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.

Challenging Irrational Thinking: A Practical Guide

This handout provides strategies to help you identify and challenge irrational thoughts.

Use these questions to reflect, gain perspective, and approach your thinking with curiosity

and compassion.

1 Perspective-Taking

• What would a trusted friend or family member say about my current thoughts?

• What advice would I give someone else in my position?

2 Time Perspective

• Will this issue bother me in 1 hour, 1 day, 1 week, or 1 year?

• How will I view this situation 5 years from now?

3 Evidence and Reality Testing

• What evidence suggests my thoughts may not be entirely true?

• Have I ever experienced similar situations, and how did I manage them?

4 Balancing Positives and Negatives

• What strengths or positives in myself or the situation am I ignoring?

• Am I focusing only on negatives?

5 Considering Outcomes

• Whats the worst possible outcome? The best? The most likely?

• What purpose do my thoughts serve? Do they help or harm me?

6 Self-Compassion

• Am I being too self-critical?

• Am I blaming myself for things beyond my control?

7 Regaining Control

• What helps me feel better in moments like this?

• How can I approach this situation with curiosity instead of judgment?

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Use this guide to pause, reflect, and challenge unhelpful thoughts. Practice regularly to build

healthier thinking patterns.

The Trust Walk Exercise

The Trust Walk is a powerful experiential exercise drawn from the tradition of Gestalt therapy, particularly its emphasis on awareness, embodied experience, and relational contact. It is used with couples and groups to explore trust, vulnerability, communication, and the subtle dynamics of leading and following.

In this exercise, one participant closes their eyes while their partner gently guides them—either through the therapy office or, when appropriate, outdoors. The partner’s role is to ensure safety while offering clear, calm guidance. The person with closed eyes agrees to surrender visual control and rely fully on the other.

While simple in structure, the exercise evokes rich emotional and physiological responses. Participants often notice:

• Increased bodily awareness (heart rate, muscle tension, breath)
• Anxiety or hesitation when letting go of control
• Protective or caretaking instincts in the leader
• Shifts in power, responsibility, and vulnerability
• Assumptions about how others will respond to their needs

The Trust Walk is not primarily about proving trust—it is about revealing the lived experience of trust. Gestalt work emphasizes that insight comes through direct experience rather than discussion alone. When sight is removed, participants become more aware of tone of voice, pace, touch, proximity, and intention. The body often speaks before words do.

Following the walk, structured dialogue is essential. Participants are invited to reflect on questions such as:

• What did you feel in your body?
• When did you feel most safe? Least safe?
• What did you need but not say?
• How did it feel to carry responsibility for another person?
• Where does this dynamic show up in your relationship?

Couples frequently discover parallels between the exercise and their everyday relational patterns—who takes control, who hesitates, who over-functions, who under-communicates. In groups, members often gain empathy for the vulnerability inherent in both leading and being led.

Ultimately, the Trust Walk creates a shared experience that moves beyond theory. It fosters deeper dialogue, emotional awareness, and a lived understanding of how trust is built—not through words alone, but through presence, attunement, and care.