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The Longing Gaze: Cultural Voyeurism and the Therapist’s Dilemma

As therapists are meant to be the ones who know how to sit still. We talk about containment, presence, the sacred value of the here-and-now. But even we—guardians of the analytic frame—are not immune to the guilty pleasure of gazing at the unfamiliar. A slow scroll through Turkish hammams, a documentary on Siberian reindeer herders, the oddly calming sight of Japanese forest monks sweeping temple grounds. There it is again: cultural voyeurism.

But this isn’t just a phenomenon for the distracted or spiritually bored. It seeps into the consulting room, in subtler, more complex forms. Here, it often takes the shape of cultural countertransference—a therapist’s unconscious emotional response to the cultural identity, background, or narrative of the client. We may believe we are listening neutrally. In truth, we are sometimes watching, silently mapping our own fantasies, anxieties, and projections onto the cultural material our clients bring.

A client speaks of their arranged marriage, and we feel a flutter of concern—but is it empathy or quiet judgment? Another shares stories from their war-torn childhood, and we feel awe, even envy at the perceived depth and drama of their life—what does that say about our own? Or a client from a vastly different cultural background sits before us, and we notice a subtle leaning in—curious, captivated. But who, in that moment, are we truly attuning to?

Cultural voyeurism, when unexamined, can sneak in under the guise of ‘therapeutic curiosity’. We may tell ourselves we’re bearing witness, but at times we are consuming—intellectualising, aestheticising, or even exoticising a life we don’t fully understand. The danger isn’t just that we get the client wrong—it’s that we miss the chance to see ourselves clearly in the process.

Yet, ironically, this very tension can be generative. Cultural countertransference, when held in awareness, becomes not a contaminant but a clue. It can reveal where our own identities are underdeveloped, or where we hold assumptions so baked-in they masquerade as universal truth. It might even uncover our own latent longings—those quietly simmering desires for rootedness, spirituality, family, rebellion—that the client’s story stirs.

This is where therapy becomes not just a craft but a moral art. To do justice to our clients’ cultural worlds, we must do the ongoing work of recognising the lenses we’re looking through. We must notice where we become tourists in the consulting room—delighted, overwhelmed, suspicious or sentimental—and ask, always with gentleness: what is this stirring in me, and why now?

So cultural voyeurism isn’t something to banish in shame. Rather, it asks to be noticed, named, and metabolised. The fantasy of the “other” can, paradoxically, bring us closer to ourselves—if we’re brave enough to sit with the discomfort and the complexity. After all, isn’t that what therapy, at its best, has always done?

Further Exploration

For those interested in reflecting more deeply on the themes of cultural voyeurism and countertransference, here are a few evocative works that mirror and expand on these ideas:

🎬 Film

1. The Sheltering Sky (1990, dir. Bernardo Bertolucci)
A haunting and visually rich adaptation of Paul Bowles’ novel, exploring the spiritual disorientation of Western travellers in North Africa. A cautionary tale of romanticised otherness, where longing and loss become indistinguishable.

2. Baraka (1992)
A wordless, global odyssey that invites both awe and discomfort. Revered for its beauty, it also raises provocative questions about the act of watching itself: how we aestheticise cultures we don’t inhabit, and what we risk not seeing.

📖 Books

1. The White Album by Joan Didion
Didion observes a culture in collapse with icy clarity, often standing at the edge of her own experiences. Her essays are masterclasses in ironic detachment and offer a kind of clinical countertransference in literary form.

2. Strangers to Ourselves by Rachel Aviv
Aviv profiles individuals grappling with mental illness across different cultural frameworks, subtly illuminating how identity, diagnosis, and story are entangled. A powerful reminder of the therapist’s role in interpreting—and sometimes misinterpreting—difference.

Why We’re Addicted to the Unpredictable: The Psychology of Variable Reward

We may think of ourselves as rational creatures, drawn to what is safe, consistent, and predictable. And yet, some of our most persistent habits — checking our phones every two minutes, endlessly scrolling through social media, gambling, chasing emotionally unavailable lovers — seem to defy any logic.

Behind these seemingly irrational behaviors lies one of the most powerful psychological mechanisms ever studied: the variable reward system.

The Slot Machine in the Mind

In the 1950s, behavioral psychologist B.F. Skinner made a curious discovery. When he placed pigeons in a box and rewarded them with food pellets each time they pecked a button, they learned quickly and pecked only when hungry. But when the rewards came unpredictably — sometimes after one peck, sometimes after five, sometimes not at all — the pigeons went wild. They pecked obsessively, sometimes thousands of times, desperate for the next elusive reward.

Human beings are not so different.

Apps, games, notifications, online dating, even some relationships — they all operate on a similar principle. Sometimes we get a dopamine hit: a like, a match, a message, a small win. Sometimes we get nothing. And that unpredictability fuels a kind of psychological hunger far more intense than if the rewards were steady.

The Power of Uncertainty

Variable rewards are so effective because they mimic a deeply ancient survival logic. In the wild, rewards were rarely consistent. You didn’t know when the next berry bush would appear or whether the rustle in the bushes meant danger or dinner. Unpredictability kept our ancestors alert and engaged. Those who stuck around the longest — watching, waiting, trying — often had the best chance of survival.

Today, that same wiring is hijacked by systems designed not to nourish us, but to retain our attention.

This is why we stay glued to our screens long after we’ve stopped enjoying them. Why we wait for that one sweet message from someone who mostly disappoints us. Why we keep checking the news, email, or likes, hoping this time it will feel different.

Emotional Gambling

Beyond technology, variable rewards can manifest in relationships. The emotionally distant partner who occasionally shows affection. The parent who flips between praise and criticism. The boss who unpredictably shifts between warmth and coldness.

We become addicted not to the person, but to the possibility of reward — to the fantasy that the next time might be the time we are truly seen, valued, or loved. The unpredictability creates a sense of urgency and stakes, and paradoxically, deepens our emotional investment.

Towards Awareness and Control

This isn’t a call to banish unpredictability from our lives — that would be impossible, and perhaps undesirable. But we might strive to recognize when we are being held hostage by a system of unpredictable rewards, when our attention and energy are being siphoned by something designed not to fulfill us, but to entrap us.

Awareness is the first form of liberation. When we understand the psychology at play, we can begin to reclaim agency. We can pause before we check the phone. Step back from the relationship that thrives on emotional confusion. Design our environments with more intentional, predictable sources of satisfaction: meaningful conversations, nature, deep work, art.

We may not escape the pull of variable rewards entirely. But we can learn to see them for what they are — not signs of true value, but symbols of a psychological trick, one we evolved to heed, and now must consciously navigate.

The most enduring satisfaction rarely comes from unpredictability. It comes from the quiet consistency of things that don’t need to dazzle us to matter.

The Lost Art of Humility: A Quiet Strength in a Noisy World

In an era of personal branding, viral opinions, and relentless self-promotion, humility seems to have become an anachronism—something quaint, even suspicious. It is hard to imagine a social media influencer celebrating their own modesty, or a politician admitting their uncertainty. Humility, once a prized virtue, has been edged out by a culture that rewards confidence, visibility, and certainty. But in losing touch with humility, we may have also lost touch with something deeply nourishing—an essential ingredient of wisdom, emotional resilience, and genuine connection.

The Psychology of Humility

At its core, humility is not about self-effacement or false modesty. The truly humble person is not someone who underestimates themselves but rather someone who has a realistic and flexible view of their own importance. Psychologists describe humility as the ability to accurately assess one’s strengths and weaknesses while remaining open to new perspectives. It is a kind of cognitive flexibility—what Jean Piaget, the Swiss developmental psychologist, might have called the ability to accommodate new information rather than clinging rigidly to existing schemas.

This flexibility is invaluable in relationships. Research in social psychology suggests that humble individuals are better at resolving conflicts because they are less likely to take criticism personally. They listen rather than react. They are willing to revise their opinions when faced with better arguments. In contrast, arrogance—often mistaken for strength—is in fact a brittle and anxious state, requiring constant validation and defensiveness.

Humility as an Antidote to Anxiety

In his book The Denial of Death, cultural anthropologist Ernest Becker argued that much of human behavior is driven by an unconscious fear of insignificance. We craft grand narratives about our lives, seeking success, influence, or legacy as a way of defying the terror of our own mortality. But this can become exhausting. The burden of being ‘someone’—of constantly proving oneself—can lead to chronic stress, comparison, and dissatisfaction.

Humility offers a different path. It allows us to accept that we are small in the grand scheme of things, but that smallness is not a flaw—it is part of the beauty of existence. The humble person does not need to be the best, the loudest, or the most certain. They find peace in being part of something larger than themselves, whether that is nature, history, or the quiet rhythms of ordinary life.

The Courage to Be Humble

To be humble is not to be weak. It requires courage to admit ignorance, to listen rather than assert, to allow the ego to soften rather than rigidify. It requires a kind of quiet confidence—one that does not need to prove itself at every turn.

Perhaps this is why the ancient Stoics saw humility as a form of wisdom. Marcus Aurelius, the philosopher-emperor, wrote in his Meditations that we should remind ourselves daily of our own fallibility, our limited perspective, and the vastness of what we do not know. This is not an exercise in self-diminishment but in freedom. When we relinquish the need to always be right, to always be impressive, we become lighter, more open, and—paradoxically—more truly ourselves.

In the end, humility is not a posture but a practice. It is a way of being that allows us to move through the world with grace, to learn without fear, and to connect without pretense. And in a time when everyone is clamoring to be seen, the humble person may discover a quieter, deeper kind of presence—one that needs no validation, only understanding.

I Sing the Song of the Weary

I have walked the measured steps,
softened my voice, made myself small,
a shadow slipping through the world’s great machine—
O! How they love me when I am quiet!
When my hands are folded, when my anger is tucked away,
when I laugh at the right time, nod in the right places.

I have borne the weight of my name,
a name they trip over, twist, reshape—
as if my tongue should learn theirs first,
as if my story should be their mirror.
I have swallowed my storms,
pocketed my rage like a stone,
and still they ask, “Why do you look so tired?”

I see the gaze—measured, weighing, laced with quiet conquest,
the casual supremacy of those who have never shrunk to fit.
But I do not bow, do not break—no, I gather the heat in my chest,
turn my fury to fire, my hate to a hammer,
and forge from it something sharper, something strong.

But no more!
I will stretch my limbs, take up space,
let my voice ring out like a bell,
a song not trimmed to fit their ears.
I will not sand myself smooth,
not dim my fire, not bow my head—
No! Let them be the ones to step aside,
to make room, to listen, to bear the weight of me.

Gaslighting, Self-Reflection, and the Warping of Truth

Human interactions are complex, shaped not just by what is said but by what is implied, by power imbalances, by histories both personal and collective. In psychotherapy, this complexity is taken as a given. We are trained to believe that every dynamic is co-created, that conflict is never one-sided, and that our unconscious minds are always at play in shaping our experiences. This can be a valuable perspective—one that encourages deep self-awareness—but it can also be used against us. In the wrong hands, it becomes a way of distorting reality, of making someone doubt what they know to be true.

During my training as a therapist and later in setting up in private practice, I found myself in an environment that, in theory, should have fostered reflection and mutual respect. Instead, there was often an air of quiet superiority, a hierarchy of knowledge that placed certain voices above others. Some colleagues, usually those who fit the expected mold—white, self-assured, fluent in the language of intellectual authority—seemed to move through this space with ease. Others, myself included, had to work harder to be heard. There was something unspoken but deeply felt about who was seen as credible, whose perspectives were taken seriously.

As a woman of color in a predominantly white field, these dynamics were impossible to ignore. And yet, I was encouraged to turn inward, to ask myself: How am I contributing to this? In psychotherapy, we are trained to question our own assumptions, to consider how our histories shape our perceptions. But what happens when that process is used to undermine rather than illuminate? The message was subtle but clear: if I felt excluded or dismissed, it was a reaction stemming from my own unconscious conflicts rather than from anything real in the external world. And so I found myself questioning my instincts, doubting my own experiences.

This is how gaslighting works—not through outright denial, but through a gradual erasure of certainty. It leads you away from the truth by making you believe the distortion is coming from within you rather than from the world around you. Psychoanalysis, particularly the Kleinian tradition, has a history of pushing this idea to an extreme. In the Aeon article The Therapist Who Hated Me, Michael Bacon describes his experience with a Kleinian analyst who seemed unable—or unwilling—to acknowledge anything outside of his internal world. Her interpretations were relentless, reducing everything to unconscious conflict, until it became impossible for him to trust his own sense of what was happening. This kind of approach, taken too far, can be profoundly destabilizing. It teaches people to turn against their own perceptions rather than sharpening them.

This same pattern of distortion plays out on a much larger scale in the rise of fake news and political gaslighting. Just as in the therapy room, where a patient may be led to doubt their own experiences, entire populations are now being encouraged to mistrust their own eyes, their own memories. We are told that events we have witnessed did not happen the way we recall. Historical realities are rewritten. Groups of people—immigrants, racial minorities, activists—are blamed for crises they did not create, while those in power remain beyond scrutiny. The problem, we are told, is not what is actually happening, but the way we are interpreting it.

This is the true danger of gaslighting, whether in personal relationships, in therapy, or in public discourse: it doesn’t just distort the facts—it makes us doubt our own ability to recognize them. It fractures our trust in ourselves. And once that trust is broken, we become far easier to manipulate.

The answer is not to reject self-reflection, but to be discerning about how it is used. Yes, we shape our own experiences, but that does not mean external realities can be ignored. Yes, our unconscious minds play a role in how we see the world, but that does not mean everything is subjective. In therapy, in politics, in life, we must resist the temptation to explain away what is uncomfortable at the cost of truth itself. Because once we start to believe that reality is whatever those in power say it is, we lose not just our footing, but our sense of self entirely.

Too cool for Skool.

There was a time when education was seen as a gateway to self-improvement, a mark of aspiration, and even something admirable. To be thoughtful, well-read, and informed was considered a virtue. Today, however, a troubling shift has occurred. Being intellectual or well-informed is no longer “cool” in certain spaces, especially in the fast-moving, hyper-reactive world of social media. Instead, we are witnessing the rise of an alarming anti-intellectual culture, where wit is mistaken for wisdom, confidence trumps knowledge, and memes or tweets are seen as sufficient substitutes for careful thought.

The platforms shaping our collective consciousness—Twitter, Instagram, TikTok—reward brevity and boldness over nuance and depth. The most shared content isn’t the one that presents a balanced view or provokes deep thought but the one that elicits an instant reaction: a laugh, a gasp, or, most commonly, outrage. In this environment, intelligence, which thrives on time and contemplation, has become unfashionable. Complexity feels like an inconvenience when a meme or a 10-second clip can make us feel as though we already “get it.”

This shift has led to a profound misunderstanding of what intelligence or education truly means. Many now equate being educated with being elitist, or worse, boring. It’s no longer aspirational to spend time grappling with difficult ideas or to admit that you don’t know something and want to learn. Instead, the prevailing message seems to be: it’s better to appear certain, even if you’re wrong, than to admit doubt or take the time to seek understanding. Social media thrives on this certainty. It encourages performance rather than inquiry and rewards those who can deliver their message in the fewest words, regardless of whether those words are thoughtful or accurate.

Education, in its truest sense, demands something profoundly unglamorous: effort. To understand a complex political system, a philosophical idea, or a historical event takes time. It requires patience, a willingness to read, reflect, and resist the temptation to settle for easy answers. But in a culture increasingly addicted to speed, where attention spans are shrinking, this kind of effort is no longer celebrated. Instead, it’s often mocked. How many times have we seen someone who values books or deeper learning dismissed as pretentious or irrelevant? How often is “nerd” or “bookworm” still used as an insult, as though knowledge were a weakness rather than a strength?

The consequences of this cultural shift are deeply troubling, particularly in the realm of politics. Democracy relies on an informed public, yet many of us now form our political views based on sound bites, headlines, and the emotional punch of a viral post. Politicians, too, are adapting to this world, trading substance for spectacle, knowing that a pithy slogan or an incendiary tweet will resonate more than a detailed policy proposal. The result is a dangerously shallow political culture where decisions of immense complexity are reduced to binary choices: us versus them, good versus evil, right versus wrong.

What we are losing, above all, is the ability to think critically. Critical thinking is not glamorous or instant; it requires us to question our assumptions, entertain opposing views, and accept that some issues may not have simple solutions. It requires us to resist the allure of easy answers and take the time to seek out the whole story. But when social media rewards speed and certainty, this kind of deliberate, open-minded inquiry is often left behind.

We must ask ourselves why we’ve let being uninformed or dismissive of education become, in some circles, a badge of honor. Why isn’t it cool to be curious, to admit what we don’t know, or to spend time learning simply for the sake of understanding? Education, properly understood, isn’t about accumulating facts or winning arguments—it’s about cultivating a richer, more empathetic, and more nuanced view of the world. In a time when misinformation is rampant, when propaganda is flourishing, and when trust in expertise is eroding, the ability to think deeply and critically is not just important—it’s urgent.

We need to reframe what we admire. Being informed should be aspirational again. Reading the long article, delving into the dense book, listening to the expert, and engaging with ideas that challenge us—these should be acts of quiet rebellion against a culture that glorifies speed over substance. Education must once again be seen as a mark of strength, not weakness; of independence, not elitism. In a world that increasingly values appearances over authenticity, making the effort to truly understand is one of the most radical—and essential—things we can do.

Should your therapist have an interest in politics?

The question of whether therapists should engage with politics has grown more urgent in recent years. The world outside the consulting room has become louder, more divisive, and increasingly polarised. The rise of misinformation, the mainstreaming of extremist ideologies, and the deepening fractures in civic discourse have all conspired to push the boundaries of what we consider “political.” Inevitable, this environment seeps into the therapy room and into the words and silences of patients and the quiet reflections of therapists. To some, staying politically neutral in such a climate feels almost complicit. To others, stepping into political territory risks alienating the sacred space of therapy from its true purpose: to focus on the psyche, not the state.

Therapy is, by its nature, an intimate and private encounter. It is one of the last refuges from the noise of the world. People come to therapy not to hear their therapist’s worldview but to understand their own. The patient’s pain, conflict, or confusion must take center stage. Even the most well-meaning political commentary from a therapist risks turning therapy into something didactic or morale. It may subtly push a patient toward compliance with the therapist’s values, rather than helping them excavate and inhabit their own. For some practitioners, this traditional boundary is sacrosanct: it ensures that the work remains rooted in the patient’s inner life, not in the fleeting urgencies of external events.

But to believe that politics can ever be fully excluded from therapy is, perhaps, naive. Politics is not confined to governments or elections; it is woven into the fabric of everyday life. A patient’s anxiety about their future may be entangled with economic insecurity. Their feelings about intimacy and identity may reflect the influence of systemic oppression. In such cases, to ignore the political dimensions of their experience risks misunderstanding the forces that shape their suffering. The therapeutic process may feel incomplete, even hollow, if it fails to acknowledge the patient’s lived reality in its entirety.

Yet, for therapists to directly engage with politics raises thorny questions. Whose politics? In a world where truths are contested and misinformation proliferates, what authority does a therapist have to declare what is real or right? The therapist’s role is not to guide a patient toward a particular ideology but to foster their capacity for self-awareness and independent thought. To impose a political narrative risks replicating the very dynamics of control and disempowerment that therapy seeks to undo.

To be or not to be…the rise of the AI therapist.

The rise of AI therapy marks a fascinating and bittersweet development in the way we approach mental health. These tools, often driven by algorithms, chat interfaces, and programmed empathy, offer something profoundly useful: accessibility. For many, the barriers to traditional therapy—cost, availability, or even the intimidating nature of opening up to another human—are significantly reduced. AI therapy is always available, nonjudgmental, and, most importantly for many, affordable. At a time when mental health challenges are on the rise, and traditional services are stretched beyond their limits, this technological solution seems to meet an urgent need. But there is an undeniable hollowness to it.

Human connection, in its truest form, cannot be replicated by machines. Therapy has never been just about tools or techniques; it has always been about the warmth of a listening ear, the subtle reassurance of another’s presence, and the dynamic interplay of emotions between two people. AI, no matter how advanced, is fundamentally detached from this realm of shared vulnerability. It can simulate concern, but it cannot feel it. It can mimic empathy, but it cannot truly care. And while this might be enough for some, for others it underscores an aching absence.

The affordability and availability of AI therapy reveal a more troubling truth: the systems meant to support mental health are underfunded and overwhelmed. When people turn to machines to ease their pain, it is not always because they prefer it, but because there are few other options. The rise of these tools serves as a stark reminder that the demand for mental health services far outstrips the resources currently available.

AI therapy may feel like progress, but it should not become a substitute for meaningful investment in human care. As the mental health crisis grows, touching people across all age groups, cultures, and circumstances, the need for robust, accessible, and empathetic services becomes more pressing. The fact that so many rely on machines to feel heard is not just a testament to technological innovation—it’s a call to action. It reminds us that while we may marvel at the advancements of AI, the deepest form of healing still lies in human connection, and this cannot be outsourced or automated.

AI therapy, in all its convenience, is a useful bandage. But it will never replace the irreplaceable: the delicate, imperfect, and profoundly healing experience of being truly understood by another human being. This moment in history invites us to ask not how technology can fill the gaps, but how we can prioritize and expand the systems that offer what no machine ever will—care that is real, messy, and alive.

The curse of the Christmas Fairy.

The Christmas Fairy’s Curse

Every December, many of us are involuntarily cast as the Christmas Fairy. It’s a role that feels both magical and oppressive, full of glittering promise yet weighed down by thankless effort. You’re the one who orchestrates the tree, the gifts, the meals, the joy. It’s your quiet labor that keeps the season alight for others. And yet, there’s a part of you that seethes.

Because let’s be honest: nobody really notices the fairy. Sure, they admire the tree you trimmed and marvel at the feast you sweated over. But they don’t see you. The unseen hours. The endless decision-making. The Herculean effort of holding together the thin fabric of holiday cheer while everyone else simply consumes it.

You tell yourself this is what love looks like—selfless, generous, unseen. But love’s shadow is resentment, and you can feel it creeping in. You resent the expectation that you should carry the emotional weight of everyone else’s joy. You resent how easily the spirit of Christmas collapses into a performance of perfection: the perfect meal, the perfect gift, the perfect day. You resent that nobody pauses to ask, “Are you okay? Are you tired? Are you happy?”

This quiet bitterness can turn us into the female Grinch—the one who doesn’t just resent Christmas but resents what it demands of us. The smiling self-sacrifice. The unspoken rules about who plans, who organizes, who cares the most. And what’s worse? You resent yourself for resenting it. Isn’t Christmas supposed to be about giving? Shouldn’t this make you feel good?

But here’s the truth: no fairy can work her magic on an empty tank. If you’re feeling frayed, bitter, or unseen, it’s because you’ve become a casualty of Christmas idealism. This myth that joy requires perfection, that love is invisible effort, and that rest is indulgence.

So how do we survive Christmas when it feels more like a burden than a blessing?

We start by letting go of the fantasy. A perfect Christmas is a lie we tell ourselves to avoid discomfort. Joy can survive the burnt cookies. Love isn’t diminished by simpler gifts. And people, if they love you, will understand when you set limits.

Carve out small islands of peace in the storm. Say no when it’s too much. Take a walk. Sit quietly by the tree for five minutes before everyone wakes up. Do something—anything—that reminds you Christmas doesn’t have to be earned through sacrifice.

The Christmas Fairy deserves to enjoy the magic too.

The Allure of ADHD: Identity, Legitimacy, and the Search for Meaning

In the 21st century, we are living through an unprecedented explosion of labels. A seemingly boundless array of diagnostic identities now saturates the cultural landscape, from anxiety disorders to neurodivergence. Among these, ADHD—Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder—has emerged as a particularly seductive label, not merely as a medical diagnosis but as a lifestyle, a cultural movement, and, increasingly, an identity.

The notion that “anyone who desires an ADHD diagnosis can receive it” provokes both reflection and unease. Is ADHD an over-extended category, capturing too many human eccentricities? Or is the hunger for this label a symptom of something deeper, something existential, that the label itself cannot truly satisfy?

A label like ADHD offers a sense of certainty in an otherwise chaotic world. We live in an age where traditional structures of meaning—religion, family, community—have fractured or disappeared. In their absence, diagnostic identities emerge as seductive replacements. To say “I have ADHD” is to find a place in a fragmented world, to explain one’s struggles, quirks, and perceived failures in a vocabulary that feels external and scientific. It is to borrow the language of medicine to narrate one’s life story.

Yet herein lies a subtle danger. For many, the diagnosis of ADHD is less about genuine medical need than about legitimacy. It becomes a way of saying, “I am not lazy or scattered; I am misunderstood.” The diagnosis absolves and protects. It shields its adherents from the painful but liberating truths about their own agency: that life’s struggles are often messy and that meaning, far from being prescribed, must often be forged.

At its heart, ADHD—like all psychological constructs—is an abstraction. It exists not as a physical entity, like a broken bone or an inflamed organ, but as a constellation of behaviors interpreted through the lens of culture. What constitutes “inattention” or “hyperactivity” depends heavily on the society observing it. A child labeled ADHD in a Western classroom might be celebrated as inventive or free-spirited in another context.

This cultural relativity challenges the legitimacy of ADHD as a diagnosis. The boundaries of what counts as “disordered” are so elastic that they can encompass almost anyone who wishes to be included. As awareness campaigns and TikTok videos extol the quirks of ADHD—“You’re impulsive, creative, chaotic!”—the label risks becoming less a medical diagnosis and more an aspirational archetype. In this light, the diagnosis itself becomes problematic. If ADHD is infinitely elastic, its legitimacy wanes. It risks reducing the complexity of human personality to a checklist. Worse, it risks turning the human longing for understanding and self-acceptance into a medicalized commodity.

Despite its dubious scientific boundaries, ADHD has taken root in the soil of modern identity. Online communities flourish with memes, self-help guides, and confessional essays about what it means to “live with ADHD.” For many, the label offers a sense of belonging that transcends its clinical origins. But building an identity on a label as fluid as ADHD is like constructing a house on quicksand. It invites dependence on an external narrative, one that could shift or collapse at any moment. The risk is that people may cling to the label not because it reflects a deep truth but because it offers a convenient escape from harder, more ambiguous questions: Who am I? What drives me? Why do I struggle?

The allure of ADHD—and diagnoses like it—is not illegitimate. It speaks to a profound human need: the need to feel seen, understood, and accepted. But the answer to this longing does not lie in labels alone. A diagnosis can offer temporary clarity, but it cannot provide ultimate meaning.

True self-understanding requires confronting the parts of ourselves that resist easy categorization. It requires acknowledging that life’s difficulties often have no neat solution, that our identities are dynamic and complex, and that no diagnosis, however empowering, can capture the full richness of who we are. In a world awash with labels, it is tempting to seek refuge in them. But perhaps the greater challenge—and the greater freedom—lies in stepping beyond them. For while a diagnosis like ADHD may explain certain struggles, it should never define the soul.

The Pelicot Rape Trial: A Testament to Bravery in the Face of a Culture of Concealment

At the heart of the Pelicot rape trial is not just a story of injustice, but one of extraordinary courage. The woman at the center of this case—unshaken by the weight of public scrutiny—made a choice that few could endure: she allowed the hearing to be public. In doing so, she shattered the veil of silence that has long protected men accused of such crimes, refusing to let them operate in the shadows of a society that often shields them.

This was an act of defiance and clarity. In many cases of sexual violence, the burden falls overwhelmingly on the victim to protect their privacy, even at the cost of justice. But by stepping into the light, this woman redefined the narrative. She refused to allow her experience to be reduced to whispers behind closed doors or brushed aside by a culture too comfortable with secrecy. Her decision ensured that the men involved were seen for who they are—neither hidden by anonymity nor shielded by institutional protections.

Bravery as a Catalyst for Accountability

Her bravery serves as a reminder that the public exposure of such cases is not an act of spectacle but a necessary tool for accountability. It forced society to confront the humanity of the victim and the stark reality of the system that often minimizes or erases their suffering. By making the trial public, she dismantled the power of invisibility that enables so many perpetrators to evade accountability.

This act of courage extends beyond her own case; it sets a precedent. It reminds us that silence is complicity, and that to speak out—even when it feels like the whole world is against you—is to resist not just individual wrongs but the entire culture of misogyny that enables them.

Exposing the Culture of Concealment

The decision to make the trial public also forces us to confront the dynamics of power and secrecy that allow systemic injustices to thrive. Historically, the stories of survivors have been buried—hidden by institutions, dismissed by communities, or drowned out by narratives of male innocence. When hearings are closed, or when victims are silenced by the weight of shame or societal pressure, perpetrators are shielded from accountability.

But this trial has torn that shield away. It has exposed not just the actions of the men involved but also the societal structures that protect them. The public nature of the hearing means that the world is watching, and with that comes a demand for transparency and justice that cannot be ignored.

A Symbol of Resistance

Her decision is not just an act of personal bravery; it is an act of resistance against the forces of silence that uphold patriarchy. It is a declaration that the truth will not be hidden, no matter how uncomfortable or inconvenient it might be for those in power.

By making her story public, she has given voice to countless women who have been silenced and reminded the world that the fight for justice is not just a private battle—it is a collective one. Her courage inspires us to confront the uncomfortable truths that allow misogyny to persist, and it challenges us to create a culture where survivors are not shamed for their bravery but celebrated for it.

Her story reminds us that change does not come from hiding in the shadows. It comes from stepping into the light, even when it burns. And in doing so, she has become a beacon for those who refuse to be silenced.