life, and when does it consume one?

This is where the thinking of Bertrand Russell feels prophetic. He once warned that the real danger is not that machines become more like humans, but that humans become more like machines — more predictable, more conditioned, more responsive to stimulus than to meaning.

Social media platforms and online games are not neutral. They are highly refined behavioural machines. They measure where you look, how long you look, what makes you angry, what makes you laugh, what makes you stay. Then they adjust. They learn you the way a casino learns a gambler.

A book ends.
A movie ends.
A baseball game ends.
Even a casino will sometimes close.

But the scroll does not end.
The game world does not end.
The server is always running.

So we are left with a strange situation: we have built machines that are extraordinarily good at holding human attention, and we are only beginning to ask what that means for a human life.

Because attention is not a small thing.
Attention is your life.

I think back to that man with MS and his HAM radio. That technology gave him more life. It connected him to the world when his world had become very small.

I think of my friend and his mother, watching videos of a grandmother planting and harvesting vegetables in China. That technology gave them comfort, memory, and a way of being together at the end.

That is what good technology does.
It gives you more life.

The danger is when technology starts to take more life than it gives.

And that is the question now facing parents, therapists, teachers, and maybe soon, the courts:

Are these machines serving human beings, or are human beings slowly learning to serve the machines?

That is not just a technical question.
It is a moral one.
And increasingly, it is a clinical one.

Because in therapy rooms everywhere now, we are not just treating anxiety, depression, or loneliness.

We are treating people who are in relationships with machines — machines that know exactly how to keep them from leaving.

The task ahead is not to destroy these technologies. Like that HAM radio in 1992, they can be extraordinary tools for connection and meaning.

The task is to make sure they remain tools —
and do not quietly become environments that take more life than they give.

Because in the end, the real question is very simple:

Does this technology give you more life, or does it take your life and turn it into time spent on a server that never turns off?

In my work, I often sit with people carrying a quiet but persistent burden—the feeling of not becoming who they thought they would be.

Addiction isn’t only about substances or behaviours. At its core, it often reflects a person’s relationship with themselves. Beneath cycles of use and relapse, there’s usually a familiar inner dialogue: I’ve failed. I’m not enough. I should be further along.

This is where shame lives.

Shame is more than guilt about what someone has done—it’s a painful belief about who they are.

The psychologist Carl Rogers offered a different way of meeting this. He called it unconditional positive regard: the practice of relating to someone with acceptance, without attaching conditions to their worth.

It sounds simple. In practice, it can feel almost impossible—especially for those struggling with addiction.

Many people I meet have lived at one of two extremes:

• Too many expectations — internalized voices that say: be more, do more, don’t fall behind.
• Not enough expectations — an absence of guidance or belief, leaving a quieter question: did anyone ever really see me?

Both can lead to the same place: a deep sense of inadequacy.

Add to this the weight of unrealized dreams—the life that was supposed to happen—and it becomes easier to understand why people turn away from themselves. Substances are often less about pleasure and more about relief. A way to quiet the inner critic, even briefly.

This is where therapy matters.

Unconditional positive regard is not about excusing harm or ignoring consequences. It’s about creating a space where someone is no longer reduced to their worst moments. It says: you are more than what you’ve done—and you are still worthy of care, even here.

When that stance is consistent, something begins to shift.

People soften. They speak more honestly—not just about what they’ve done, but about what they feel: grief, disappointment, anger, and the longing to be different.

From there, change becomes possible—but not through shame.

Shame tends to keep people stuck. It either drives them to prove themselves endlessly or convinces them not to try at all. What actually supports change is something more balanced: acceptance paired with honesty.

In therapy, that can sound like:

• I care about you, and I’m concerned about what this is costing you.
• I see your effort—and where you’re getting in your own way.
• You’re not broken—but something here needs attention.

This kind of honesty only works when there is trust.

And outside of therapy, that kind of relationship is rare. Many people move through life feeling judged or unseen. They carry old expectations, compare themselves to others, and when they fall short—as we all do—they often do so alone.

Part of the work, then, is helping people build a different relationship with themselves.

One that can hold two truths at once:

• I’m not where I want to be.
• And I’m still worthy of care as I figure this out.

For those struggling with addiction, this shift isn’t small—it’s foundational.

Because recovery isn’t just about stopping a behaviour.
It’s about learning how to stay with yourself—without turning away.

And often, that begins with someone else doing exactly that.

The Falcon’s Lesson

In the year 1281, after his second failed attempt to conquer Japan, Kublai Khan, the mighty ruler of the Mongol Empire, was weighed down by grief and anger. The loss of over 100,000 soldiers gnawed at his spirit, a bitter reminder that even the greatest emperors were not invincible. Seeking solace, he retreated to the forest with his trusted falcon, his only companion that evening. The bird had been his gift from a loyal general, and over the years, it had become not only a hunting aid but a confidant of sorts.

The forest, though, offered little reprieve. Streams once teeming with water had dried to a whisper under the scorching summer sun. Thirst clawed at the Khan as he sought out one of the last freshwater springs hidden high in the valley. There, he found a mere trickle. Determined, he let water drip slowly into his cup, the process agonizing but necessary.

As the cup filled, he raised it to his lips. Before he could drink, the falcon swooped down, striking the cup from his hand. The Khan stared in disbelief as the precious water splattered into the dirt. Gritting his teeth, he began the process again. Slowly, the cup filled. Yet as he brought it to his lips, the falcon once more knocked it from his grasp.

Anger flared in his chest. Surely, this bird had lost its mind. By the third time it happened, the Khan’s patience shattered. His hand flew to his sword, and with one swift strike, he silenced his loyal companion forever. The falcon fell lifeless at his feet.

Still seething, Kublai Khan stared at the broken pieces of his cup, his thirst unquenched. Yet something gnawed at him—a shadow of doubt. Why had the falcon acted so strangely? Was there more to its actions than mere disobedience?

Driven by curiosity, he climbed further to the spring’s source. There, he froze. Floating in the small pool was a snake, its swollen, decaying body leaching poison into the water. The falcon had seen the danger from above. It had saved his life.

The realization struck the Khan like a thunderbolt. In his anger, he had slain his most faithful ally, the one creature that had acted out of loyalty and love. Sorrow replaced fury as he knelt beside his fallen companion, cradling its lifeless body.

From that day on, it is said that Kublai Khan was a changed man. He made a solemn oath never to let anger guide his hand again. Those who served him noticed the transformation. His rage, once as fierce as a Mongol cavalry charge, gave way to a steady calm.

And so, the lesson of the falcon echoed through the ages: Anger blinds the mind, destroys what we hold dear, and often reveals its folly too late.

Safe Space: Where the Nervous System Learns to Breathe

In psychotherapy we often talk about the idea of a “safe space.”

People sometimes imagine this as a comfortable room, a quiet chair, or a calming image used during meditation. But a safe space is something much deeper than that. It is not just a location. It is a state of the nervous system.

A safe space is where the body learns how to regulate itself.

In trauma therapy we often call this auto-regulation — the body’s ability to settle itself, to move from alarm back to balance. When a person finds a place where they feel safe enough, their breathing slows, their muscles soften, and their mind begins to quiet.

Over time the nervous system learns:
I can come back here.

For many people, that safe space begins in childhood. Sometimes it’s a room. Sometimes a treehouse. Sometimes a quiet corner.

For me, it was a campfire.

The Campfire

There is something ancient about sitting beside a fire.

The warmth, the rhythm of the flames, the crackle of burning wood — all of it pulls the body into a slower tempo. Firelight has been regulating human nervous systems for thousands of years.

When I sat beside a campfire, the world seemed to simplify.

The worries of the day faded into the darkness beyond the circle of light. My attention narrowed to something elemental: the glow of embers, the rising sparks, the smell of smoke in the air.

Without realizing it, I was practicing self-regulation.

The fire became a place where my nervous system could settle.

Inside the Helmet

Another unexpected safe space for me was riding motorcycles.

Most people think of motorcycles as loud, fast, and dangerous. But for me, something remarkable happens when the helmet goes on.

The world becomes quiet.

Your vision narrows. Your breathing becomes steady. Your body must remain completely present.

There is no room for yesterday’s worries or tomorrow’s problems. The road demands attention.

And in that focus, something happens in the nervous system: it organizes itself.

The helmet becomes a small contained space where the mind settles and the body aligns with the rhythm of movement. It’s a kind of moving meditation.

Many people discover similar experiences through running, swimming, hiking, or cycling.

The activity itself becomes the doorway to regulation.

The River as Sanctuary

One of the most striking examples of this comes from the documentary Big River Man, which follows endurance swimmer Martin Strel.

In the film, Strel attempts something almost unimaginable: swimming the entire length of the Amazon River — more than 3,300 miles — over the course of about two months. 

On the surface it seems like madness.

The river contains piranhas, parasites, dangerous currents, and blistering heat. Even the doctors following the expedition worry about his survival.

But beneath the spectacle lies something deeply human.

Strel describes how he began swimming as a child while escaping abuse from his father. In those early moments, the river became his refuge — a place where he could leave the chaos of home behind. 

The water was his safe space.

What looks like extreme athleticism may also be a nervous system returning to the only place it ever learned to regulate.

For Strel, the river was where his body understood how to be calm.

The Body Remembers

This is something we see often in therapy.

People carry regulating environments with them from earlier in life.

• A lake
• A forest trail
• A quiet workshop
• A church sanctuary
• A hockey rink
• A kitchen filled with music and cooking

These places matter because they shaped how the nervous system learned to settle.

When life becomes overwhelming, the body often tries to return to those regulating experiences.

Sometimes consciously.

Sometimes unconsciously.

Safe Space Is Not Escape

One important misunderstanding is that safe spaces are about avoiding the world.

They are not.

A safe space is not where we hide from life.

It is where we recalibrate so we can return to life.

Think of it like docking a boat. The harbor is not the destination — but without the harbor the ship cannot repair itself before sailing again.

When the nervous system finds safety, it restores energy, clarity, and perspective.

Only then can we re-engage with the world.

Helping Clients Find Their Safe Space

In therapy we often help clients discover or recreate these regulating environments.

Sometimes this is done through guided imagery — asking someone to imagine a place where they feel calm and grounded.

Other times it involves reconnecting with real experiences:

• walking in nature
• swimming
• gardening
• sitting beside water
• lighting a fire
• riding a motorcycle down an open road

The goal is not the activity itself.

The goal is helping the nervous system remember what safety feels like.

Once the body learns that feeling again, something powerful happens.

People realize they can carry that state with them.

The Small Places That Save Us

When we look back on our lives, it is rarely the dramatic moments that sustain us.

More often it is the small places.

A campfire glowing in the dark.

The quiet hum inside a helmet.

The steady rhythm of water around the body.

For Martin Strel, the river became a sanctuary.

For others it may be a forest path or a quiet lake at sunrise.

These places remind the nervous system of something essential:

You are safe enough.

And sometimes, that simple feeling is the beginning of healing.

Before human time—before clinics, diagnoses, and therapy rooms—there were stories.

One of my favorites begins with Prometheus.

Prometheus defies the gods by stealing fire and giving it to humanity. Fire is more than warmth. It is technology, culture, imagination, language, medicine. It is consciousness itself. His gift elevates human beings—brings us closer to the heavens.

The gods, displeased with this uprising of potential, respond not by taking the fire back, but by striking somewhere more intimate: our curiosity.

Enter Pandora.

She is given a jar (later mistranslated as a box) by Zeus and told not to open it. Of course she opens it. Out rush disease, famine, envy, grief, and every manner of human suffering. Once released, these forces cannot be returned.

At the bottom of the jar remains one final presence: Elpis—Hope.

Scholars debate whether hope was a gift meant to help humanity endure suffering, or a final cruel trick that keeps us striving in a world already wounded. Either way, hope becomes uniquely human. It lives in the tension between suffering and possibility.

And this is where the ancient myth meets the therapy room.

The Fire We Steal From One Another

In group psychotherapy, something remarkable happens. People arrive burdened—sometimes ashamed—by the contents of their own jars. Anxiety, grief, addiction, anger, loneliness. They often believe their suffering is uniquely theirs.

Then someone speaks.

And another nods.

And suddenly, isolation cracks.

The psychiatrist Irvin D. Yalom identified what he called the curative factors in group psychotherapy. Among them are universality, altruism, interpersonal learning, catharsis, cohesion—and most importantly, the installation of hope.

Hope in group therapy does not arrive as a lecture or a technique. It emerges relationally.

One member says, “I’ve been where you are.”
Another says, “It doesn’t always feel like this.”
Someone else simply stays present when another person trembles.

That is the fire.

Prometheus gave humanity literal fire. In group therapy, we give one another psychological fire—the courage to face suffering without being consumed by it.