therapy
Focused on the relationship between doctor and patient. Therapy is the process of self-discovery.
Why Decluttering is a Journey - Not a One Time Fix
Beyond our stuff, material goods and possessions; there is more to decluttering our homes and personal space than simply asking the question as to whether or not each and every item in your home sparks joy. I am in awe of Marie Kondo and other minimalists who share and inspire in a noisy world of obsession and wanting more, more, and more each and every single day; yet the items in our home can cut beyond skin deep. The key is to also take inspiration from Jerry Seinfeld, and not allow our homes to be garbage processing centres, the latter of which anyone reading this article does not want. Read on.
By Justine Crowley2 days ago in Psyche
Decision Fatigue and the Hidden Cost of Constant Choice. AI-Generated.
Modern life is defined by choice. From the moment we wake up, we are faced with decisions: what to wear, what to eat, which messages to answer first, how to structure the day, what to buy, what to avoid. While choice is often framed as a form of freedom, psychology reveals a more complicated reality. Too many decisions, even small and seemingly harmless ones, can exhaust the mind. This phenomenon is known as decision fatigue, a subcategory of cognitive psychology that explores how repeated decision-making depletes mental energy and affects judgment, impulse control, and emotional regulation.
By Kyle Butler5 days ago in Psyche
Situational Depression: Causes, Symptoms, Recovery, and How to Heal After Life’s Challenges
Life does not always go as planned. Unexpected events such as academic failure, job loss, relationship breakdowns, or family conflicts can deeply affect emotional stability.
By Daily Motivation5 days ago in Psyche
How Anxiety Traps the Brain in Survival Mode
I lived for five years like I was being chased by a predator no one else could see. My heart raced at traffic lights. My hands trembled during normal conversations. My body prepared for catastrophe every waking moment. The threat wasn't real—but my nervous system didn't know that. It started with the panic attacks. The first one hit me in a grocery store on a Saturday afternoon. One moment I was reaching for cereal, the next my heart was pounding so hard I thought it would explode. My vision tunneled. My chest constricted. I couldn't breathe. I was certain—absolutely certain—I was having a heart attack and would die right there in aisle seven. I abandoned my cart and stumbled outside, gasping, shaking, convinced these were my final moments. Twenty minutes later, I was fine. Physically fine. The ER doctor confirmed it: "Just a panic attack. Your heart is healthy. You're okay." But I wasn't okay. Because my brain had just learned something terrifying: danger could strike anywhere, anytime, without warning. And if it could happen in a safe, ordinary grocery store, it could happen anywhere. From that day forward, my brain decided I was never safe. And it's been trying to save my life ever since—from threats that don't exist. The Alarm That Won't Stop After that first panic attack, my nervous system essentially got stuck with its finger on the panic button. My body remained in a constant state of high alert, scanning every environment for potential danger, interpreting normal sensations as emergency signals, preparing to fight or flee from threats that weren't there. Heart rate slightly elevated? Must be another heart attack coming. Feeling dizzy from standing up too fast? Something's wrong. You're dying. Chest feels tight? Can't breathe. This is it. Every normal bodily sensation became evidence of impending catastrophe. My brain, trying to protect me, had become my greatest threat. The anxiety spread like a virus through my life. I stopped going to grocery stores—too dangerous, too triggering. Then restaurants. Then anywhere crowded. Then anywhere that wasn't home. My world shrank to the size of my apartment, and even there, I wasn't safe from my own nervous system. I couldn't explain to people what was happening. "There's nothing to be anxious about," they'd say, and they were right. Objectively, logically, rationally—there was no real danger. But my brain wasn't operating logically anymore. It was operating from a part far older and more primitive than logic—the part that keeps you alive when there's actual danger. Except it couldn't tell the difference between real danger and perceived danger. To my nervous system, it was all the same threat. Understanding the Trap My therapist drew me a diagram of the brain—the prefrontal cortex up top, responsible for rational thinking, and the amygdala buried deeper, responsible for fear and survival responses. "In a healthy system," she explained, "these work together. The amygdala detects potential threats and alerts the prefrontal cortex, which assesses whether the threat is real. If it's not, the cortex tells the amygdala to stand down." She drew an arrow showing the communication loop. Then she drew a big red X through it. "In anxiety disorders, especially after panic attacks, this communication breaks down. The amygdala keeps sending danger signals, but the prefrontal cortex can't override them. Your thinking brain knows you're safe, but your survival brain doesn't believe it. So you stay stuck in survival mode—fight, flight, or freeze—even though there's nothing to survive." That explained everything. Why I could logically know I was safe but still feel terrified. Why rational thinking didn't make the anxiety go away. Why my body responded to a text message or a phone call like it was a life-threatening emergency. My brain had essentially lost the ability to feel safe. The survival system was running the show, and it only knew one setting: danger. Life in Survival Mode Living in constant survival mode is like being a soldier who never comes home from war. Your body maintains battle-ready status 24/7, flooding your system with stress hormones, keeping your muscles tensed, your senses heightened, your mind scanning for threats. Except there's no battle. There's just normal life—work, relationships, errands, conversations. But your body treats it all like combat. I couldn't sleep because my brain interpreted relaxation as vulnerability. I couldn't eat normally because my stomach was perpetually clenched. I couldn't focus because my attention was constantly pulled toward potential threats—a weird look from someone, an unexpected sound, a change in plans. My memory started failing. Not surprising—when your brain is focused entirely on survival, it doesn't bother filing away mundane information like where you put your keys or what someone said five minutes ago. I was exhausted constantly, but in a way that sleep couldn't fix. This was nervous system exhaustion—the kind that comes from your body being in crisis mode month after month with no relief. My immune system weakened. I caught every cold, every flu. Chronic inflammation showed up in bloodwork. My body was cannibalizing itself, burning through resources to fuel a state of emergency that never ended.
By Ameer Moavia5 days ago in Psyche
My Experience on Silencing Autism
I wanted to do an educational article on something that has recently come up in my attention. I was having lunch with some of my peers - and one of the ladies spoke briefly about someone she provides care for: "You know, so-and-so still is so loud and needs to learn to not make everyone miserable just because she is miserable." The so-and-so is an autistic individual and I wanted to say something then, but bit my tongue.
By The Schizophrenic Mom6 days ago in Psyche
My Father Wound Is the Size of a Melon
I’d bricked up the ache I had felt from my father’s lack of love or concern for me, a long time ago. I drank the pain away and morphed it into a sexy, vivacious, and fun-loving party lover. It’s true, I did lose days to heartache and hangovers, but that’s Yin and Yang, right?
By Chantal Christie Weiss6 days ago in Psyche
The Night I Understood Football
I didn’t go to the game expecting hope. It was a cold November Thursday. My brother had just lost his job. My nephew hadn’t spoken in days after a school incident. The world felt heavy, and the last thing I wanted was to watch a mismatch—our hometown team facing a dynasty that hadn’t lost in months.
By KAMRAN AHMAD8 days ago in Psyche
