Most of us are asked questions every day. Some questions are practical. Some are polite. Others feel intrusive, confusing, or oddly unsettling. We might answer anyway. Or we deflect. Or we explain ourselves carefully, sensing that something more than curiosity is at play. Occasionally, though, someone asks a question that feels different. Not because it is clever or unexpected, but because it does not seem to be going anywhere in particular. We pause. We listen inwardly. We n

Some people say they have tried therapy and came away feeling it made no difference. “I couldn't get anywhere,” they say. "I felt misunderstood.” "The therapist just didn't get me." "I might as well have talked to my friend." Sometimes they add, almost apologetically, “Maybe therapy just isn't for me.” Often, the problem is not therapy itself, but that a therapist interrupts, reassures, or reframes before listening long enough.   Why Conversations Fall Short In everyday life

People often say that talking helps. But that is not quite accurate. Talking, on its own, does not always help. Many people talk a great deal and feel no clearer, no lighter, no more settled afterwards. They explain, recount, analyse, and rehearse, yet something remains unchanged. What makes the difference is not talking, but being listened to. When someone truly listens, something begins to organise inside us. Why Talking Out Loud Changes How We Think When we are alone, our

Many people carry experiences they have never fully put down. They think about them in the background of their lives. Certain memories return at night. Certain thoughts circle when things go quiet. They may talk about parts of it with friends or family, but something remains unresolved—still charged, still tender, still unfinished. Therapeutic writing helps because it invites you to stay with an experience long enough for it to take shape. Not to polish it. Not to make it coh

People often come to therapy puzzled by their own reactions. They say things like: “I know where this comes from.” “I understand why I feel this way.” “I’ve talked about it for years.” And yet, when the moment arrives, their body reacts as if none of that understanding is available. They snap. They shut down. They panic. They feel suddenly small, furious, ashamed, or overwhelmed. Afterwards, they often turn on themselves. “I should know better.” “Why am I still like this?” “W

Some people are puzzled by their own unhappiness, because nothing obviously bad has happened. “Nothing terrible has happened.” “We don’t fight all the time.” “I should be grateful, really.” And yet something feels wrong. They describe a low-grade unease they cannot quite name. A sense of being smaller than they used to be. Less clear. Less spontaneous. They often hesitate before speaking, worried they are overreacting or being unfair. Because there is no obvious incident to p

In Part 1, I wrote about what gets crowded out when stress becomes constant—the loss of space, the interruption of inner processes, the way reflection and meaning-making get postponed indefinitely. But understanding what stress has taken from you does not always change how your body feels. People often understand exactly why they feel the way they do. They can explain what happened, what changed, and what they wish were different. They may have talked it through many times. A

Many people do not think of themselves as stressed. They are coping. They are functioning. They are working, parenting, organising, and managing. On the surface, they look fine. What they notice instead are smaller things. They cannot switch off. They feel flat. Something feels wrong, but they cannot quite name it. Over time, this state stops standing out. Constant alertness becomes familiar. Effort becomes the background. Stress does not feel acute or dramatic. It feels norm