Honor is not a mask. It is not for sale. Yet that is what plagues us. We think we know everything, and we do, and so there is nothing. Where there was curiosity, there is aesthetic. Something to be quantified. Rated. I am no better.

We want solutions and believe their promises. Convenience has killed critical thought. The greats warned us: there are no answers.

If there is one, it is being.

Honor is not claimed. It is lived. Felt. An action we must choose, again and again.

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For most of my life, I was deeply concerned with the perception of others. It was so entrenched, so familiar, that when I finally approached it consciously and accepted it, the realization was shocking. Growing up, the world praised me for being kind, for being sweet. You can get pretty far that way. Floating. Absorbing. Learning how to be what others might want.

But if you stay there long enough, you begin to see the consequences, both the intentional ones and the more insidious parts that quietly slip through. How hard it becomes to choose a dish at a restaurant, or to name a preferred movie. These moments seem small at first, but they reveal something much deeper: a kind of abandonment of self. I remember the first time I lived alone, moving into a quiet apartment after a period of interpersonal chaos. In that quiet, I had to face myself for the first time. There was no distraction, no one else to orbit around, no easy way to avoid myself. Just me.

There is no one to blame for this. No one is handed a guidebook on how to be a good person, let alone how to be a good parent. Our daily struggles are sometimes never-ending, and so much of what we become is shaped by adaptation, by survival, by learning how to stay safe in the world we were given. I’ve had to continuously, and often begrudgingly, accept the ways I kept myself small in order to do that. I don’t blame her. It is a scary world out there.

What occasionally slips out is sessions is, truly, no one is paying attention. Not in the way we fear. All the time spent crafting a persona is, in the end, mostly a waste. The one person we face through all of it is ourselves.

Through my studies, my own therapy, and life itself, I’ve been able to think more deeply about my narrative. I’ve had to battle with my own human-ness. Through psychoanalytic work, I’ve had to bring that human-ness into the room, invite her in, and allow her to be witnessed.

The majority of my clients come to therapy seeking change. I never take that lightly because I understand the frustration of stagnancy, of fear, of wanting to move and not knowing how. My understanding of the aim of this work has changed profoundly through my studies. I began with goals, with outcomes, with the idea that therapy should move neatly toward something identifiable. But I’ve come to see that the work is much deeper than that. It requires openness more than a plan, a willingness to sit with what emerges rather than forcing it into shape too quickly. A lovely curiosity I hope to extend towards myself.

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The end of this semester will mark five years of graduate study for me, with two more to go, if all goes as planned. Anything of this magnitude requires balance, though from my experience balance rarely looks graceful. More often, it looks like repairing myself when I’m depleted and drowning, and then reveling in the brief moments when some semblance of steadiness breaks through.

There is so much formal writing required of me. My words and my perception are endlessly condensed, qualified, and shaped for other purposes. I need some breathing room. A degree of freedom feels necessary.

Maybe that is part of what this is: room to speak in a way that feels less measured. Room to think about my younger self who learned how to survive by disappearing a little. Room to recognize her, and also to let her loosen her grip.

E

This summer has been emotionally and physically taxing. One of the least expected catalysts was an intensive trauma class. Throughout the numerous day-long classes, I was grateful to have the opportunity to take such a course, which should be mandatory for all clinicians, therapists, and individuals alike.

One of the final touches has been writing a reflective essay on the class and its profound takeaways. These takeaways were deeply personal and varied. Despite the challenges, I was satisfied with my writing and decided to share some paragraphs here. My awe for the prevalence of trauma and its silence in our culture is immense. A collective approach to understanding our shared human pain and fostering personal growth is crucial for the collective betterment of all. 

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Trauma remains a concept shrouded in silence. One marginalized by persistent stigma, constrained by social expectations, and burdened by the relentless demand that survivors justify their suffering to others. I began this course believing I held a nuanced understanding of trauma, one I had constructed through literature alongside my reflections. I was wrong, or at least my experience was incomplete.

One idea has stayed with me all Summer, emerging from a discussion of prevalence rates. The prevalence that stunned me, though perhaps it should not have, given how thoroughly we have been conditioned to ignore trauma's incidence. When the class and I attempted to estimate how many people meet Criterion A for Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (The person was exposed to: death, threatened death, actual or threatened serious injury, or actual or threatened sexual violence, in the following ways:….etc). There was a collective hesitation in the room—maybe we knew, somewhere beneath our careful academic training, but chose not to believe it. The actual figure, significantly higher than our guesses, illuminated not merely the staggering volume of human suffering, but the sophisticated machinery of cultural repression that keeps this invisible. What we have pathologized as aberrant is, in fact, devastatingly ordinary. Perhaps the most humbling, most fundamentally human experience we share.

Repression has always been our cultural specialty. However, as long as trauma remains framed as individual pathology rather than collective human experience, healing becomes an impossibility, masquerading as personal failure. This reframing, now central to my emerging understanding, is that when working with patients who carry complex histories, the radical act is normalization, but the acknowledgment that their pain exists within the broader spectrum of human experience. The work involves psychoeducation about somatic manifestations, about the body's brilliant and terrible capacity to hold what the mind cannot bear, of the biopsychological architecture that connects flesh to memory. It requires excavating what has been buried, with reverence for the individual's expertise of their experience and survival.

The people I will work with have navigated experiences that will be outside my understanding, employing coping mechanisms that warrant immense consideration and respect. My task is to be a witness—someone willing to sit in the complexity of their experience without rushing toward resolution. This course has taught me that healing trauma is not about returning people to some imagined state of wholeness, but about honoring the fractured, resilient, impossibly human way we all learn to carry what we cannot bear.

E

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I write this as an acknowledgment of my own projections.

The silent judgment I've cast across dinner tables, the quiet conferral of a "green flag" if one has been in therapy. Perhaps a potential indication of emotional maturity.

Not to excuse my own ignorance, but I myself continue to witness this constantly! People insisting others should be in therapy, judging those who aren't. This is fundamentally problematic on multiple levels.

The arrogance in telling people they need to seek therapy. Therapy doesn't work for everyone. Some people have grown deeply entrenched in their defenses, in their particular way of understanding themselves and the world. Real change demands tremendous courage and the willingness to question your most basic assumptions. But here's what makes this judgment even more problematic—therapy is a privilege. When I sit across from someone and silently assess their emotional maturity based on their relationship with therapy, I'm ignoring a harsh reality. Quality mental health care remains inaccessible to vast populations, concentrated among communities with insurance, disposable income, and proximity to providers who understand their experiences. The same system that has helped me navigate my own patterns is often simply unavailable to those who need it most.

And then there's the persistent stigma surrounding mental health. I'm constantly frustrated by the enduring reputation of therapy. While public perception has improved over recent years, so much about the therapy remains mysterious, a mystery that I think makes it unnecessarily intimidating. And four years ago, before starting graduate work in psychology, I held the same misconceptions. Therapy was Sopranos territory, for "crazy people." And why would I need therapy, I'm already really self-aware?

Therapy should be reframed as exploration, yet it's rarely presented as an invitation. Instead, it exists under the weight of social judgment—someone in therapy anticipating their friends' scrutiny or one who refuses because vulnerability threatens their masculinity. This perception captures our society's deep limitations around mental health. We've conditioned people to equate introspection with pathology.

When you engage in therapy outside crisis mode, what emerges can be genuinely unsettling. Therapy is rigorous work, and people are consistently caught off guard by its intensity. I was, and often still am. It takes enormous patience to sit with yourself and actively choose change, to confront the guilt you carry for simply existing, and to recognize that life might justify this pain. That's been one of therapy's most profound gifts to me: it has drawn deeply embedded thought patterns to the surface, allowing me to engage with them in dialogue rather than being controlled by them. I've learned to move fluidly through emotions while staying grounded in something as simple as breathing.

But if you're reading this and thinking "therapy isn't for me" or "I don't have time," and you happen to be fortunate enough to have insurance, some financial breathing room, and aren't currently working multiple jobs just to survive (etc, etc), perhaps it's worth reconsidering. I say this not to contradict everything I've just written, but because understanding yourself is genuinely useful knowledge.

Why do you apologize for taking up space? What makes joy feel dangerous? Whose voice still narrates your internal monologue decades later?

It isn't about pathologizing your quirks or fixing what's broken. It's about acquiring fluency in yourself, learning to read the patterns that have been running your life from the background. Those sessions where heavy material surfaces, and leaving feeling utterly drained. Exhaustion is information, and feelings are information. What needs my attention? I wish our cultural conversation around self-exploration wasn't weighed down by such shame and judgment.

I am writing this while recovering from an IUD implant. Summer has begun. I am reading Eros the Bittersweet, and life is also, full of pain that arrives both expected and unannounced. This experience has me thinking about another kind of judgment we cast: whose pain gets believed, whose suffering deserves attention.

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Perhaps this is what I'm really writing about. The judgments we make about whose experiences matter, whose pain deserves validation, whose healing journey is legitimate. Our created hierarchies of worth serve no one.

I'm trying to unlearn these patterns, to sit with my own contradictions, and to extend the same patience to others.

E

Like I could have imagined, my semester has stolen my time away. Nevertheless, I am learning and am lucky to be spending so much of my time dedicated to readings and patients, and excited to be closing out the second year of my PhD. With about two weeks left, I can practically taste freedom on the other side. Freedom, however, looking like it usually does, a facade of reality, and my summer reality containing two summer courses and dissertation writing.

As of now, this is the summer of slowing down. I have a family trip booked mid-summer for Italy, which I am over the moon about and am ecstatic for. Just the mere thought of reading a book for pleasure and being in the countryside is unbelievable. Other than that, I really hope to ground myself a bit more, perhaps ridding myself of unnecessary items and being immersed in the mundanity, as I’m unacquainted with this pleasure during the school year. Hopefully, this will lead to more posting, as I am planning to!

Here are some readings (academic and otherwise) that sustained me as my semester progressed, for many various reasons, but I had to return with something.

Some of the best readings this semester have come out of my Gender & its Discontents course taught by McKenzie Wark — When Monsters Speak is a collection of Susan Stryker’s key writings, tracing her role in shaping transgender studies and queer theory.

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I came across this book through my dissertation references, it’s fun and offers a tangible and captivating introduction to challenging our perceptions of ourselves, our relationships, and the world around us. Barker challenges conventional relationship norms, encouraging readers to question societal expectations around love, sex, and identity. They do this through inviting the reading to reflect on personal values and experiences, promoting authenticity and self-awareness in navigating relationships.

From the introduction to Yalom’s Existential Psychotherapy:

This passage names something we all feel but rarely say. That we face a part of existence alone, no matter how close we are to others. It’s unsettling, but also honest, and opens up space for what it means to live with freedom, uncertainty, and the deep need for connection.

I’ve really enjoyed ’s newsletter. In particular, these screenshots from #48: Nora MacLeod.

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Paul B. Preciado’s Testo Junkie blends memoir and theory to explore how pharmaceuticals and pornography shape gender and sexuality in contemporary capitalism. Through self-experimentation with testosterone, Preciado critiques biopolitical control and offers a radical rethinking of embodiment.

If of interest, I’d probably write a post soon on my dissertation, or my current process, and what I’m working on. It’s definitely an interesting feat to embark on, and maybe someone will find it useful or interesting.

Regardless, I am ready to strip myself of the need for a “perfect” blog post and hold myself to posting more, as I have so much fun engaging with you all.
E

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This winter kept me busy with externship applications and interviews (for those unfamiliar, an externship is a site where I’ll be training next academic year). The process brought a lot of underlying anxiety, which finally eased yesterday—Match Day. I’m thrilled to say I landed my top choice, and I’m still basking in the relief and excitement.

As I welcome spring, I want to acknowledge what winter has taught me.

Respite

Without realizing it, I’ve been stepping away from the digital world. I used to journal frequently, and time feels more fleeting without it.

For those who know me, I’m obsessive about organization. After months of consideration, I recently bought a Filofax—part of my effort to avoid impulsive purchases. Physical planners were always my thing, but during my master’s, I leaned into digital tools like Notion. I’ve spent an embarrassing amount of time perfecting my setup, and while I love it, I’ve noticed a difference.

There’s something grounding about writing by hand. A page feels finite and manageable. Typing, in contrast, has no natural stopping point. Returning to a physical planner has been a stark reminder of how different the experience is—turning pages, crossing off tasks, feeling the weight of thoughts in my hands.

I’ve also realized how much I retain when I handwrite notes. Typing lets me record everything, but when I write by hand, I summarize, highlight key ideas, and engage more deeply. My hand forces me to pause. To take a break.

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I decided to do a dry February—not as a reaction to distress but as a reflective choice.

Living in the U.S., alcohol is omnipresent in media, social spaces, and casual routines. Leading a substance use group last year made me more aware of how normalized drinking is, despite its effects.

I enjoy wine and a dirty martini, but I realized I didn’t need to have a glass with dinner or a couple of beers while watching a movie. Deep down, I knew alcohol dulled my experience of life. Even with just a few drinks that month, I noticed profound changes—more energy, less emotional numbness. Regular drinking, even at low levels, has a quiet dampening effect.

As always, it comes back to intention.

Getting Dressed

I’m constantly refining my wardrobe—maximizing wear while minimizing excess. A recent closet purge left me with pieces I genuinely love. My go-to formula gravitates toward black, though I’ve expanded into olive, brown, gray, and white.

Nevertheless, I have made comfort a priority. Here’s what I wear constantly:

1. A Good Scarf

   My partner gifted me a monogrammed dark olive Acne Studios scarf for Christmas—best gift ever. It’s warm and beautiful, and it garners compliments every time.

2. Black Cashmere

   In any form. I usually buy used ones from Poshmark or eBay, but Quince has a great everyday crewneck sweater option.

3. Jil Sander Pants

   I’ve collected about five pairs, all from The RealReal. Two wool pairs—gray straight/flared trousers and baggy black—are my most-worn this month.

4. A Trench Coat

   Not strictly winter, but essential for me. It feels like my cloak of invisibility. I have an oversized beige Burberry from my mom and an identical black one with a wool zip lining from my partner—game-changing for in-between weather.

5. Leather Gloves

   WITH cashmere lining. Essential.

Nothing novel, just beauty in simplicity.

I hope winter has been good to you.

E

For a long time, it felt like everyone else had their thing—a clear calling that shaped their lives. Friends knew they wanted to be fashion designers, writers, and doctors from childhood. Their paths seemed confident, driven by passion or purpose.

That wasn’t my experience. High school was dismal, and college, at first, felt directionless. Torn between what seemed like the right choice and what felt right, uncertainty shaped every academic decision.

Without a clear direction, practicality won. Community college became the first step, a place to explore different fields—computer science, business, and psychology. Psychology has always held interest, but at this point, I wasn’t sure what could be done about it. The uncertainty remained. Over the years, various jobs filled the space—waitressing, remote work, and assisting. Nothing quite clicked. Eventually, medicine seemed like the answer, influenced heavily by family, and it felt like a respectable, structured path.

Biology, chemistry, and pre-med courses were engaging, but in hindsight, the motivation had less to do with a love for the field and more with proving that success was possible. My degree in Psychology and Biological Science was earned, yet hesitation set in when facing the MCAT. Physician Assistant school was a feasible alternative: two years, great pay, and a seemingly stable future. But the hands-on experience was a must.

Then came COVID. Twelve-hour shifts at an urgent care center meant testing hundreds of people daily. The work was fast-paced and invaluable in learning to navigate patient care, teamwork, and medical environments.

But the most fulfilling part didn’t come from medicine—it was connection. Conversations with patients, easing their anxieties, and understanding what was really going on for them became the most meaningful aspects of the job. These moments mattered, especially during such an isolating time.

After much deliberation, therapy sessions, and confronting deep fears, psychology finally felt the right path. With little knowledge of where it would lead, a master’s degree seemed the best place to start. Since then, moving from a master’s to a PhD, everything has evolved. The transition from undergrad to graduate school brought new challenges, but it also introduced a way of learning and being that was deeply engaging—psychology shaped by the voices of many perspectives.

The diversity of experiences within my PhD cohort continues to be inspiring. Hearing how each person conceptualizes cases differently has been invaluable in group supervision. Theoretical interests, lived experiences, and distinct ways of seeing the world make for richer, more nuanced discussions. A single perspective is never enough. Stepping outside familiar viewpoints, asking more questions, and actively seeking to learn have been transformative. Depth has become the most valuable pursuit. A running joke in conversations with my partner is that I know a little about everything. And while that isn’t entirely true, there’s joy in reclaiming that nature.

Openness and curiosity have changed everything for me. They’ve led to a deeper sense of fulfillment, a greater capacity for listening, and, ultimately, a kinder approach to the world.

In hindsight, I’ve taken pride in my process—how I’ve remained open to changing my mind and challenging my internalized status quo. Curiosity has relieved me from the pressure to have a singular purpose or definitive “thing.” Instead, I embrace multiplicity, as Walt Whitman famously wrote: “Very well then I contradict myself, (I am large, I contain multitudes.)”

E

But from a relational perspective, it speaks to something much more profound: how we shape and are shaped by our social worlds. We don’t exist in isolation. Our identities form in response to and in dialogue with those around us.

I recall a fleeting movie scene that struck me deeply—one I’ve never entirely forgotten. It may have even tempered my overtly romantic tendencies:

We need a witness to our lives. There's a billion people on the planet... I mean, what does any one life really mean? But in a marriage, you're promising to care about everything. The good things, the bad things, the terrible things, the mundane things... all of it, all of the time, every day. You're saying 'Your life will not go unnoticed because I will notice it. Your life will not go un-witnessed because I will be your witness'."

This resonated with me profoundly, especially as I later encountered relational psychoanalysis. Witnessing is essential—not just being physically present, but genuinely seeing someone, knowing them, and recognizing the depth of their existence.

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Marina Abramović and Ulay’s Rest Energy (1980) powerfully illustrate witnessing each other’s lives through radical trust and presence. Holding a bow and arrow in precarious balance—aimed at Abramović’s heart—they embody vulnerability, interdependence, and deep attunement. Their amplified heartbeats intensify the moment, emphasizing how connection shapes our existence. The piece reveals how we navigate uncertainty through shared experience, trust, and truly seeing one another.

We deeply crave this, yet it feels increasingly elusive. So many young people struggle to build meaningful communities, and the isolation we experience continues to grow. The rising reports of loneliness, anxiety, and existential discontent aren’t just personal struggles—they reflect a broader societal shift. At its core, we are facing a crisis of connection.

We thrive in relationships, and without them, we falter. To be seen and to see the other are fundamental developmental milestones in psychoanalysis, shaping our ability to relate, trust, and grow. Intersubjectivity—the shared space of understanding between minds—is essential to the self. It allows us to feel recognized, build trust, and cultivate empathy. Without these shared experiences, we lose our sense of grounding in the world.

When communities dissolve, so too do these relational capacities, making it all the more difficult to reconstruct what has been lost. So what happens when we stop witnessing each other? Perhaps this is the question we need to ask. Because if we are who we hang out with—and yet we are lonelier than ever—who are we becoming?

The world right now feels like it’s fraying at the edges. Beyond the immediate destruction and fear-mongering—perpetuated by he who must not be named—there’s an undeniable sense of heartbreak and devastation. It has seeped into everything, making isolation feel inescapable.

And yet, amidst all this, community and care for one another remain our most powerful antidotes. They have always been, and will always be, the forces that sustain us.

E

I spent the first week of February on the outs of a terrible/wonderful/reflective January. Emotionally, as I had more time for that, I came face-to-face with things that needed to change and non-negotiables as I continued my academic journey. Although not formally termed, my blatant and all-encompassing self-critic in me inhibits me from trying. The voice has grown, not louder but in volume.

It's hard to come to acknowledge that most of the time, you are your own enemy.

I find this so embarrassing, for I should know better! Haven't you been paying attention? Wait—the critic again. Luckily, I've been able to recognize it, but the back-and-forth has become relentless.

A note I wrote to myself at the beginning of the semester:

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The semester began as any other, but this time, the bonus of externship application stress has been unprecedented.

This interview process has truly brought up so much for me: my need to control and prepare and how this occasionally becomes a cyclical and never-ending pursuit as I run myself in circles.

However, I am excited because I know I am prepared. I know my stuff, and I am ready to have a thoughtful, thorough conversation with someone I may be working alongside and learning from in hopes of continuously working towards becoming a better clinician.

I am not perfect, but competent, caring, compassionate, and hard-working.

On January 24th, I turned 28. It felt both surreal and grounding to step into another year of life. As luck would have it, my weekly therapy session fell on the last day of being 27—a fitting way to close the chapter. While aging wasn’t the explicit topic of conversation, leaving that session stirred a whirlwind of thoughts about growth, self-discovery, and the journey that brought me here.

I lived numerous lives in my twenties, most of which did not align with what I perceived to be my authentic self. Yet, every day, I feel closer to the person I am. It’s not always easy—some aspects of personal growth demand patience, and I’m still learning. But I’m committed to giving myself that grace, and I hope with the passing year, I will find more peace within myself.

My decision to pursue graduate education profoundly shaped the latter half of my twenties. It’s wild to think about who I was at 24, standing on the precipice of this academic journey. Now, I’m immersed in the whirlwind of learning and growth that comes with it, and I can’t help but marvel at how transformative this experience has been.

The stories I’ve told myself about who I should be or how I measure up are slowly shifting. I no longer need to distance myself from past versions of my identity, as though they were foreign or unrecognizable. Instead, I’ve learned to embrace them as parts of the whole. Every version of me—flawed, growing, and evolving—has brought me to where I stand today.

Loving the process of getting older might sound strange to some, but it’s my truth. Each year brings more clarity and appreciation for life—and I wouldn’t trade that for anything.

Of course, I am endlessly thankful for the people in my life who have loved me through every stage of this journey. Their unwavering support has been a foundation I’ve leaned on more times than I can count. To know I am surrounded by such love is a gift I don’t take lightly.

Here’s to another year of learning, loving, and leaning into every moment.

E

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While sitting in my apartment with my partner—another pretty standard evening—I started reflecting on how grateful I am for the support I’ve received. I think about it often, but at that moment, it felt imperative to acknowledge it.

I realized how much the encouragement and care from someone close to me have shaped my ability to handle everything I’m doing. Their support—emotional, practical, or just being there—has made all the difference. Thinking about this, I decided I needed to tell them how much they mean to me.

So, I called them. I told them I was grateful for their presence and appreciated everything they’d done for me. As I spoke, I could sense that my words landed. Even though they’re not the type to show emotions openly, I could tell that hearing this made them happy.

Recently, I’ve been trying to make it a habit to tell people how I feel about them when the thought crosses my mind. Life gets busy, and it’s easy to let those moments slip by, but I’ve realized how important it is to share those thoughts while you can.

Later, I heard from someone close to them that my words had made a lasting impression. Knowing that my gratitude had such an impact made me realize how much those small gestures of appreciation can mean.

Send a message, an email, or pick up the phone—because in the dire conditions of human existence—praise, connection, and love are the rarest and most necessary gifts we can offer one another.

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E

Spending time alone and with friends last week brought me back to the strength and beauty of human connection—the kind of meandering conversations that leave you feeling grounded and inspired. I came away with something meaningful: a renewed appreciation for the people in my life who see and accept me as I am. One topic discussed was neuroticism (a trait I’ve long wrestled with). In 2024, I tried to fight it, to live in a way that felt “better” or “more productive.” But I’ve realized that embracing it—owning the quirks and anxieties that make me who I am—might be the compassionate path forward.

This week also included visiting family somewhere warmer, offering a much-needed calm. Quiet mornings watching my partner play guitar, moments soaking in the hot tub, and spa treatments gifted by his parents created a luxurious ease I hardly indulge in. These moments allowed me to slow down, reflect, and just be.

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The year was marked by milestones, and these final days of 2024 felt like a well-earned exhale. Luckily, I was able to travel this year, going to Lisbon, Puerto Rico, St. Barths, and others. We celebrated my partner’s birthday in Lisbon, explored the city, and ate incredible meals. Puerto Rico was a reprise from a long first semester. With its adventurous days in the company of friends, St. Barths was a perfect conclusion to the year. Closer to home, trips to Fire Island and upstate New York offered comfort, connection, and bonding. Regardless, all these journeys reminded me of the importance of presence, joy, and shared experiences.

Professionally, 2024 was a year of growth and resilience. Transitioning from my first to second year in my PhD program pushed me to develop intellectually and emotionally. Presenting at a symposium for the first time, completing my master’s thesis, and managing a full caseload of patients were milestones that expanded my limits. These achievements weren’t easy; they demanded vulnerability and persistence, but they showed me what I’m capable of when I trust myself and lean into discomfort. The support of my colleagues, mentors, and patients has been invaluable, reminding me that growth is rarely a solo endeavor.

On a personal level, returning to in-person therapy and medication management were essential choices for the year. They allowed me to quiet the punishing inner critic that has long shaped my self-talk and to embrace self-compassion instead. I’ve started to see failures not as definitive judgments but as opportunities to learn and grow. This shift has been liberating and grounding, and has helped me connect more deeply with myself and with those around me. I’m learning to trust my intuition, to listen to the quiet, persistent voice that knows what I need—even when doubt threatens to drown it out.

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Yesterday, a moment of unexpected clarity came to me while cleaning my space. As I lit copal incense and began a meditation called “Roots of Belonging,” I was struck by the interconnectedness of all living things. The meditation described how trees sustain one another through their root systems, sharing resources to support weaker community members. This metaphor resonated deeply with me. Trees remind us that strength comes not from isolation but from connection and mutual care. As trees feed the stumps of old friends through their roots, we, too, can nurture and sustain the people around us. Trees and the deep interconnection between health and relationships are exemplary themes to guide me to the following year.

As I look to 2025, my theme is Intentional Balance. It’s about aligning my passions with my purpose, embracing my neuroticism, and giving myself the space to be human. I want to continue writing, exploring, and growing while deepening my connections with those I love. My partner’s small gestures, like sending me a calendar invite for a date, remind me of the sweetness in everyday life—the small, deliberate acts of love that make everything else feel possible.

Currently, I’m feeling under the weather. While this isn’t how I’d hoped to start the new year, I’m taking care of myself and allowing things to unfold as they will. With classes starting soon, I’m allowing myself to rest and take things one step at a time. Here’s to a year of love, balance, and intentionality.

E

In

Writing about everything
Listening
Acknowledging your limits
Reading 5 books at a time
Sweatpants
Attention
Documenting my dreams
Dinner parties
Sound baths
Asking for help
CBD
Reflection
Time with friends
Self-discipline ↔ self-love
Stability
More lists and;
Less judgments about lists
Feeling my emotions

Out

Relentless self-judgment
Perfection
Downloading PDFs and not reading them
Complicated skin-care
Excessive planning
Lying about hydration
Stability
Obsession
Living quietly at the expense of authenticity
Thinking about when my PhD is going to end and actually enjoying it
My fear of anger

E

At my twins' first home, it is 9:30, and the ladies have gone to bed. I chose to make this sofa my own and my place for my time here.

Here I am, huddling under the blankets in the dark.

I never feel like my younger self. She is irrevocable, distant—potentially fiction. However, here, under the shadow of the street light, we met once more. I feel her. Her comfort in her place—the sacredness of a story, of peace. Within the words and the paper, the blanket keeps me safe.

What do I feel, though? Safe is valid, clear. But there is always more. The safety and comfort are shrouded with nostalgia. A nostalgia I can feel I understood before I had a past—a longing for something, for love, for an understanding.

Happy holidays.

E

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After my first session, I felt overwhelmed with fear and regret, questioning whether I had said too much (ha) or revealed too soon. But by the second session, something shifted—I felt lighter, freer. Though these were just the first steps in what will be an ongoing journey, I now look forward to each session and feel consistent progress. Therapy isn’t just about change; it’s about being present for that change.

The Fear of Feeling

Many people are afraid of feeling poorly—afraid of fear, sadness, discomfort. But that’s one of the most beautiful aspects of therapy. It’s a relational dance, where your interactions with the therapist mirror how you relate to others: your mother, your partner, your friends. The discomfort you feel in therapy is a recognition of the parts of yourself you’ve avoided. How can we grow if we refuse to confront those shadows?

At the same time, I don’t believe constant evolution is necessary—or even healthy. The popularization of therapy and psychobabble on social media has made self-improvement feel like a relentless pursuit. While this normalization and education are valuable, they often reduce the complexity of self-knowledge to oversimplified memes and soundbites. True self-understanding involves untangling deeply rooted, maladaptive cycles—something that cannot be condensed into a 30-second reel.

Therapy Isn’t a Quick Fix

In today’s world, some people even use tools like ChatGPT as therapists. While skill-building approaches to therapy can be useful, the rigid, absolute frameworks popularized online often lack nuance. Therapy isn’t about "fixing" yourself or reaching a point of completion. Healing is a lifelong process—a realization that can be both difficult and liberating.

When we accept that we’re never truly “done” healing, we can let go of the defenses we once needed to survive. These defenses served us at one point but often become barriers as we grow. Therapy helps us recognize and release these patterns, allowing us to live more authentically.

Therapy Has Limits, But So Do We

I’ll admit that therapy isn’t helpful for everyone. Some people are so deeply entrenched in their cycles that they’re hard to reach. Others need higher-levels of course, and others might not feel the need for therapy because they’ve lived secure, fulfilling lives (the list goes on). And that’s okay. Therapy doesn’t hold all the answers, nor is it meant to.

But for those who do engage in therapy, it’s about learning to trust your body and intuition. It’s about untethering yourself from the stories you’ve been telling yourself and learning how to truly live. Radical acceptance has been a cornerstone of my own healing—helping me let go of regret, anger, and fear. I’ve come to understand that life’s inevitable challenges—abandonment, mistakes, death—are not to be feared but accepted. Control what you can, and release what you cannot.

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A Note on Accessibility

I also recognize that therapy, particularly individual therapy, is expensive and often inaccessible. This reality highlights a significant barrier to the benefits it offers—a barrier that must be addressed at a systemic level.

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As the semester’s end approaches, I’ve been working incessantly. The moment it’s over, I’ll be swept into externship applications and dissertation work—alas.

Unexpectedly, November brought a refreshing pause. I found myself able to ground and step back. Stress is inevitable in graduate school, but I’ve tried to become more intentional about what actually helps me. Sometimes, it’s meticulously planning the next three years of my life. Other times, it’s shutting down my computer at 7 p.m. to flirt with the elusive concept of work-life balance.

This past summer, I set out to streamline my life. I noted down easy meals, built an essential grocery list, scheduled weekly cleaning reminders, and attempted to pre-plan workouts. This wasn’t some prime productivity showcase—it was my attempt to stay sane when work became overwhelming and time became scarce.

For a while, it worked. Then, reality hit. I started punishing myself when I didn’t check every box on my to-do list or meet my weekly goals. In hindsight, it feels so silly. I’ve come far enough from my perfectionist tendencies to recognize: this is graduate school. You simply won’t have time for everything. You’ll miss meetings. You’ll forget tasks. And that’s okay.

Instead of chasing a facade of balance, I’ve embraced a kind of “calm.” Assignments will always pile up, deadlines will come and go—but I’ll persevere. I’ll keep posting, too, because it’s far too easy to let everything slip away.

Being ~~Perceived~~

Lately, I’ve been fixated on unpacking external validation—being perceived, noticed, seen. In a constant race against time, I cling to anything that could gift me a few extra minutes. So, I deleted Instagram from my phone in an effort to reconnect with myself.

The trend of “leaving social media to live” is nothing new. Many brave souls left long ago. I hadn’t taken a real Instagram hiatus since opening my account ten years ago (a shocking and embarrassing realization). Surprisingly, I found it easier than expected. The urge to check disappeared after a day or two. Since then, I’ve felt lighter.

When I did briefly check my messages recently, I was met with unconscious sensations—worry, anger, anxiety. It’s incredible what we convince ourselves of and how much clarity comes from stepping back.

These past few weeks, I’ve focused on dressing comfortably, feeling good, and resisting impulsive purchases. No perfectly curated advertisements for unnecessary shirts or home decor swayed me. It’s impossible to deny Instagram’s developmental impact on this generation—it’s made its mark, often negatively.

For me, stepping away feels like progress. While I might still share an occasional post—I’m not ready to let it go entirely—the app itself will remain off my phone, out of sight, and out of mind.

Living freely, though, demands the shedding of that invented weight. To be free is to exist outside the perpetual self-policing, the silent running monologue that edits before we speak and warns before we laugh. 

from ‘the art of being cringey’ on

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The Capacity to be Alone - Winnicott, 1958

A supervisor recently recommended Winnicott’s The Capacity to Be Alone (1958). I underestimated how impactful it would be. Winnicott theorizes that the ability to be alone is a significant marker of emotional maturity—paradoxically developed through the experience of being alone in the presence of someone, particularly a caregiver.

I was struck by his term ego-relatedness:

“Ego-relatedness refers to the relationship between two people, one of whom, at any rate, is alone; perhaps both are alone, yet the presence of each is important to the other.”

It reminded me of the comfort my partner and I find working side-by-side or simply knowing the other is in the next room. How nice it feels—for how could we be ourselves—be human—without a witness to confirm or deny us?

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I’ve been trying to find a way to catalog what I learn and read. With my studies, I'm often flooded with class readings, psychology articles, and helpful insights. I realized that writing here could be a way to manage it all, especially since I’ve been neglecting writing and want to get back into it. I hope that one or two of these reflections may resonate with you. Some entries will be summaries, quotes, or thoughts on the work, while others may be fragments—some weeks, I’m buried in readings, and others, I can barely get through a few pages. I’ll do my best to keep up.

Writing seems to help me retain what I’ve learned. However, I often feel guilty and worried I won’t remember much due to my exhausting hours, endless reading, and difficulty finding time to relax or let things sink in.

Lately, I’ve been reflecting on my undergraduate degree in biological sciences. I did well, mostly because I had a solid study system based on memorization and meticulous notes. But now, in graduate school with its seminars, pass/fail courses, and focus on theory, that style hasn’t fully translated. I could argue that I hardly learned some of the material similarly. Still, writing and re-writing my notes was the one practice that genuinely helped me grasp things (a discovery I made only in my last undergrad year).

Because of my classes, meetings, and readings, I constantly come across ideas I want to explore but can’t focus on immediately. So, my goal is to capture these—paragraphs on things I’ve learned, meaningful conversations, key themes, ideas, or even questions I want to explore further.

As I think about it, I find more reasons to commit to this mini-project. I want to improve my writing; becoming a clinician involves more communication, admin work, and documentation than I’d considered. And practice is vital. Even just a fraction of “perfect” would be helpful — I want my writing to be succinct and impactful. For some reason, I also feel that revisiting and building on these thoughts will help avoid that feeling of “brain rot” that scrolling often gives me. So, if my neuroticism doesn’t scare you off, I’d love for you to bear with me.

I’ll add some fun along the way: recent obsessions, photos, random things I’d like to share—a diary of sorts. Starting this in the final month of my semester feels like a worthwhile experiment.

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11/06/2024

Termination of Psychotherapy: Some Salient Issues
(Levinson, 1977)

Ending therapy is critical for long-term outcomes, as past experiences, emotional investment, and current circumstances shape patients' reactions. Therapists must manage personal emotions, avoid extending treatment for personal reasons, and guide patients through separation while addressing any resurfacing or defensive behaviors to ensure a healthy transition and continued growth.

I guess it’s helpful that many of these readings are about something currently happening in my life—here, termination, or the conclusion of the client-therapist relationship when treatment goals are met, or therapy ends. So far this semester, I have had eight patients, and I will begin terminating with some this upcoming week. The violence of the word termination is so funny to me and feels so inappropriate to describe the ending of a therapeutic relationship.

11/05/2024

Treating Patients with Symptoms—and Symptoms with Patience
(Bromberg, 2001)

Human personality is composed of multiple shifting self-states, which create an illusion of a unified self and examine how dissociation helps maintain self-continuity in response to psychological trauma (paper focuses on eating disorders).

“We do not treat patients to cure them of something that was done to them in the past; rather, we are trying to cure them of what they still do to themselves (and to others) in order to cope with what was done to them in the past.”

My teacher mentioned him (Bromberg) this week, and I was immediately interested. One of his articles was assigned reading for another course and provided an excellent introduction to Bromberg’s idea that everyone ‘dissociates’ as healthy selves are composed of multiple shifting self-states.

11/04/2024

Getting Cold Feet, Defining “Safe-Enough” Borders: Dissociation, Multiplicity, and Integration in the Analyst’s Experience
(Davies, 1999)

Explores the fate of the analyst’s multiple self/other organizations during heightened countertransference.

“Autonomous sub-organizations of internalized self and object representations which move in and out of conscious prominence depending upon the evocative potential of the current interpersonal moment.”
“The goal of such an analytic agenda is to invite into interpersonal enactment those dissociated aspects of self/other experience that have been rendered unconscious by dint of the individual's striving toward a state of equilibrium and integration.”

“The individual's experience of self at any given instance, reconfigures itself in accord with the present interpersonal moment.”

The Family Problem, Now: The old family is dead
(O’Brien, 2022)

“‘The crisis consists precisely in the fact that the old is dying and the new cannot be born,' Gramsci wrote in 1930. ‘In this interregnum a great variety of morbid symptoms appear’”.

Weekly Favorites

• Attempting to disengage with unnecessary items in my handbag

• Pretending I am holding it all together 

• Seven Minutes by TOPS

• Finding the balance between documenting the ‘necessary’ and what is extraneous 

• Being able to use my time to help others

• Wearing the same outfits

Post Photo Source: Charles Young - Solar Eclipse, Cadiz, Spain, Dec. 22, 1870

I've had "Write PhD first year reflections" on my to-do list. It’s challenging to pause and recognize your achievements—to determine what even counts as an ‘accomplishment.’ As I sit in a café, I'm overwhelmed with emotion. Everyone said it would be like this. Today, I’m concluding work with my initial patients, wrapping up my master's thesis, and finishing the second semester of what has been the busiest year of my life.

It's humbling to realize the impact of your words on others. This year has been a masterclass in combating imposter syndrome for me. How could I possibly help others when I've seen my own relentless imperfections? Yet, this year, I've begun to appreciate the beauty in our perpetual transformation. We never cease changing, healing, or hurting. Nothing is more significant than feeling seen and understood. And it's astonishing to think that in a few years, I can (legally) be that person for someone.

Tears well up as I reflect on the immense gratitude I feel for all the opportunities I've been given, and for the trust people have placed in me by sharing their secrets and their stories. And I’m glad I’ve become someone who embraces new beginnings, always ready to face what's coming next with open arms.

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The commitment to graduate school is that of a full-time job (one of today’s standards - life-consuming and far more than 40 hours a week). My calendar serves as a beloved and despised testament to this reality. Crammed with meetings/classes, etc., scheduling ‘personal life’ errands has become a necessity due to the fear of them being mistakenly overlooked. Therefore, I find myself meticulously planning even my ‘leisure time.’

I am tired of the endless chase after 'efficiency' and 'productivity.’ However, I’ve learned not to beat myself up over this. I understand this is all a delicate balance - work/life/school, etc. - and attempting to do it all is not only foolish but impossible.

Sometimes, our fixation on doing causes us to forget the importance of simply being. In a life with escalating responsibilities, self-care (genuine care of self, rather than the facade) seems insurmountable - and the prioritization of ‘catching up’ inevitably trumps being present. What I yearn for is a slower pace of life, even just a little bit, where falling behind is not a concern and resting doesn’t feel like a waste of time (clearly something I also need to unpack).

I don't mind working hard; I consider myself extremely fortunate to be able to study what I enjoy and pursue a challenging graduate degree. However, feeling like you're never 'caught up' is sometimes extremely disheartening. Not only is it hard to stay completely engaged in such a program, but I also feel behind in my personal life.

I began writing this post at the start of March, and it's taken me over a month to finalize it. Honestly, March was a rollercoaster for me. I started the month cooped up in my apartment, dedicating myself to finishing most of my master's thesis, churning out a staggering 11,000 words. Right after, I had the chance to travel internationally, and the next week, I took a trip upstate with friends. March wrapped up with me falling ill—a reminder that the body has ways of calling you to order.

Through it all this March, I didn't beat time; I simply lived through it, perhaps a little too vigorously.

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"The Cost of Living" by Deborah Levy caught my eye among the other staff picks at McNally's. It's a book about upheaval, change, and womanhood, part of Levy’s "living autobiography" series. This blend of personal narrative and philosophical insights was exactly what I needed, a book I devoured in a day, something I hadn't done in a while due to my never-ending studies.

One section particularly resonated with me - Levy's reflection on Simone De Beauvoir's relationship with an American named Alger, who, she suggests, offered emotional and sexual respite from her complications with Sartre.

She wrote to her lover:

‘I want everything from life, I want to be a woman and to be a man, to have many friends and have loneliness, to work much and write good books and to travel and enjoy myself…”

There’s something magical about picking up a book and feeling that it was meant for you to read at that very moment.

Regardless - my mind has been buzzing with ideas to fill the blank canvas of this blog. Surprisingly, a fair number of you have subscribed, for which I am grateful! I'm considering a weekly roundup of sorts—text, quotes, sights, stories, perhaps even outfits. It could be a great way to compile an archive of mundanity.

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