There's rarely a simple explanation for human behaviour. Yet we live in a time when psychological ideas are offered up as neatly packaged truths and tidy answers to layered experiences. Theories, frameworks, and insights are everywhere, promising to unlock the "real" reason behind how we think, feel, and act.

Leah’s eight-year-old son, Tom, comes home from school in tears. Most of his class has been invited on a weekend trip—except him. Leah does what many of us instinctively try first: “It’s not a big deal; we can do something fun,” she says, offering distraction, a bright tone, reassurance. But nothing shifts. Tom withdraws even more. Then she tries something else.

Think of your romantic partner, if you have one. Why do you love them? I mean, what are your reasons for loving this particular person? Why do they love you?

As odd as these questions might seem, you might be surprised by how often they come up. But many of us have difficulty explaining the reasons why we love someone.

I regularly speak with parents who are simply trying to prepare their children for a world that can be overwhelming, confusing, and, at times, frightening. They're doing their best to equip them with every possible skill — from mindfulness to assertiveness — often in an effort to manage their own anxieties or to protect their children from the struggles they themselves once faced.

There’s a reason skilled psychotherapists pay attention to every voice a client brings into the room and make sure they’re not favouring one over the other. It’s not enough to focus only on the hopeful, forward-looking part—the side that wants to change and move on—while ignoring the parts that feel stuck, ashamed, hesitant, or afraid. And the reverse is just as unhelpful.

These days, emotional maturity is one of the most talked-about qualities in relationships. Scroll through dating profiles or listen to conversations about dating, and you’ll hear people saying they’re looking for someone emotionally mature, or wishing their partners would learn to be.

Now that I can’t seem to escape social media posts about “AI therapy,” it feels like the right time to write about a few of the problematic aspects of this trend, and to clear up some of the misinformation floating around. This isn’t another negative take on AI, nor is it a contribution to the fear-driven debates that tend to dominate the AI conversation.

Why does heartbreak still feel so intense, even months after the relationship is over? Why does it leave you feeling like the ground has shifted beneath you?

A lot of people find themselves wondering, “It’s not like someone died, so why does it hurt this much?”

Trigger warnings are everywhere. University lectures, Netflix dramas, social media captions: “The following content may trigger emotional distress.”

And research reflects this growing presence. A study with German university students found 40% had seen peers demand trigger warnings, and 58% had encountered them in lectures.

In 2015, author and educator Parker Palmer delivered a powerful commencement address at Naropa University—a speech I highly recommend watching if you haven’t already. 

Among his six pieces of advice to the graduates, his final point stood out for me: 

We’ve all heard it: “Just accept them as they are!” It’s as if love demands we either embrace every quirk or secretly wish they'd change their more... frustrating traits. But real love doesn’t live at either extreme. Acceptance and expectations for change can co-exist.

Comparison is present in pretty much everyone’s life. If you’ve ever watched someone crush a work presentation and wondered why you don’t have it all together, scrolled through social media and felt some inadequacy, overheard someone mention their salary at a family gathering and felt a bit of envy, or been inspired by a friend’s effortless workout routine, welcome to being human.

When I was a grad student, I was terrified to start my first therapy sessions under supervision. The idea of sitting across from someone in pain and trying to help—effectively and ethically—felt like being thrown into deep water without a life vest.

After one particularly disheartening session, I was convinced I wasn’t cut out for this profession.

I’ve had so many conversations about giving up with friends, family, and students. Years ago, even mentioning it carried a stigma. It wasn’t something you admitted you wanted out loud let alone doing it. But lately, people are speaking more openly about their urge to give up. Sometimes it’s a job, a relationship, a habit, or the clutter piling up in the house. And sometimes, it’s life itself.

People change but that change can come with fear. People begin to unlearn old habits and experiment with new ways of being. They start responding to problems differently, forming deeper connections, and making decisions with greater intention. But as they step into this new version of themselves, they also find it unsettling, even terrifying.

Nobody wants to suffer, yet somehow, we find ourselves in the same painful situations over and over again. We repeatedly fall into relationships that mirror old wounds, sabotage our own progress, invite unnecessary hardship, replay past traumatic experiences, or instinctively shy away from happiness.

In The Dyer’s Hand and Other Essays, poet Wystan Hugh Auden offers an interesting perspective on self-criticism:

To keep his errors down to a minimum, the internal Censor to whom a poet submits his work in progress should be a Censorate.

Growth isn’t a new idea. For the ancient Greeks, especially Aristotle, it was the foundation of living a good life. Aristotle’s concept of eudaimonia—often translated as flourishing—was about living in harmony with your highest virtues. Similarly, Confucius' theory of self-cultivation emphasises that individual…

We’ve created a world where we push away what makes us most human. Emotions are dismissed as inconvenient. Vulnerability is twisted into weakness. Detachment from others is glorified. Independence has become a badge of honour, as if needing no one is the ultimate measure of success.

Anger is a tricky emotion. It can fire us up to stand our ground, right a wrong, or push for change. But it can also take over, leaving us drained, regretful, or stuck in a cycle of resentment.

In one entry from her Journal of a Solitude, published in 1973, poet and writer May Sarton wrote: