Category: Uncategorized

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.

Exploring the Oedipal Shadows in Apple TV’s Drama ‘Disclaimer’: A Psychotherapeutic Perspective

Ive had a period of time off work and have been binge watching a lot of TV, hence another review from a therapy perspective.

Apple TV’s drama Disclaimer, directed by Alfonso Cuarón and starring Cate Blanchett and Kevin Kline, dives into a labyrinthine psychological landscape that plays upon memory, guilt, and the stories we tell ourselves to survive. Set against the backdrop of a suspenseful, noir-inspired world, the story follows Catherine Ravenscroft (played by Blanchett), a successful investigative journalist who faces disturbing revelations when a book eerily similar to her own life and past traumas unexpectedly appears. This series unfolds like a psychoanalytic session, forcing Catherine—and the viewer—to confront the buried emotional forces that shape our lives and haunt our dreams.

Beneath the surface of Disclaimer’s thriller elements lies a powerful undercurrent of Oedipal tension, a theme rooted in Sigmund Freud’s early insights into the deep, often unconscious, familial ties that define our psyches. In particular, Disclaimer taps into the painful but universal experience of the Oedipus complex: the lingering, unresolved attachments to our parents that influence, haunt, and perhaps even entrap us throughout our lives. As we follow Catherine’s journey, the series provides a potent exploration of what it means to wrestle with the forces of family, fate, and self-concept—an internal battle that resonates with any viewer familiar with the emotional dynamics of psychotherapy.

The Oedipal Themes of Disclaimer: A Repressed Story

Freud’s Oedipus complex speaks to a primal, usually unconscious desire in children to possess the parent of the opposite sex and view the same-sex parent as a rival. While the classic Freudian model often emphasizes young children’s early-life attachments, Disclaimer takes a more nuanced, adult approach to this concept, where the “Oedipal” struggle is not with parental figures directly but with figures who echo parental roles and wield haunting psychological influence.

Catherine, though a respected figure in her professional life, becomes childlike and vulnerable as she reads the mysterious book—experiencing it as a powerful mirroring of her past. Kevin Kline’s character embodies the role of a “ghostly parent” in the narrative, an enigmatic figure from Catherine’s past who seems to hold a disturbing power over her present. Their dynamic illustrates an adult version of the Oedipal confrontation: Catherine’s challenge is not simply to escape from this shadowy figure’s influence but to contend with how deeply she has internalized aspects of him in her own psyche.

In therapy, this process is often described as working through “introjections,” the unconscious psychological absorption of figures who influenced us. As Catherine reads the disturbing story and feels exposed by it, the series subtly explores how we might carry internal versions of our early attachments (parental or otherwise) that can shape us without our awareness. These internalized figures, like ghosts of our early lives, continue to govern our self-concepts, behaviors, and emotions, long after the actual relationships are gone.

Trauma, Guilt, and the Unconscious Mind

Disclaimer presents Catherine’s repressed past not merely as a series of “events” to recall but as emotional material that has structured her identity and her way of perceiving the world. She is an emblematic character for any of us who have had to compartmentalize painful memories to get on with life. Her work as a journalist, investigating secrets and mysteries in the outside world, can be seen as an outward displacement of her own unresolved internal secrets. This resonates deeply with psychotherapy, where what we choose to see—and, crucially, what we choose to avoid—often becomes a central theme.

As in Freud’s model of the unconscious, Catherine’s defenses are mobilized against painful memories and feelings that she has long denied. The arrival of the book challenges these defenses, forcing her into a confrontation with parts of herself she has repressed. In a sense, she is both the child longing for closeness and the “prohibited” figure bearing unresolved guilt, mirroring the guilt and anxiety often associated with Oedipal conflicts.

The series, like many therapeutic journeys, suggests that healing requires bringing these shadowy, split-off parts of ourselves into the light. For Catherine, it is not only about “solving the mystery” but about encountering her own vulnerability and reclaiming parts of her story that she has avoided, perhaps for years. Disclaimer poignantly portrays this as a painful but ultimately transformative process, not unlike the process of therapy, where we learn to integrate these repressed memories and emotions into a coherent sense of self.

The Stories We Tell Ourselves: Memory as Narrative

Memory is not simply factual in Disclaimer; it is fluid, interpretive, and, at times, unreliable. Catherine’s attempts to reconcile her recollection of events with what is presented in the mysterious book reflect the psychotherapeutic notion that memory is often shaped as much by what we want to believe as by what actually happened. The act of storytelling becomes both a tool of self-preservation and self-betrayal—an attempt to create a coherent narrative that, in protecting us, also traps us.

In Disclaimer, Catherine’s journey shows us that our stories can liberate us when they reflect an honest grappling with the full range of our emotions and experiences. However, when used defensively, these narratives risk hiding deeper truths, protecting us from pain but also perpetuating it. Her discomfort with the book reflects this painful duality. The mystery uncovers that the boundaries we create between ourselves and others, between truth and memory, are as vulnerable as any defense.

In therapy, we learn that part of growth and healing involves rewriting our life stories with awareness and honesty, even when it means facing uncomfortable truths. Like Catherine, we are all called to move beyond the stories we initially crafted to survive and risk creating new ones that accommodate the complexities of our inner worlds.

Conclusion: Disclaimer as a Mirror of Self

In Disclaimer, Catherine’s journey is as much about solving an external mystery as it is about facing her own psyche. The show becomes a mirror, holding up questions that any of us might encounter on a therapeutic journey: What shadows of our early attachments haunt us? What parts of our stories remain hidden, and at what cost? And are we willing to confront the full, messy reality of who we are, rather than the curated versions we present to the world?

Much like psychotherapy, Disclaimer offers no easy resolutions. Instead, it invites viewers to reflect on their own unconscious material—the hidden influences and the unresolved emotional conflicts that shape our lives from the shadows. The series, in its subtle unfolding, underscores a profound truth of the therapeutic process: growth often begins with discomfort, and healing often begins with a willingness to embrace the parts of ourselves we least want to acknowledge.

Disclaimer is ultimately a study in how, to free ourselves from the prison of the past, we must face not only what happened to us but how we internalized it, how we chose to remember it, and how we might begin to tell ourselves a different, truer story. It is an invitation to enter our own “unwritten books,” guided not by the need to evade our shadows, but by the courage to integrate them.

Who alone suffers, suffers most in the mind.

Who alone suffers, suffers most in the mind.

These are the words of King Lear, from Shakespeare and are deeply relevant to the show Mr Loverman on the BBC.

Mr Loverman, adapted from Bernardine Evaristo’s 2013 novel, has quickly garnered attention for its nuanced exploration of race, sexuality, and intergenerational cultural identity. Set against the vibrant backdrop of London, the drama unpacks the life of Barrington Jedidiah Walker, a 70-something Caribbean man whose outwardly traditional life masks his decades-long romantic relationship with his childhood friend Morris. Through Barrington’s journey, Mr Loverman confronts themes that remain pressing in contemporary British society—homophobia, immigrant identity, and the complex ways in which masculinity is defined within Afro-Caribbean communities.

At its core, Mr Loverman addresses the social constraints of Caribbean masculinity. Barrington’s struggle to live openly as a gay man in a community that largely rejects non-heteronormative lifestyles highlights the cultural pressure many individuals face. His marriage to Carmel, though fraught with resentment and secrets, reflects the painful compromises often made to adhere to societal expectations. As Barrington navigates his relationship with Morris while upholding his responsibilities as a father and husband, the drama sensitively illustrates the impact of societal repression on personal identity.

Evaristo’s original novel, and the adaptation, emphasize how the generational divide exacerbates these tensions. Barrington’s daughters, part of a more progressive, multicultural Britain, serve as a contrast to his own internalized fears and anxieties. They represent a generation that is generally more accepting and openly supportive of LGBTQ+ rights, a stance that is deeply at odds with Barrington’s lived experience of homophobia and societal judgment. The interactions between Barrington, Carmel, and their daughters reflect the changes in social attitudes across generations and emphasize the importance of empathy and open-mindedness within families.

Politically, Mr Loverman addresses systemic issues that continue to affect Britain’s Black Caribbean community, such as racism, cultural stereotyping, and the lasting effects of colonialism. Barrington’s journey subtly critiques the British immigration system and the lack of acceptance many first-generation immigrants feel, both from British society and, at times, within their own communities. The character of Barrington himself embodies the tension between assimilation and cultural preservation. His background, like that of many immigrants from the Windrush generation, represents the shifting dynamics of what it means to be British in an increasingly multicultural society.

Further, by presenting an openly gay Black man who challenges both British and Caribbean cultural norms, Mr Lovermancan be seen as pushing the conversation forward about the inclusivity of LGBTQ+ rights within immigrant and diasporic communities. It indirectly raises questions about the impact of homophobic policies in former British colonies and how colonial legacies influence attitudes toward sexuality within those communities. Barrington’s experience thus becomes a reflection of broader colonial hangovers, questioning the systems that continue to stigmatize non-heteronormative relationships.

Mr Loverman is a powerful exploration of identity, love, and resilience. It succeeds in translating Evaristo’s complex themes into a visual narrative that resonates with a diverse audience. Its exploration of sexuality within the Afro-Caribbean diaspora is refreshing and groundbreaking, especially given the ongoing societal pressures that often silence these stories. The show does not shy away from addressing uncomfortable truths, and in doing so, it fosters empathy and understanding.

Ultimately, Mr Loverman is more than just a drama about a closeted gay man; it is a commentary on the ways we define and defend identity, and the courage it takes to be one’s true self in a world resistant to change. Through Barrington’s journey, the show highlights the need for acceptance and the importance of carving out spaces where all facets of identity—cultural, sexual, and personal—can coexist harmoniously. For audiences, it is a compelling reminder of the ways that societal progress often hinges on individual acts of bravery, love, and self-acceptance.

https://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episodes/m0023h93/mr-loverman

When bullies hide in plain sight.

In our minds, the figure of a bully is often crude and obvious—someone who pushes their way through life with overt aggression, unmistakably hostile and unkind. But reality often paints a more complex, troubling picture. Many bullies don’t operate in this glaringly visible way. Instead, they slip into the background, camouflaging their manipulations and emotional harm under the guise of high moral standing and polished ethical personas.
This dynamic is especially insidious because it relies on one of our deepest human instincts—the desire to trust and follow those who appear virtuous. We naturally assume that someone who claims to be ethical must be acting in good faith. And yet, this can be the very cloak behind which some of the most toxic forms of bullying are concealed.
Nowhere is this more evident than in the therapy world.
Therapists, by the very nature of their profession, project an aura of deep care, responsibility, and moral wisdom. After all, these are individuals we entrust with our most vulnerable thoughts and experiences. We want to believe in their goodness because, in a sense, our healing depends on it. And yet, even in this supposedly safe and sacred space, the potential for subtle emotional manipulation and harm exists.
With the growing number of therapeutic modalities—each with its own complex jargon, certifications, and supposed benefits—the therapeutic landscape has become more cluttered and confusing. Anyone with a polished website and well-chosen credentials can appear to be an authority in mental health. Yet, not all therapists, despite their appearance of competence, are equally trustworthy or beneficial.
Some may project an air of superiority, rigid in their views, convinced that their method is the only “correct” way of doing things. Others may subtly undermine their clients, positioning themselves as morally or intellectually superior. This can leave a client feeling diminished, doubting their own instincts, or feeling perpetually at fault for not “progressing” in their therapy as expected.
The key danger here is that the harm isn’t obvious. In fact, many clients may continue to attend sessions for years without realizing the subtle emotional bullying at play. The therapist hides behind the mask of authority, and the client, seeking help, may unknowingly submit to an unhealthy dynamic, feeling at fault for not improving.
Choosing a therapist, then, is more than just selecting someone with impressive training and credentials. It’s about assessing the subtle relational dynamics. Does the therapist foster genuine empathy, or do they quietly push their own agenda? Do they maintain humility, or do they position themselves as having all the answers? And most importantly, do they empower their clients or leave them feeling smaller and more dependent?
As therapy seekers, we must sharpen our ability to see beyond appearances. Credentials matter, but so does the feeling of being seen and heard, of working with someone who recognizes our autonomy and fosters genuine growth.
In a world where bullies can hide in plain sight, it is a radical act of self-care to choose relationships—therapeutic or otherwise—that genuinely uplift rather than subtly diminish. True healing, after all, can only happen in the presence of deep trust and authenticity.

https://aeon.co/essays/my-dismal-years-in-psychoanalysis-with-melanie-kleins-disciple