Category: Emotional Wellbeing (Page 1 of 4)

Why We Absorb Other People’s Emotions

Have you ever walked into a room where someone was tense and suddenly felt tense yourself? Or finished a conversation with an overwhelmed friend only to realize that you were now carrying some of that same heaviness?

There is a psychological basis for this experience. Emotional contagion describes the tendency for emotions to spread between people through facial expressions, tone of voice, body language, and other interpersonal cues (Hatfield et al., 1994). This process can happen subtly, sometimes before we consciously recognize that another person’s emotional state is influencing our own.

Emotional responsiveness is an important part of human connection. It allows us to recognize distress, respond empathically, and understand one another. But being sensitive to another person’s emotions is different from assuming responsibility for them. When those boundaries become blurred, we may begin adjusting our behavior constantly to prevent another person’s disappointment, anger, sadness, or anxiety.

Family systems theory offers another useful concept: differentiation of self. Bowen (1978) described differentiation as the capacity to remain emotionally connected to others while maintaining one’s own thoughts, feelings, and sense of self. It isn’t emotional detachment. Rather, it allows us to say, in effect: “I can recognize what you’re feeling, care about what you’re experiencing, and still remain grounded in myself.”

The goal isn’t to feel less for others. It’s learning where their emotional experience ends and yours begins.

References:

Bowen, M. (1978). Family therapy in clinical practice. Jason Aronson. Hatfield, E., Cacioppo, J. T., & Rapson, R. L. (1994). Emotional contagion. Cambridge University Press.

Others’ Emotions Are Not Yours to Carry

Loving someone doesn’t require carrying what belongs to them.

Luisa cried the entire drive home. There had been no argument in the car. No dramatic scene. Just silence. Her husband stared out the window while she tried to make sense of what had just happened. The medical appointment had left them with more questions than answers. He had become frustrated with the physician, raised his voice, and directed much of that frustration toward the people trying to help him. By the time they reached home, Luisa found herself wondering if this was what the rest of their lives would look like.

Over the previous several months, life had changed quickly. Her husband was undergoing a series of medical evaluations after concerning test results, including changes found on brain imaging and laboratory findings that required additional procedures. More unsettling than the uncertainty itself was that his personality seemed to be changing. The man she had known for decades was becoming increasingly impatient, easily irritated, and at times uncharacteristically angry. Alongside all of this, Luisa found herself coordinating appointments, helping with legal and financial planning, supporting her adult children and grandchildren, keeping the household running, and quietly preparing for a future she wasn’t sure she was ready to imagine.

She loved him deeply. That wasn’t the question. The question was how to love someone who was suffering without slowly disappearing yourself.

As she described the appointment, she wasn’t angry that he was upset. She understood why he was upset. Anyone facing uncertainty about their health would likely experience fear, frustration, and grief. What hurt her was something different.

“He keeps taking it out on me.”

I told her something that might have sounded contradictory at first.

“You can express your anger, but it doesn’t have to be hurtful.” Those two ideas are often mistaken for one another. Pain and hurt are not the same thing. Fear and hostility are not the same thing. Grief and cruelty are not the same thing.

We often excuse hurtful behavior because we understand where it comes from. While understanding another person’s suffering can foster compassion, it does not require us to become the target of that suffering.

As we continued talking, another realization began to emerge. Luisa wasn’t only trying to help her husband through his illness. She was unconsciously carrying his emotional experience as though it had become her responsibility. She felt responsible for calming him. Responsible for anticipating his reactions. Responsible for protecting the family from his frustration. Responsible for making each medical appointment go smoothly. Responsible for holding everything together. That is an incredibly heavy burden for one person to carry.

Pauline Boss (1999) describes a form of grief known as ambiguous loss, in which someone is physically present but gradually changing in ways that leave loved ones feeling as though they are losing the person before them. Throughout our conversation, Luisa repeatedly described her husband’s behavior as “not him.” That simple phrase captured a grief many caregivers quietly experience. The person they love is still there, yet something about the relationship has already begun to change.

But another psychological process was happening alongside that grief. Family systems theorist Murray Bowen (1978) proposed that emotions naturally move through relationships. Anxiety rarely stays contained within one person. It spreads through couples, families, and entire systems. When one person becomes overwhelmed, others often begin carrying that emotional weight as well. Healthy relationships are not free from this influence, but they do require what Bowen called differentiation of self—the ability to remain emotionally connected without becoming emotionally fused. That was exactly what Luisa was struggling to do. She didn’t want to stop caring. She wanted to stop drowning.

At one point, she told me that when her husband became overwhelmed, she would often walk away for a while. She wasn’t abandoning him. She simply knew that if she stayed in the middle of the escalating emotion, she would eventually lose herself too.

I told her that I actually thought she was discovering something important. There is a difference between disengaging from conflict and disengaging from the person. Sometimes stepping away from an emotional storm is exactly what allows us to return with compassion instead of resentment.

As the session continued, something else caught my attention. Even after describing one of the most emotionally exhausting weeks she had experienced in a long time, Luisa talked about folding laundry for her grandchildren, cleaning the house, preparing meals, watching movies with her husband, and spending time with her children. She wasn’t doing these things because someone demanded them. She described them as things that helped her feel grounded—as small acts that reminded her life was still hers to live. That distinction mattered.

There is an important difference between doing something because life is controlling you and doing something because you are intentionally choosing how you want to live within difficult circumstances.

Research on emotional contagion has shown that emotions naturally spread between people who are closely connected (Hatfield, Cacioppo, & Rapson, 1994). We often absorb another person’s fear, sadness, or anger without even realizing it. Recognizing this tendency is not about becoming emotionally distant. It is about becoming emotionally aware. Awareness gives us the opportunity to pause before another person’s emotional state quietly becomes our own.

Near the end of our conversation, I found myself reflecting on something I often observe in therapy. Many people believe that loving someone means carrying whatever they are carrying. If they are anxious, we become anxious. If they are angry, we become angry. If they are overwhelmed, we convince ourselves we should be overwhelmed too. But perhaps love asks something different.

Perhaps love asks us to remain close enough that another person never has to suffer alone, while remaining grounded enough that neither of us loses ourselves in the process.

Witnessing someone’s pain does not mean making it your own. Supporting someone does not mean absorbing their emotional world. Others’ emotions are not yours to carry. Sometimes the greatest gift we can offer another person is not that we carry their burden for them. It is that we remain steady enough to help carry them through it.

References

Boss, P. (1999). Ambiguous loss: Learning to live with unresolved grief. Harvard University Press.

Bowen, M. (1978). Family therapy in clinical practice. Jason Aronson.

Hatfield, E., Cacioppo, J. T., & Rapson, R. L. (1994). Emotional contagion. Cambridge University Press.

Why Growth Often Feels Invisible

Many people expect growth to feel dramatic. We imagine confidence arriving all at once or healing appearing as a clear turning point. In reality, psychological growth is often gradual and difficult to notice while it’s happening.

Research on learning and behavior change suggests that improvement tends to occur through repeated experiences and small adjustments over time rather than sudden transformation (Prochaska & Velicer, 1997). Because these changes happen incrementally, our brains often adapt to them quickly and stop noticing them.

This is similar to how we rarely notice a child growing taller from one day to the next. Growth becomes visible only when we compare the present to a more distant past. Emotional growth works much the same way. Becoming more patient, resilient, or self-aware often happens beneath the surface long before we recognize it consciously.

One way to support this process is to periodically reflect on where you were six months or a year ago. Looking back can reveal progress that daily life tends to hide.

References

Prochaska, J. O., & Velicer, W. F. (1997). The transtheoretical model of health behavior change. American Journal of Health Promotion, 12(1), 38–48.

The Night We Try Too Hard

“Just shut up.” That’s what he told himself the night before. He said it out loud, lying in bed, staring into the dark. “I don’t have to think about this right now. I can think about it tomorrow.” But the mind didn’t stop.

Mark is almost 50 and has always been a good sleeper. He told me that sleep was never really an issue for most of his life—maybe a few short periods here and there, but nothing that lasted. This time was different. It had been going on for over a year now, and recently, it had become almost every night.

He said he went to bed around ten. Still awake at two. Got up, read for a bit, started to feel sleepy again, went back to bed—and then it started all over. “The mind is just… twirling,” he said. “It just keeps going.”

I asked what the thoughts were about.

He paused for a moment, then said something that shifted the direction of the session.“It’s not even like I’m worrying,” he said. “I’m just… going back over my life. Thinking about people. Remembering things.” There was no urgency in the content. No clear problem to solve. Just a stream of memories, one leading to another. “And I don’t really have anyone to share those things with anymore,” he added.

What he was describing didn’t sound like a problem to fix. It sounded like something trying to be expressed. I told him something I’ve come to believe more over time—that we are, in many ways, life tellers. We carry experiences, moments, conversations, people. During the day, we share pieces of those without thinking much about it. But at night, when there’s no one to tell them to, they don’t disappear.

“I never thought of it that way,” he said. But even as we talked about that, something else was happening. The frustration wasn’t just about the thoughts anymore. It was about the sleep. “It’s become a thing now,” he said. “Like, I’m already thinking—what’s it going to be tonight?”

That shift matters. Because at that point, the problem is no longer just what’s on your mind. The problem becomes the experience of not sleeping. I reflected that this sounded similar to what we see in panic. It’s often not the first episode that keeps the cycle going—it’s the fear of it happening again. The same pattern can happen with sleep. The more we try to make it happen, the more we notice when it doesn’t. And the more we try. And the more it doesn’t.

He nodded. “Yeah… that sounds right.”

We talked about the things he had already been trying. Reading before bed. Changing routines. Getting up when he couldn’t sleep. Even wondering if he needed to change what he was doing altogether. All reasonable. All familiar. And yet, something about it felt like it was adding more pressure. So I said something that might have sounded unexpected. “I don’t want to fix your sleep.” He looked at me for a second. I clarified. “What I mean is—I’m not trying to give you something that will make you sleep better. I’m more interested in what you can create.”

We talked about small things. Movement during the day. Gentle activity that fits his body. Maybe exploring something like seated exercises or tai chi. Paying attention to what he eats, not as restriction, but as awareness. But I was careful to say this clearly. “These are not things you do so you can sleep.” He smiled a little. “That’s different.” Instead, I said, these are things you create because they add to your life. They support your wellbeing. And if sleep improves, then that becomes an outcome—not the goal.

He paused, then said, “So instead of thinking, ‘This will help me sleep,’ I could think, ‘This will feel good to do.’”

“Yes,” I said. “Exactly.” That shift may seem small, but it changes the direction entirely. Because when the goal is to fix sleep, everything becomes a test. Did it work? Did I sleep? Why didn’t it work? What do I try next? But when the goal is to create a life that feels more whole, the pressure lifts.

In research, we see that the more effort people put into trying to control sleep, the more alert they can become. The mind starts monitoring, checking, staying on guard (Harvey, 2002). And approaches that move toward acceptance—allowing the night to be what it is—often begin to ease that cycle (Ong et al., 2012).

Sleep doesn’t respond well to pressure. It doesn’t come because we demand it. It comes when the conditions allow it.

Toward the end of the session, he said something quietly. “I think I’ve been trying too hard.” I didn’t disagree.

As I thought about it later, it struck me how often this happens—not just with sleep, but with many things we struggle with. The more we try to fix what feels broken, the more attention we give to what’s wrong. And sometimes, that’s the very thing that keeps it going. Sleep, in that way, is different. It’s not something we force. It’s something we allow. And sometimes, it returns not when we finally find the right solution—but when we stop trying so hard to solve it.

References

Harvey, A. G. (2002). A cognitive model of insomnia. Behaviour Research and Therapy, 40(8), 869–893.

Ong, J. C., Ulmer, C. S., & Manber, R. (2012). Improving sleep with mindfulness and acceptance: A metacognitive model of insomnia. Behaviour Research and Therapy, 50(11), 651–660.re are sessions where something feels urgent, and then there are sessions where something feels settled. Today was the latter. Nothing needed fixing, but something important was clear.

Not too long ago, work made Avery miserable. Just months into a role that was meant to be the high point of their career, Avery realized it wasn’t something they wanted to continue for the rest of their working life. So, they chose to step away. There was no immediate plan—just some time off. Along the way, they took a few consultancy work, not as part of a bigger strategy, but because they felt right in the moment.

And now, Avery talked about a possible full-time job. It might mean moving, and it pays less than what they used to earn. Yet, there was no tension in their voice. If it works out, it works out. If not, they would be okay. Before, decisions came from pressure—the need to fix, to prove, to secure something quickly. Now, they came from intention. Not busy, but active.

Avery described something different. Over the past year, they had been letting things unfold rather than forcing outcomes. And somehow, opportunities still came. In some ways, more easily. I pointed out that this was not a lack of effort. It was a shift in how effort was used. It was less about control and more about choice. This is something we often see in Acceptance and Commitment Therapy—moving forward based on values, not fear, even when the outcome is uncertain (Hayes, Strosahl, & Wilson, 1999).

We talked about how Avery works now. The schedule is flexible. The pace is different. It may not look like much from the outside, but Avery feels engaged. Clear.

That led to a distinction I often make. There is a difference between being busy and being active. Busy comes with pressure. It is often about proving something. Active is quieter. It is still effort, but it is chosen. Avery added something important. Busy feels performative.

There is a belief that being tired means being valuable. That the more you do, the more you matter. But Avery stepped away from that. Their work no longer needed to be seen to feel real. It just needed to feel enough.

This lines up with what we know from self-determination theory. People feel better when their actions come from choice and meaning, not pressure (Deci & Ryan, 2000). Avery was no longer working to prove something. They were working in a way that fit.

We then talked about money. The new job pays much less. Before, that would have felt like a loss. Now, Avery said something different. They realized they do not need as much as they once thought. This was not just about money. It was about how Avery now understands economic wellbeing. It was no longer about chasing a number. It was about asking, “What supports my life?”

That shift matters. Research shows that it is not the event itself, but the meaning we give it that shapes how we feel (Seligman, 2011). A lower salary can feel like failure, or it can feel like freedom. The number stays the same. The meaning changes.

I asked Avery what they liked about the job beyond the pay. The answer came quickly—working with people, building relationships, helping others grow. As they spoke, it felt natural, almost easy. Like something they already knew about themselves.

Near the end, I reflected on what Avery said that this job’s salary offer felt like enough. It meant that they were no longer starting from a place of lack. I told them that when you already feel enough, anything more would be a bonus.

References

Deci, E. L., & Ryan, R. M. (2000). The “what” and “why” of goal pursuits: Human needs and the self-determination of behavior. Psychological Inquiry, 11(4), 227–268.

Hayes, S. C., Strosahl, K. D., & Wilson, K. G. (1999). Acceptance and commitment therapy: An experiential approach to behavior change. Guilford Press.

Seligman, M. E. P. (2011). Flourish: A visionary new understanding of happiness and well-being. Free Press.

Why Self-Compassion Feels So Difficult

Many people find it easier to be compassionate toward others than toward themselves. A person may comfort a struggling friend with patience and understanding, yet respond to their own mistakes with harsh criticism. This pattern is so common that many individuals mistake self-criticism for responsibility or motivation, believing that being hard on themselves will push them to improve.

Psychologist Kristin Neff describes self-compassion as treating yourself with the same care, understanding, and humanity you would offer someone you love (Neff, 2003). Self-compassion does not mean avoiding accountability or pretending everything is fine. Instead, it involves recognizing that mistakes, setbacks, and emotional pain are part of being human. Research shows that people with higher levels of self-compassion tend to experience lower levels of anxiety, depression, and burnout while also demonstrating greater emotional resilience (Neff & Germer, 2013).

One reason self-compassion can feel uncomfortable is because many people associate softness with weakness. In cultures that emphasize productivity and achievement, gentleness toward oneself may feel undeserved unless it has been “earned” through success. However, studies suggest that chronic self-criticism activates the brain’s threat system, increasing stress responses and emotional exhaustion over time (Gilbert, 2009). Compassion, in contrast, helps activate systems associated with safety, emotional regulation, and connection.

Learning self-compassion often begins with small shifts in language. Instead of asking, “Why am I like this?” after a mistake, a person might ask, “What do I need right now?” Instead of assuming failure means inadequacy, they might recognize that struggling is part of growth. Self-compassion does not remove challenges from life, but it changes the emotional environment in which those challenges are faced. And sometimes, that softer environment is exactly what allows healing to begin.

References

Gilbert, P. (2009). The compassionate mind: A new approach to life’s challenges. New Harbinger Publications.

Neff, K. D. (2003). Self-compassion: An alternative conceptualization of a healthy attitude toward oneself. Self and Identity, 2(2), 85–101. https://doi.org/10.1080/15298860309032

Neff, K. D., & Germer, C. K. (2013). A pilot study and randomized controlled trial of the mindful self‐compassion program. Journal of Clinical Psychology, 69(1), 28–44. https://doi.org/10.1002/jclp.21923

Gilbert, P. (2009). The compassionate mind: A new approach to life’s challenges. New Harbinger Publications.

Neff, K. D. (2003). Self-compassion: An alternative conceptualization of a healthy attitude toward oneself. Self and Identity, 2(2), 85–101. https://doi.org/10.1080/15298860309032

Neff, K. D., & Germer, C. K. (2013). A pilot study and randomized controlled trial of the mindful self‐compassion program. Journal of Clinical Psychology, 69(1), 28–44. https://doi.org/10.1002/jclp.21923

What Does it Feel Like to Be Enough?

An Economic Wellbeing reflection on work, money, and meaning

There are sessions where something feels urgent, and then there are sessions where something feels settled. Today was the latter. Nothing needed fixing, but something important was clear.

We talked about how Avery works now. The schedule is flexible. The pace is different. It may not look like much from the outside, but Avery feels engaged. Clear.

References

Deci, E. L., & Ryan, R. M. (2000). The “what” and “why” of goal pursuits: Human needs and the self-determination of behavior. Psychological Inquiry, 11(4), 227–268.

Hayes, S. C., Strosahl, K. D., & Wilson, K. G. (1999). Acceptance and commitment therapy: An experiential approach to behavior change. Guilford Press.

Seligman, M. E. P. (2011). Flourish: A visionary new understanding of happiness and well-being. Free Press.

Why “Enough” Feels So Hard to Accept

Many people struggle with the idea of “enough” because they’ve learned—often unconsciously—to tie their worth to productivity, income, or external validation. From an early age, messages like “stay busy,” “work harder,” or “be more” are reinforced by school systems, workplaces, and social expectations. Over time, these messages become internalized, shaping how we evaluate ourselves. Being busy begins to feel like being valuable, while rest or satisfaction can feel undeserved.

From a psychological perspective, this creates what we might call a pressure-based motivation system—where actions are driven not by genuine interest or meaning, but by fear, comparison, or the need to prove something. Research shows that when motivation is primarily externally driven, it is often associated with higher stress, lower satisfaction, and greater risk of burnout (Deci & Ryan, 2000; Maslach & Leiter, 2016). People may continue to perform and achieve, but internally feel depleted, disconnected, or perpetually behind.

In contrast, self-determination theory offers a different framework for understanding wellbeing. According to this theory, people thrive when their actions are guided by internal values and supported by three basic psychological needs: autonomy (a sense of choice), competence (a sense of effectiveness), and relatedness (a sense of connection with others) (Deci & Ryan, 2000). When these needs are met, work and daily activities feel more meaningful and sustainable—not because they are easier, but because they are aligned.

This is why the shift from “I need to do more” to “This is enough for now” can feel so significant. It represents a move away from pressure and toward intention. Instead of acting to avoid failure or meet expectations, a person begins to act based on what matters to them. This shift does not reduce effort—it changes the quality of that effort.

There is also a cognitive component to this shift. Research in positive psychology suggests that how we interpret our experiences plays a key role in emotional wellbeing (Seligman, 2011). The same situation—whether it is a lower salary, a slower pace of work, or fewer external achievements—can feel like failure when viewed through a lens of scarcity, or like alignment when viewed through a lens of sufficiency and purpose.

Enough is not about settling. It’s about aligning.

It is not the absence of ambition, but the presence of clarity—knowing what supports your life, and choosing accordingly.

References

Deci, E. L., & Ryan, R. M. (2000). The “what” and “why” of goal pursuits: Human needs and the self-determination of behavior. Psychological Inquiry, 11(4), 227–268.

Maslach, C., & Leiter, M. P. (2016). Understanding the burnout experience: Recent research and its implications for psychiatry. World Psychiatry, 15(2), 103–111. https://doi.org/10.1002/wps.20311

Seligman, M. E. P. (2011). Flourish: A visionary new understanding of happiness and well-being. Free Press.

When the Hands No Longer Obey

Grief, creativity, and the quiet adjustments of aging

The video image shook slightly when the telehealth session began. At first glance it looked like a weak internet connection, the kind that occasionally causes the screen to wobble. But after a moment it became clear that the motion was coming from the other side of the call. Mr. Rahman adjusted his iPad Pro in his hands, trying to steady it as the camera trembled in small rhythmic movements. Even through the screen, I could see the effort it took for him to hold the device still.

“Sorry about the shaking,” he said with a half smile. “My hands are not as cooperative these days.”

As he repositioned the tablet on his lap, the frame settled briefly before trembling again. The movement of the camera mirrored the subtle tremor in his hands. After a pause he continued.

“This morning I tried to balance my bank statement. I wrote maybe two entries… and then I gave up.”

The frustration in his voice was not really about balancing a bank statement. It was about something deeper. Mr. Rahman had spent his professional life as an architect. For decades, his hands had drawn the lines that eventually became buildings. Precision had not merely been a skill; it had been part of his identity. As he described the tremor interfering with even simple writing, he reflected on how different things used to be.

“People used to compliment my handwriting,” he said. “They said it looked almost like calligraphy.”

He paused for a moment before adding quietly, “I miss that.”

There are moments in therapy when the emotional center of a conversation becomes unmistakably clear. This was one of those moments. When most people hear the word grief, they immediately think of death. But grief is not limited to losing people. It can also arise when we lose abilities, roles, or aspects of our identity that once felt inseparable from who we were.

I said gently, “Grief is really about loss. And loss doesn’t always mean the death of a person. Sometimes it’s the loss of an ability.”

Mr. Rahman nodded slowly, as if recognizing something he had not fully articulated before. “That actually makes sense,” he said. “Because I do feel something like that.”

He began describing how he had tried to return to drawing recently. Colored pencils, sketchbooks, and art supplies—tools that once brought him joy—now sit mostly unused. “My hands tremble too much,” he explained. “I try to draw something and it just doesn’t come out right.”

The grief he described was subtle, almost invisible to others. Nothing dramatic had happened; there was no single event marking the change. Instead, the losses had emerged gradually, quietly altering the landscape of his daily life. Psychologists sometimes refer to these experiences as non-death losses—changes that disrupt identity, autonomy, or competence without the presence of bereavement (Neimeyer, 2012). For many older adults, these losses accumulate slowly over time: the loss of dexterity, the loss of mobility, the loss of professional roles, or the loss of independence in everyday activities. These shifts rarely attract attention, yet they carry profound emotional weight because they reshape how individuals experience themselves in the world.

Earlier in the session, Mr. Rahman had described another example of this quiet transition. “I used to love grocery shopping,” he told me. After long workdays, he often stopped by the market to pick up fresh ingredients for dinner. Cooking had always been something he enjoyed. But now things were different. “I can’t do that anymore,” he said matter-of-factly. “My wife does the shopping now.”

On the surface, it sounded like a small adjustment in household responsibilities. Yet in therapy, seemingly ordinary statements often carry deeper psychological significance. Research in gerontology consistently shows that the loss of functional independence can challenge a person’s sense of identity and dignity (Baltes & Baltes, 1990). Activities that once seemed routine—writing, driving, shopping, cooking—often represent far more than the tasks themselves. They symbolize competence, agency, and autonomy. When these abilities change, individuals may experience what psychologists describe as identity disruption, the unsettling realization that the person they once were is no longer fully accessible.

Yet something interesting happened as our conversation continued. Despite the losses he described, Mr. Rahman began speaking about several new projects he had been exploring. His voice became slightly more animated as he explained that he had started experimenting with artificial intelligence tools. Using photo-editing software, he had begun restoring and enhancing family photographs, adjusting lighting or cleaning up imperfections in old images. “It’s actually quite interesting,” he said, leaning slightly closer to the camera.

He then mentioned another project that had occupied his attention recently. Over the years he had collected numerous recipes—copied from cookbooks, shared by friends, or passed along through conversation—and written them in several small notebooks. “I have six or seven of them,” he explained. “Now I’m trying to put them into a digital format so my daughter can have them someday.”

What he described reflected a psychological process that researchers have long observed in successful aging. In the psychology of lifespan development, Paul and Margret Baltes proposed a framework known as Selective Optimization with Compensation (Baltes & Baltes, 1990). According to this model, as individuals encounter limitations or losses, they often adapt by redirecting their energy toward activities that remain meaningful and achievable. Rather than abandoning engagement altogether, they optimize what is still possible and compensate for what is no longer easily done.

In other words, creativity does not necessarily disappear with age. Sometimes it simply changes form.

Later in the conversation, Mr. Rahman reflected on relationships. “At my age,” he said with a quiet chuckle, “I don’t get into petty arguments with people anymore. It’s just not worth it.” There was a calmness in his voice, an emotional economy that seemed to come from long experience. Developmental psychologist Erik Erikson described later adulthood as a period of life review, when individuals gradually evaluate their experiences and move toward acceptance and wisdom (Erikson, Erikson, & Kivnick, 1986). Sometimes this wisdom emerges not through grand revelations but through small shifts in perspective: letting go of unnecessary conflicts, maintaining long friendships despite differences, or focusing energy on what continues to hold meaning.

Near the end of the session, I asked Mr. Rahman directly, “Do you miss the things you used to be able to do?”

“Yes,” he replied without hesitation. “Very much.”

Nothing about the situation had been solved. His hands would still tremble, and the slight shaking of the iPad camera remained visible as he adjusted his grip again. But therapy does not always aim to eliminate the problem. Often its purpose is quieter and more fundamental: helping individuals name their experiences and understand them within the larger narrative of their lives. Research on meaning-making suggests that articulating and contextualizing difficult life changes can significantly improve psychological adjustment (Park, 2010).

By the end of the session, Mr. Rahman’s losses had not disappeared. Yet they had been acknowledged, explored, and understood within the broader experience of aging, identity, and adaptation. In many ways, that is what resolution in therapy often looks like—not the removal of suffering, but the ability to recognize it, speak about it, and integrate it into a life that still contains purpose and meaning. Even as certain abilities fade, the human impulse to create, connect, and make sense of one’s experiences often remains remarkably resilient.

References:

Baltes, P. B., & Baltes, M. M. (1990). Psychological perspectives on successful aging: The model of selective optimization with compensation. In P. B. Baltes & M. M. Baltes (Eds.), Successful aging: Perspectives from the behavioral sciences (pp. 1–34). Cambridge University Press.

Erikson, E. H., Erikson, J. M., & Kivnick, H. Q. (1986). Vital involvement in old age. W. W. Norton.

Neimeyer, R. A. (2012). Techniques of grief therapy: Creative practices for counseling the bereaved. Routledge.

Park, C. L. (2010). Making sense of the meaning literature: An integrative review of meaning making and its effects on adjustment to stressful life events. Psychological Bulletin, 136(2), 257–301.

Positivity Isn’t Fake — It’s Fuel

Positive thinking isn’t about ignoring reality — it’s about choosing where to place your attention. Our brains are evolutionarily wired to detect threats, which helped early humans survive but now often amplifies stress, anxiety, and burnout in modern life.

Deliberate attention training — like noticing a kind word, a moment of peace, or a small win — helps us develop what neuroscientists call positive neuroplasticity. This refers to the brain’s ability to reshape itself through repeated focus on beneficial experiences (Hanson, 2013).

Research shows that even a few minutes a day spent savoring positive experiences leads to measurable improvements in wellbeing. In one study, participants who engaged in loving-kindness practices experienced increased life satisfaction, decreased symptoms of depression, and improved physical health (Fredrickson et al., 2004).

Positivity doesn’t mean denying difficulties — it means making space for what’s good too. That small shift in focus can be a powerful force for emotional resilience and renewal.

Takeaway: Notice the good. Let it land. You’re not being unrealistic — you’re building strength.

References

Fredrickson, B. L., Cohn, M. A., Coffey, K. A., Pek, J., & Finkel, S. M. (2008). Open hearts build lives: Positive emotions, induced through loving-kindness meditation, build consequential personal resources. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 95(5), 1045–1062. https://doi.org/10.1037/a0013262
Hanson, R. (2013). Hardwiring happiness: The new brain science of contentment, calm, and confidence. Harmony Books.

When the Seasons Affect Our Mood: Understanding Winter Changes

In the past two weeks, a couple of patients told me something similar: their mood felt “off,” even though nothing stressful was happening in their lives.

One patient noticed she felt more tired after the time change. The sun set earlier, and her body slowed down. Even though she still did her chores and met her responsibilities, she caught herself calling it “laziness.” Together, we talked about how this feeling was real, but the label didn’t match the facts. Sometimes our bodies get tired earlier because of changes in sunlight, not because we’re doing anything wrong.

Another patient shared that he recently felt more distracted, unsure of himself, and unusually emotional. His work and home life were steady, yet he found himself searching for explanations—Why do I feel this way? Did something go wrong? We discussed how the mind often tries to “fill in the blanks” when mood changes, even if nothing in life has changed. Sometimes the cause is biological, not personal.

In both cases, I explained that many people notice mood shifts when the seasons change. This experience is common, and it doesn’t mean they are failing or losing progress. It simply means their bodies and brains are responding to the environment.

This is where Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) becomes important to understand.

What Is Seasonal Affective Disorder?

Seasonal Affective Disorder, or SAD, is a type of depression that follows a pattern based on the seasons. Most people think SAD only happens in winter, but research shows it can happen in any season—winter, spring, summer, or fall—depending on the person (American Psychiatric Association, 2022).

How Common Is It?

About 1–5% of adults experience SAD each year.
Up to 20% experience a milder form often called the “winter blues” (Melrose, 2015).

Why Does It Happen?

Scientists explain SAD using a few key ideas:

Less Sunlight = Body Clock Changes
When daylight hours shrink, our internal clock can get out of rhythm. Research shows that light is the main signal that resets the brain’s “master clock,” which helps control sleep, mood, and energy (Czeisler & Gooley, 2007).
Without enough morning light, we may feel tired, foggy, or low in mood.
Serotonin Levels Drop
Serotonin helps regulate mood. Darker days can lower serotonin activity.
More Melatonin
Longer darkness can cause the body to release more melatonin, leading to sluggishness.

Is It Always Winter-Related?

Not always. Some people have summer-pattern SAD, where too much heat or sunlight affects sleep and mood (Rosen et al., 1990).

What Helps?

Research supports several treatments:

Light therapy using a special lamp (Lam et al., 2006).
Cognitive-behavioral therapy made for SAD (CBT-SAD).
Vitamin D, though results are mixed and should only be taken with medical guidance (Gloth, Alam, & Hollis, 1999).

How You Can Support Your Mood

During Winter

Here are simple, research-supported steps you can take:

1. Notice Your Seasonal Pattern

Pay attention each year:

Do you feel more tired or discouraged during winter?
Do earlier sunsets affect your energy?
Do you assume low energy means something is “wrong”?

Awareness helps prevent negative self-talk.

2. Get Sunlight in the Morning

Your brain needs light to reset its internal clock—this is backed by circadian rhythm research showing that morning light helps regulate mood and energy (Czeisler & Gooley, 2007).

Try:

5–10 minutes of morning sunlight
Going outdoors soon after waking
Sitting near a window if outdoor time isn’t possible

This is something both of my patients found helpful once they tried it.

3. Move Your Body

Exercise boosts mood and energy.
You don’t need an intense routine—start with:

A short walk
Light stretching
A few minutes of strength work

Consistency matters more than intensity.

4. Stay Connected

Winter and the holidays can make people feel lonely.
Try to maintain simple connections:

A weekly check-in
A walk with a friend
Time with supportive people

Connection protects emotional health.

5. Talk With a Doctor About Vitamin D

Low Vitamin D may affect mood for some people, but the research is mixed.
Because supplements can be overused, talk with a medical provider before taking any (Gloth et al., 1999).

6. Be Kind to Yourself When Energy Drops

Feeling tired does not mean you are failing.
Sometimes your body is reacting to the season.

Before blaming yourself, consider whether winter changes might be influencing your mood.

7. Prepare for Your Harder Months

If you notice a yearly pattern, plan ahead:

Start light therapy early
Lower unnecessary commitments
Build in more rest
Strengthen routines that help you feel grounded

Planning gives you control before mood shifts begin.

Seasonal mood changes are normal and very common. They do not mean you are weak, lazy, or doing something wrong. Our bodies respond to sunlight, temperature, sleep changes, and rhythm shifts. When you understand this, you can replace self-blame with self-care. And as we saw in both therapy sessions, awareness helps people feel more hopeful and less confused about their emotional experiences.

References

American Psychiatric Association. (2022). Diagnostic and statistical manual of mental disorders (5th ed., text rev.).

Czeisler, C. A., & Gooley, J. J. (2007). Sleep and circadian rhythms in humans. Cold Spring Harbor Symposia on Quantitative Biology, 72, 579–597.

Gloth, F. M., Alam, W., & Hollis, B. (1999). Vitamin D vs broad spectrum phototherapy in the treatment of Seasonal Affective Disorder. Journal of Nutrition, Health & Aging, 3(1), 5–7.

Lam, R. W., Levitt, A. J., Levitan, R. D., Enns, M. W., Morehouse, R., Michalak, E. E., & Tam, E. M. (2006). The Can-SAD study: A randomized controlled trial of bright light therapy and fluoxetine in Seasonal Affective Disorder. American Journal of Psychiatry, 163(5), 805–812.

Melrose, S. (2015). Seasonal Affective Disorder: An overview of assessment and treatment approaches. Depression Research and Treatment, 2015, 1–6.

Rohan, K. J., Sigmon, S. T., & Dorhofer, D. M. (2003). Cognitive-behavioral factors in Seasonal Affective Disorder. Journal of Consulting and Clinical Psychology, 71(5), 993–1004.

Rosen, L. N., Targum, S. D., Terman, M., Bryant, M. J., Hoffman, H., Kasper, S. F., & Wehr, T. A. (1990). Prevalence of Seasonal Affective Disorder at four latitudes. Psychiatry Research, 31(2), 131–144.*

Category: Emotional Wellbeing (Page 1 of 4)

Why We Absorb Other People’s Emotions

References:

Others’ Emotions Are Not Yours to Carry

References

Why Growth Often Feels Invisible

References

The Night We Try Too Hard

Why Self-Compassion Feels So Difficult

References

What Does it Feel Like to Be Enough?

Why “Enough” Feels So Hard to Accept

When the Hands No Longer Obey

Positivity Isn’t Fake — It’s Fuel

When the Seasons Affect Our Mood: Understanding Winter Changes

In the past two weeks, a couple of patients told me something similar: their mood felt “off,” even though nothing stressful was happening in their lives.

About Me

Schedule An Appointment

Recent Blog Posts

References:

References

References

References

In the past two weeks, a couple of patients told me something similar: their mood felt “off,” even though nothing stressful was happening in their lives.

Sidebar

About Me

Schedule An Appointment

Recent Blog Posts