In my 30s, I put myself through a kind of shock treatment. I quit my job, left my country, and walked out on a lot of people, all to face my own demons. It took a while, but eventually I learned their names, their routines, the exact corners they liked to hide in. A few of them, I realized, weren't even mine anymore. They'd just overstayed their welcome so long they'd forgotten there was a door.
I went looking for who was running the show. Philosophy, psychology, anthropology, neuroscience, anything that might explain them. Turned out they all had the same home address: my own brain. A strange little bastard, quietly working against me, not interested in my happiness, just committed to keeping me on the same old loop.
So I stopped reading about it and went to watch it happen instead. I traveled alone for a while, mostly just paying attention: strangers on trains, old men in plazas, a stranger's kitchen table, people telling me things they probably hadn't said out loud before. Everyone carrying something, differently. I wrote through most of it, going back into the same rooms in my head over and over. Somewhere in there I found the obsessive part of myself, the one that wouldn't let a wound alone until it understood it completely. I learned to live with that part instead of fighting it. And somewhere in all that, I started paying attention to the words I was using to describe what I was doing.
I don't take any of this lightly. Not everyone gets the room, the time, or the safety net to do this.
I came out of it with one conviction: the further I went, the stranger the word itself started to sound, the way any word sounds odd after you say it forty times. So I turned the word over. What did it actually promise?
A nasty cut heals, a broken bone mends with a cast, and the story comes to an end. The vow made by the word is that, in the past tense, the door closes, enabling you to confidently say at dinner parties, "It is behind me," before marking the task as complete.
I was down in the deepest part of myself, searching for closure but couldn't find a single door that closed, nor a wound that fully healed as the words suggested. Yes, things faded, silence grew, I became stronger, wiser, and less desperate to control everything. My sleep improved, but nothing truly closed. I would never say, "This is behind me now," because I see myself differently now. What happened to me is part of who I am, something I will always carry with me.
I pondered that for a long time... not out of despair, but out of confusion that led to acceptance. I had traced the map precisely to the X, yet the treasure wasn’t the kind that could be stored in a chest. I had followed every instruction the word gave me. Could it be that the word was hinting at the destination all along?
What they sell as healing.
Almost everyone I've observed friends, strangers, and myself for years was stuck in the same spot: the purgatory of emotional wellbeing.
The initial phase of the healing process is effective: increasing awareness, identifying what occurs, and becoming literate in our emotions and thoughts. We explore and uncover that the anger belongs to our father, and the perfectionism to our mother. After a few months in, our relationship behaviors are understood with clear names and traced origins.
This part truly delivers: understanding is essential. Moving forward depends on knowledge, but whether we gain it in a therapist's office, from library books, support groups, or a friend with experience, the method doesn't matter.
Intentionality matters most here. Someone who's genuinely digging into themselves with real intent gets more out of any source than someone who just clocks in to therapy.
We are the most self-diagnosed generation in human history. We could hold lectures on our own damage. Some of us do. There are people whose entire personality is the syllabus of what happened to them.
And then comes the moment nobody prepared us for: what do I do with this beautiful basket of my own mess?
That's when the caravan halts, caught between diagnosis and real life, carrying a loaded backpack of knowledge without clear guidance. We understand attachment style, trauma responses, and inner child grievances chronologically. The backpack is packed but just sits on our back, growing heavier as we carry and show it off.
The industry knows we're stuck. A stuck person buys another app, another retreat, another Tuesday with a therapist who nods at the same mother while the invoice grows. But they can't sell a few years of steady marriage that rewires trust. The real medicine isn't scalable.
Consider what is truly offered: a 10-week course on "rewiring your anxious attachment," a weekend retreat to "meet your inner child," and a workbook with 30 days of prompts. These are presented as tidy, self-contained products with defined start and end dates. Essentially, the product promises completion. Customers are paying not just for the process, but for the illusion that the work can be fully completed.
So, what's actually on the other side of the fork? Two movements. Neither glamorous. Both humble.
The first movement: our brain needs proof
Our brains need to see repeated, sometimes boring evidence that another reality can exist. They don't rely on self-help messages; instead, they learn from consistent experience and change their understanding only when they encounter new information.
If we were raised in scarcity, simply understanding it won't convince our body that the floor is steady now. We need to spend enough time living in a new reality: being provided for, paying bills, and having a full fridge; so that, over time, our brain gradually accepts it as real and deserved.
If all our relationships felt like minor battles, simply thinking our way into trusting peace won't work. We must stay in a healthy relationship long enough for our system to recognize it as genuine rather than a threat. There's no quick fix; the evidence of trust takes time, and we can't force it.
We must consciously recognize new, healthy experiences. For instance, if we start a safe, healthy relationship with a new partner but mistake safety for boredom, our brain may not register it. That's why I mentioned that the "awareness part actually works": without awareness, we can't truly be conscious of new realities. This is where our heavy backpack comes in handy.
Take a moment to notice what it takes: other people, time, our vulnerability, and, let's admit it quietly, a bit of luck. A good partner and steady friend aren’t fully within our control. The industry dislikes this because it can make us feel lost, and they sell certainty and results.
Some of us won't get this movement: not because we didn't try, but because no one stayed. I have no fix for that. I can only name it.
There are even lands that this movement can't reach, no matter if Columbus himself were exploring the world for spices. Some things remain out of reach: for example, if we grew up neglected, no amount of adult experience later on can fill in what was missing at four.
Does this mean we're doomed to carry our childhood problems forever? That's not what I meant. Keep that last paragraph in mind; we'll revisit it shortly. There's a distinction between what is permanent and what is absent.
The second movement: holding what proof can't fix
I have a favorite word concept, and I am capable of defending it with my own life as one of the main things for inner peace: the ability to hold ambiguity.
Ambiguity is when multiple things are true, and none of them dissolves the others.
It's not "complicated feelings"; that's a cliché for Sunday brunch. I mean: I love my mother, and she's the reason I go to therapy. My partner and I are very happy, but we need to split up because he wants children and I don't, and this is an irreconcilable difference.
Love does not erase the damage, nor does the damage cancel out love. There's no simple third sentence to turn it all into a TED Talk. Instead, we carry both within us and learn to walk without such a limp that others are forced to slow down, and find inner peace.
The same muscle applies to everything.
Just as we wouldn't tell a friend that marriage is simply good or bad, we understand it's a mix of 20 different aspects, some of which might even seem to conflict.
One important caveat: when people hear 'hold multiple truths', they often think of resignation or accepting defeat. But it's actually about transformation, not giving up. This new form is rarely described, so I'll explain.
The fact and the verdict
We're coming back to a topic I mentioned earlier: how certain experiences, such as growing up in a neglectful environment, can feel unchangeable.
Growing up beside someone unsafe, neglect became a sentence: I didn't get this because I didn’t deserve it. The truth about that sentence is: it no longer needs them. It now operates independently, in our voice, on its own timeline, regardless of whether they are alive or dead, or sorry or not. We carry the verdict, not the parent, and it plays without waiting for us to change.
People with this experience faced two choices growing up. Column A suggests that the world is random, our parents are unprepared, and nothing we do can change that. However, because we are wired to obey our parents, it's hard to reason through that. On the other hand, Column B reflects the belief that we deserve our circumstances and that by improving ourselves, being quieter, smaller, or easier, we can achieve a different outcome. While Column B offers a plan, Column A represents a harsh reality we instinctively resist, so we often adopt B as a survival strategy.
The idea that "I didn't get this because I didn’t deserve it" was never a fact; it simply felt that way because you were too young to confront the true reality. The neglect was real, and that belief was embedded deep within your soul.
And forged verdicts can be revoked.
The phrase is rephrased as "I was not given it, and I deserved it anyway." That's not denial. That's a retrial. The sense of absence and grief persists, as those feelings are held onto deeply. But gradually, the heavy burden of shame that others placed on us starts to fade away. Remember that shame was never really part of who we are; it just came into our life early on and tried to pretend it belonged there, but now we're seeing through it.
This is what reparenting actually means when it's not a hashtag.
This isn't about pretending to mother ourselves or doing inner-child worksheets. The truth remains; the meaning can be changed, and only we have the power to edit—no need for anyone to apologize.
Look at the shape of that sentence: I was not given it, and I deserved it anyway. Two true things, neither dissolving the other. It's the same muscle. Reparenting isn't a third movement. It's ambiguity pointed at the hardest possible target: our own parents.
The pain itself can't simply be erased, which is the main misunderstanding about the healing approach. It views healing as a cleaning process: wash away the mother, wash away childhood, scrub until we reach the self before the damage. But there is no such pre-damage self. The damage shaped who we are. We can't just power-wash our way back to the person interrupted at seven. That interruption now supports the entire structure; removing it causes the whole thing to collapse.
Embracing ambiguity is like saying: the ache is just furniture. My goal is to create a life so big that the furniture doesn't fill the room. It’s about holding onto two truths and still making dinner, no matter what.
And improve at it just like we do with deadlifting: through awkward, sometimes embarrassing efforts, with many dropped weights along the way. But eventually, one day, the weight lifts effortlessly. No big celebrations, but deep down, we're quietly proud of ourselves.
We start to feel a sense of sovereignty: rooted yet flexible, imperfect but authentic, still journeying toward our place. It’s simply ours. Standing in our own kitchen, living our unique lives, holding on to some fundamental truths while recognizing that everyone else has their own set of truths in their kitchens. None of us will fully escape this experience, and surprisingly, that’s perfectly OK.
This is my version of emotional intelligence.
One last thing: some wounds are too deep to face alone. That's what the room with the tissues is for—all my respect to the therapists who do the real work.
As for my kitchen: the demons are still at the table. I know their seating by heart. Some nights they talk. But I'm the one pouring tea.
That's not healing. It's something better. It's a life.
