The Diagnosis Dilemma

A woman sits with a notebook and pen, listening to a man seated across from her in a bright, modern room.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the strange relationship we have with mental health diagnoses. We reach for them when we’re trying to make sense of ourselves, and often find relief from giving a name to our experience. But too easily, these labels and definitions can become identities. 

A clear diagnosis can be life-changing. An accurate diagnosis can be life-saving. But I think acceptance of these labels and their positive aspects should live alongside healthy skepticism of the diagnostic system itself. Considering diagnoses within the sociocultural context in which they’re derived can help us avoid turning these tools into weapons against ourselves.

The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual (DSM)—that thick clinical text that gives us our official mental health labels—is as politically influenced as it is clinical. Consider that homosexuality was listed as a mental disorder in the DSM until 1973. Responding to a strong push from LGBT+ activists, the council of psychiatrists that decide on  diagnosis voted for it to be removed.

This should remind us that what we consider disordered is always, at least in part, a reflection of who holds power and what serves the status quo. The DSM may offer us some sort of map, but we need to remember who drew it and what they were trying to preserve.

Is it psychosis, or is it a spiritual breakthrough that our culture has no container for?

Is it deep sensitivity moving through a world that demands numbness, or is it emotional instability?

Is it wide-eyed clarity seeing things as they actually are, or is it depression?

These aren’t rhetorical questions; they’re real distinctions that matter. Instead of being quick to pathologize, I wish we could instead get curious. Because the truth is, behind many DSM diagnoses, there’s a history of trauma—be it personal, historical, ancestral, or institutional. What we call illness may just be the manifestation of unintegrated pain revealing itself as “symptoms.”

Looking through a critical lens at the diagnostic system we’re meant to subscribe to really begs the question: Who is served when we pathologize our pain?

When we turn suffering into disorder—locating the problem inside the person rather than in their circumstances, their relationships, or the systems they’re trying to survive—what are we protecting? And who are we protecting it for?

The truth is, all human behavior exists on a spectrum. The difference between “normal” and “disordered” often comes down to degree, duration, and deviation from an imaginary standard of normalcy and health. A standard that’s based on a White, male, middle-class baseline of stability and privilege that many people never have access to. Anyone who doesn’t fit that standard gets diagnosed, labeled, Othered. Their reasonable responses to unreasonable circumstances get reframed as disorder.

So, what’s there to do with this awareness? My hope is that we’ll use it to start approaching diagnoses as tools for empowerment and self-advocacy, rather than self-definition.

A diagnosis can help you understand how you struggle. It can point you toward resources, connect you with others who share similar experiences, and help you communicate with care providers about the support you need. It can validate that what you’re experiencing is real. But it shouldn’t become who you are.

You are not your diagnosis. You are a whole person moving through a complex life, carrying histories both personal and collective, responding to a world that is often hostile to sensitivity, to difference, to the full spectrum of human experience. And that complex, extraordinary human experience could never be defined by a 5-digit code.

 

We’re Living Different Moments—At the Same Time

A young woman wearing a hooded coat and knit scarf stands on a wet city street at night, with buildings and streetlights in the background.

The end of the year and holiday season can be a complicated time. In a culture that romanticizes this season, it’s easy to feel pressured to act or feel a certain way. And that pressure can blind us to the important truth that while we’re all in the same season, we’re not living the same moment.

We’re all experiencing it differently, even as we move through it together.

We’re all taking turns passing through the many dimensions of being human.

When I’m in my darkest hour, your deepest dream might be coming true. When I’m indulging in a joyful holiday gathering, you might be quietly enduring the season with a shattered heart.

This isn’t a flaw in the system. It is the system.
It’s what it means to be alive alongside others who are living their own experience.

This time of year carries an expected emotional tone. It sets us up to compare—either comparing our experience to someone else’s, or comparing our reality to our ideas about how things should be. Those comparisons can leave us pressured, disconnected, lonely or ashamed. But the reality is, there’s no single emotional storyline for this time of year.

Maybe you’re being told this is a time to be grateful, but you’re grieving.
Maybe everyone around you is celebrating, and you’re just trying to get through the day.
Maybe your family gatherings will feel warm and lovely, while someone else’s will reopen old wounds.

One of the healthiest things we can do during a tender season like this is make room for it to be what it is—raw, messy, or entirely mundane. And to release the internal pressure that makes us forget we’re each having a unique experience in every moment.

Recognizing this invites empathy and open-heartedness—toward others, yes, but also toward ourselves. It loosens the stories about what should be happening or what it’s supposed to feel like.

Letting ourselves be where we are, without forcing or judging, makes it easier to let others be where they are. When we offer ourselves permission and grace, we naturally extend it outward. And when we release the assumption that things should look or feel a certain way—for ourselves or anyone else—we move closer to the simple truth that everyone is living their own story.

When Life Stops Making Sense

Elderly man in a suit and red tie wearing headphones, smiling with eyes closed, dancing with one arm raised against a plain background.

There are times in life when the ground beneath us shifts, and the things that once felt steady or certain suddenly stop making sense. When the certainties we once trusted in no longer apply, and the familiar meanings we’ve built our lives around begin to unravel, we find ourselves in a space that can feel both empty and full of possibility.

This is what I think of as a crisis of meaning—the crossroads where I so often meet the people I have the privilege to walk with in therapy.

Crises of meaning test the strength of the frameworks that help us understand who we are and why we’re here. They ask: What can you still hold onto when everything else feels uncertain? Sometimes, the answer is: nothing. Sometimes, bouncing back and rejoining life as usual is no longer an option.  

At their most useful, crises of meaning are portals. They break us open so we can grow into new, more expansive versions of ourselves. At their most damaging, they can cause us to collapse inward, disengaging from others, losing interest in what once mattered, or losing trust in life itself.

These crises don’t only emerge from catastrophe. They often arise through life’s natural turning points: aging, parenthood, loss, illness, or major decisions that alter our path. They can also appear quietly, when the life we’ve built no longer feels like our own.

I’ve lived through one myself. When I battled cancer a decade ago, while first building my practice, the meaning I’d built my life around began to crumble. I realized that I was being pressed to reexamine what I valued, how I worked, and what I gave my energy to. That experience reshaped the foundation of how I live and work today. Because of that crisis of meaning, I envisioned and then designed a more grounded, spacious, and integrated life. 

Over the years, I’ve gotten to walk with many people through their own similar transformations. There was the new mom who realized her high-paying executive job, once a marker of success, had begun to feel completely soulless. Her crisis of meaning pushed her to walk away from her career and build a life centered on what she found truly nourishing: her creative passions and her family.
There was also the middle-aged man, haunted for decades by his fear of dying, who had a near-death experience and emerged from it with a newfound peace. His crisis led him to get certified as a death doula, accompanying others at the end of life with compassion and grace.

Creating meaning is one of our most defining human capacities. We can’t help but interpret our experiences, weaving stories that help us understand who we are and what our lives are about. When the meaning that once steadied us no longer fits, we’re given a chance to look again—to revise the story with greater honesty and intention. That’s what makes these moments so profoundly transformative.

A crisis of meaning can be a rupture, yes; but it can also be a rebirth. It can serve as a reminder that meaning isn’t something we find out there; it’s something we continually create. We can learn to meet life’s unexpected turns with curiosity rather than resistance. And we can  recognize that when things stop making sense, it may be life’s way of calling us closer to what’s real.

The Real Cure for Loneliness

Two hands, one with lighter skin and one with darker skin, reach toward each other against a pastel sky background.

There are certain themes that tend to emerge, again and again, in the therapy room—universal, consistent topics that people share with me in the safe and sacred container that therapy provides. One of those themes, which I’ve noticed becoming increasingly more common, is loneliness.

Every day, I bear witness to the deep pain of feeling isolated in a highly connected world. This paradox—being surrounded by people and provided with endless opportunities to be constantly in touch, yet feeling profoundly alone—is something I encounter quite often. And, perhaps, that should come as no surprise. Loneliness, after all, is one of the quiet plagues of our culture. A riddle we must solve if we’re to progress, collectively, in a healthy and prosperous direction. But to begin solving it, we have to understand what’s at the heart of it.

Carl Jung once said that “loneliness does not come from having no people about one, but from being unable to communicate the things that seem important to oneself, or from holding certain views which others find inadmissible.”These wise words get to the root of the issue: what we’re lacking isn’t connection—it’s honesty. It’s transparency. It’s an authentic way of relating to one another that helps us feel seen and understood. This isn’t a soft or sentimental matter; it’s a profound human need that we must learn to tend to.

Over the years, I’ve worked with countless individuals who are surrounded by people yet feel painfully isolated. Social media influencers with hundreds of thousands of followers who can’t name a single trusted friend. Social butterflies who can always be spotted surrounded by people, but who don’t feel truly seen or understood by any of them. Individuals with big families who can’t remember the last time they had a meaningful conversation. Their quiet confessions of feeling cut off from connection reveal the truth in Jung’s words. Their testimonies underscore that the cure for loneliness isn’t connecting with more people; it’s connecting more honestly and meaningfully with the right people (i.e., people who are willing to show up honestly and intentionally, too). 

Perhaps my favorite part of being a therapist is getting to keep authentic company with other human beings—to engage in the kind of real, honest connection that heals. Therapy isn’t a substitute for other relationships; it’s its own sacred relationship. A place to practice this kind of honest relating that, when carried out into the world, has transformative potential.

It isn’t easy to be ourselves in a world that’s constantly telling us who we’re supposed to be. It’s incredibly vulnerable—and, therefore, incredibly brave—to walk through the world authentically and make earnest attempts at connection. But if nearly 20 years of doing therapy have taught me anything, it’s that bringing ourselves to take these kinds of relational risks pays off tremendously. It’s a balm for loneliness, a salve for the sad and scary feeling of being unseen.

Because ultimately, we’re all just trying to be known.
To be met where we truly are, not where we pretend to be. When we dare to show ourselves honestly—to speak what matters, to listen deeply, and to stay present with one another in truth—we dissolve the illusion of separateness. We remember that we belong.

We’re All Just Walking Each Other Home

Two people sit facing each other with their hands pressed together, palms touching, in an authentic therapy session against a blurred green background with foliage patterns.

I’ve been feeling a lot of gratitude lately for having cut my teeth as a therapist in the world of addiction treatment. Before starting my own practice, I spent several years as a therapist and eventually Clinical Director at a treatment facility rooted in both Eastern spiritual traditions and Western existential therapies. It was an energetically potent place, and the years I spent there were intense and impactful.

I learned quickly that there could be no pretense with the clients I worked with there. With them, there was no hiding. I had to show up as my most genuine and centered self, because if I didn’t, they’d catch on instantly, and they wouldn’t give me—or the sessions I was scheduled to have with them—the time of day. It was intimidating to encounter such raw and sometimes rejecting energy every day. But even then, in the midst of that emotional intensity, I felt profound love and gratitude for those clients. They were honest, aware, often highly sensitive and intelligent people whose deep pain provoked deep honesty—and whose courage continues to inspire me. Their call to authenticity is one I’m fortunate to have followed.

The lessons I absorbed in those years have stayed with me ever since. I draw upon them daily. They taught me that good therapy isn’t about the theories or techniques I learned in school, but about the genuine human encounter. No posing. No patronizing. No pretending to have it all figured out. Instead: settling my body, dropping my walls, showing up in my humanness. Opening my mind and heart. Emptying myself of preconceived notions.

What’s been on my mind this month is how essential genuineness, honesty, mutual respect, and kindness are to my work. Above all, my goal as a therapist, coach, and guide is to bring my whole self to every encounter. From my radically honest clients in treatment, I learned to stop caring about whether I’d be liked or accepted. I’m not everyone’s flavor—and that’s ok. What matters is showing up with a whole heart—not as an expert, but as a fellow human—remembering, always, what Ram Dass said: that “we’re all just walking each other home.”

The more I trust myself as a professional and understand myself as a human, the more essential it feels for me to show up open and unguarded in the therapeutic exchange. To do that, I have to stop taking myself so seriously and remember that my job was never to teach, change, or fix. It was always to witness. To be fully present. To help carry. To offer space and grace. To walk alongside others navigating this life for the first time—never forgetting that I’m doing the very same thing.

And this, I think, is the gift of the work: it keeps me honest. It calls me back again and again to my own humanness, reminding me that what heals isn’t expertise, but presence. The same is true outside the therapy room, too—whether we’re guiding or being guided, teaching or learning, we’re really just meeting each other in our shared humanity. And when we can do that—show up real, tender, and true—we give each other the one thing we most need: the feeling that we aren’t alone.

 

When Bodies Decide

In 2020, in the midst of the pandemic lockdown and acutely aware of the collective trauma we were all experiencing in real time, I made the decision to get trauma certified. For a licensed therapist, getting trauma certified largely means learning to speak the language of the body—learning to discern between how the body speaks in situations of safety and how it speaks in situations of threat. Although I didn’t get much practice with this back then—since I seldom interacted with other humans—I’ve gotten plenty of it since then. 

And one of the most striking insights from my deepening somatic awareness is this: everywhere I go lately, I notice how our bodies seem to be coding each other as unsafe. I see how quickly we stiffen, turn away, or brace for impact in the presence of others. I notice how common it’s become to seek safety through dissociation, numbing, and hyper-individualization. 

We come by it honestly, of course. In a world that’s increasingly complex and feels persistently dangerous, our nervous systems do what they must do to cope. Turning inward, pulling away—it’s a safety-seeking behavior that’s become endemic to our culture. Modern life has trained us to view each other as threats. We’re conditioned to be suspicious, to prepare for battle, or to freeze and disconnect. 

While this response is understandable, it’s also tragic—because we’ve never needed to lean into each other more than we do now. Nobody can claim to have clear solutions for the many problems that plague our species. But I think it’s fair to say that no matter how we move forward, we’ll be far more successful if we do it together. We’ve never been more disconnected, yet we’ve never needed each other more. At a time when community care is essential, this tendency to tense up around each other is a barrier in the way of necessary change.

So, how do we correct course? How do we begin to turn back toward each other?

It starts with re-training our bodies. When our bodies can relax around one another, we can begin to engage. Get curious. Open up. Lean in. We can begin to see each other as safe rather than dangerous—as same rather than Other. This isn’t some flighty kumbaya fantasy; it’s fundamental to the changes our world needs. It’s a matter of survival. None of us are well until all of us are well. None of us are free until all of us are free.

Of course, we must acknowledge that for many people, hypervigilance isn’t just a conditioned habit; it’s a justified response. Marginalized communities, those who have experienced oppression or violence, people whose bodies have been historically targeted—their nervous systems may be accurately reading real danger in certain contexts. The work of collective healing requires both individual nervous system regulation and the dismantling of systems that make some bodies genuinely unsafe. We need both personal practice and structural change. And change in both of those directions starts at the same point. 

It starts with each of us being with our own bodies in ways that create the conditions for connection. And it starts very simply. When you’re around other people, practice breathing into your belly; dropping your shoulders; releasing your jaw; opening and relaxing your hands; feeling your feet on the ground. Feel your chest open, like your body is ready to face the world and welcome connection. Look up. Look around. Make eye contact. Smile.

Just as our distrust and disconnection start in the body, so does the opposite. As each of us comes into deep presence with our own bodies, we start creating the conditions for us to be deeply present with each other. And with that, we begin turning the tide—toward healing, toward connection, toward walking forward together.

 

Repurposing Our Tools for the Tasks at Hand

More than ever, we need to be reaching for the tools that help us cope—the ones that steady us through turbulence and guide us back to center. But no matter how robust our toolbox may be, challenging times will challenge us to upgrade it. To replace, refine, or expand our go-to strategies.

A tool that once helped you regulate may no longer meet you where you are now. The practices that grounded you in calmer seasons might feel inaccessible—or even agitating—when the pressure is turned up.

And so the question becomes: Are the tools we’re reaching for helping us connect or helping us avoid?

Sometimes we need tools that support our process—tools that allow us to move through rather than move around difficulty. They help us meet the moment with breath, presence, and self-compassion. They don’t promise to erase the pain, but they help us stay with ourselves until we’re on the other side of it.

Other times, we reach for tools that numb us, distance us, or momentarily distract us from the overwhelm. And to be clear—there’s no shame in that. We are human, after all, and being human is a turbulent, often overwhelming experience. That’s under the best of circumstances. When things get rocky, we deserve compassion for simply trying to make it through.

To stay present, embodied, and emotionally dialed-in when life feels impossibly heavy can feel like the work of superheroes. And in many ways, it is. But it’s also human work—hard, sacred, and worthwhile. With the right tools and enough practice, it’s within reach.

So ask yourself:
What’s in my toolbox now?
And is it all still working for me the way it once did?

Maybe meditation once brought you calm, but now feels overwhelming.
Maybe sitting in stillness triggers more activation, and you need to move—run, dance, shake, breathe—instead.
Maybe the cannabis consumption that was once a way to deepen your sense of connection has become a way of dulling your emotional edges.
Maybe the ice baths that once invigorated your system now leave you more dysregulated than soothed.
Maybe journaling used to help clarify your thoughts, but now you need to sort through them with a therapist instead.

What once worked well might not work now. And that’s okay.

Nobody gave us a manual for this level of existential intensity. There was no onboarding process for how to live through so much, so fast, for so long. We deserve forgiveness, grace, and deep tenderness as we try to cope in an increasingly demanding world.

And we also deserve to believe in our capacity.
To rise to the moment.
To stay with what we feel.

To look instead of turning away

To choose tools that don’t just get us through life, but bring us more fully into it.

To not just survive, but to be enlivened.
To stay present for what matters.
To show up for the people we love.
To participate, however we can, in the world we want to build.

Facing Our Shadows, Finding Ourselves

In the early 1900s, psychoanalyst Carl Jung introduced an idea that has since become central to our modern understanding of human psychology: the shadow. According to Jung, the shadow represents the parts of ourselves we are unwilling to look at, own, or accept. It consists of unconscious material that holds the darkest aspects of who we are, while also containing a form of intelligence that can be highly beneficial and instructive as we navigate our lives.

As a therapist, the concept of the shadow is essential to the conversations I have every day. It works consistently behind the scenes in my mind, shaping how I understand the choices, struggles, and patterns my clients bring into our therapeutic conversations. And often, it shows up more overtly in our work together, as we deliberately explore shadow material to deepen their self-understanding and unravel ways of thinking and behaving that are no longer serving them.

On a personal level, shadow work has been a foundational part of my own self-inquiry and transformation. It has taken me on a decades-long journey of learning to shine light on my psychological blind spots and integrate the parts of myself I had suppressed, shunned, or cast into darkness. Through shadow work, I’ve learned to love myself in a fuller, truer way—and to move beyond the deep shame that once ruled my life and shaped my decisions.

As someone who regularly does this work and facilitates it for others, I can attest to both the power and the demands of shadow work. It requires emotional courage to face what has long been hidden from view. It takes strength to hold up the mirror and see the darkness that lives within. But the brave act of shining the light of awareness into the shadows can be profoundly transformative. Among many things, shadow work can help us:

  • Become more self-aware
  • Identify repressed emotions
  • Reveal unconscious beliefs
  • Reclaim disowned parts of ourselves
  • Tap into intuition and inner creativity
  • Break unhelpful patterns of thinking, behaving, and relating
  • Reduce inner conflict
  • Deepen our relationships
  • Expand our emotional capacity
  • Grow self-confidence and self-love
  • Integrate painful or traumatic past experiences

If the idea of shadow work intrigues you, you might begin by exploring a few questions like these:

  • What emotions do I have the hardest time sitting with?
  • What traits or qualities in others do I most strongly reject?
  • What do I have the hardest time forgiving myself for?
  • How would I rate my self-esteem, based on how I behave in my life and relationships?
  • What are my core values—and do my actions, relationships, and environment reflect them?

There are many ways to engage with your shadow. And now that shadow work has entered the mainstream, you’ll find no shortage of books, journals, and tools to support your exploration. Still, working with a therapist or guide can be invaluable—someone who can help you see what you might not be able to on your own. That’s how the shadow works, after all.

However you choose to begin, if you commit to this journey, you’ll discover not only clarity and growth—but also a deeper, more integrated version of yourself waiting on the other side.

 

Meeting Yourself Where You Are: The Ever-Changing Nature of Energetic Capacity

Lately I’ve been thinking about how important it is to recognize our energetic capacity—not only to respect and work within it, but also to be able to expand it from a place of understanding.

This reflection has come from my own experience of noticing the many ways that my capacity has shifted over time—especially since becoming a mother. In some ways, I’ve grown immensely. I can manage much more than I once thought possible. I can move through emotional landscapes that used to overwhelm me. I can show up with presence and steadiness in moments that once might have made me crumble.

And yet, in other ways, I find that my capacity has decreased. I have less tolerance for certain kinds of noise or stimulation. I get more easily rattled. I fatigue more quickly. My bandwidth for decision-making or multitasking can wear me down. My nervous system, once able to override signals of depletion, now demands that I pay attention to it. 

This is the paradox many of us live with, especially when moving through seasons of deep change. We grow stronger and more sensitive at the same time.

What I’m learning through the experience of observing my own changing capacity is that if I’m not being mindful, I easily slip into trying to contain things the way I used to. I expect myself to show up as I always have—to do, hold, and handle everything I once could. To apply the same tools that once worked well for me, and to do it with the same stamina I could rely on in the past. But doing this causes damage. It stretches me beyond what’s sustainable and floods me with frustration. 

As I get more acquainted with this current version of myself, I’m seeing that some of the practices and strategies that once supported me no longer serve in the same way. What once grounded me might feel too effortful. What once energized me might leave me overstimulated. With time, I’ve come to understand that this isn’t a failure—it’s a signal that something within me has changed. And that change deserves to be met with care. Because what it means to be well is a deeply personal question, and the answer is always evolving.

This is what makes true self-care so complex—and also so beautiful. It isn’t a checklist or a fixed routine. It’s a living, breathing relationship with yourself. One that asks:
Who am I right now? What do I need in this moment? What helps me return to myself?

There is wisdom in noticing when our capacity has changed. There is healing in allowing ourselves to need new things. There is power in letting go of what no longer fits.

We don’t need to be who we once were to be well.
We just need to be honest about who we are now—and willing to care for that version of ourselves with tenderness and intention.

 

Stability in the Storm: Finding Your Inner Anchor

There’s no question that the times we’re living in are harder than we’d like them to be. The collective energy feels tense, uncertain, and uncomfortable. Everywhere we turn, we see evidence of our world in a massive state of flux. Under these circumstances, the future often feels like a big question mark. It’s easy, in the face of such instability, to feel shaken or overwhelmed. And that’s exactly why it’s so essential to find a source of stability that doesn’t depend on external circumstances aligning just right. But how do we do that? Where do we turn? The first place is inward. Because when life isn’t offering us the stability we crave, it’s time to create our own. 

The thought of having to generate stability from within might seem daunting, especially in such exhausting times. But the practice of it doesn’t have to be. In fact, developing a deep inner anchoring process is a series of several small and manageable steps. There are three key ways we can find internal stability and anchor ourselves: through our bodies, our minds, and our lives. Each of these provides a powerful foundation we can lean on, no matter how unpredictable, chaotic, or destructive things may get around us.

Anchor Through the Body

The first step in navigating times of instability is learning to regulate our nervous systems and connect with sensation. Grounding ourselves in our physical bodies helps us stay anchored in the present moment. When we’re centered, we become like bamboo bending in the wind—resilient in the face of life’s turbulence. Practices that encourage us to return to our bodies help us shift out of self-protective states like fight/flight/freeze—responses that kick in when we feel threatened or overwhelmed. As we soothe our nervous system through bodily practices, fear and anxiety naturally begin to subside. We become more responsive and less reactive to the world, seeing and processing things more clearly, and approaching life with curiosity, flexibility, and calm.

Anchor Through the Mind

Once we’ve cultivated a sense of stability in our bodies, we can turn our attention to our minds. Our thoughts play a significant role in either grounding us or throwing us into even more unmanageability. Challenging unhelpful thinking patterns, practicing problem-solving, and exploring new perspectives are all ways we can create mental anchors. When the world feels uncertain, engaging intentionally with our thoughts and beliefs can make all the difference. By doing this, we gain the power to shift our mindset and find stability within, no matter what’s going on around us.

Anchor Through Our Lives

The final frontier of internal anchoring is found in how we live our daily lives. When the world feels chaotic, it can be incredibly stabilizing to focus on what’s directly within our control. This might mean cultivating meaningful relationships, getting involved in our communities, or making choices that align with our deepest values. In uncertain times, being purposeful and intentional about how we show up in our own lives offers an anchor of its own. Working on this level helps us stay grounded through the instability we experience in the larger world, offering us direction and peace in the process.

The Power of Internal Anchors

Whether we’re anchoring through our bodies, minds, or lives, we stand to gain immense stability by turning inward instead of relying on outside circumstances. In times of upheaval, this is not only the best thing we can do; it’s the only thing we can do to find a real sense of sturdiness. By cultivating our internal anchors, we give ourselves the foundation we need to weather the storms that come our way.