Therapy for Guys

In this episode in my Philosophy and Solution-Focused Therapy series, I reflect on Quentin Tarantino's Kill Bill through the lens of Ludwig Wittgenstein's idea that meaning is use. After a recent client urged me to finally watch the film, I did, for the first time, and absolutely loved it. What especially stayed with me were the scenes between the Bride and Pai Mei, where repetition, correction, action, and discipline begin to look like more than just training. They begin to look like a philosophy of practice.I explore how Wittgenstein's thought helps us see that understanding is not primarily a hidden inner possession, but something that takes shape in use, in action, in learning how to go on within a form of life. From there, I connect Pai Mei's brutal pedagogy to psychotherapy, and especially to solution-focused therapy's attention to small actions, exceptions, patterns, and the lived practices through which change becomes possible.Along the way, I consider what Kill Bill reveals about repetition, mastery, embodiment, and the difference between having an idea and being formed into a capacity. This is an episode about training, meaning, action, and the ways new futures become real not only through insight, but through practice.

In this episode, I explore Wittgenstein's idea of forms of life and what he once called the “whole hurly-burly of human actions,” that living background of practices, relationships, gestures, expectations, and shared meanings within which anything we say or feel can make sense at all. I reflect on the temptation, in both philosophy and psychotherapy, to reduce reality to atomistic parts, hidden inner objects, or eternal foundations, and I make the case that human suffering cannot be understood apart from the swarm of life in which it takes shape. Along the way, I bring this into a clinical register, thinking about anxiety, identity, autism, couples work, and the ways therapy can become less about isolating explanatory units and more about listening for the background against which a life becomes legible. I also weave in a line from Wittgenstein that has stayed with me deeply: “Perhaps what is inexpressible … is the background against which whatever could express has its meaning.” This is an episode about context, mystery, collaboration, and the living weave of human life where both suffering and change become possible.

In this episode of Psyche Podcast, I continue my series on the philosophical foundations of solution-focused therapy by doing a close reading of Nick Drury's essay “Wittgenstein and the Tikanga of Psychotherapy.” Drawing on Wittgenstein's later philosophy, Drury challenges the Cartesian and medicalized picture of the person that has shaped so much of modern mental health discourse, and instead invites us into a vision of therapy rooted in language, relationship, ethical responsiveness, and forms of life. He also explicitly connects Wittgenstein's idea of “disappearing” problems through a changed way of living to solution-focused therapy's way of working.  I use the episode to explore why solution-focused therapy is so often misunderstood as simplistic when, in fact, it rests on a deeply serious philosophical vision of human life. Along the way, I unpack Drury's distinction between “know that” and “know how,” his critique of diagnosis-heavy and decontextualized models of care, and his account of therapy as a space where new language-games, new forms of relation, and new possibilities for living can emerge.  I also bring these ideas down to the level of practice with vivid clinical examples, showing how a Wittgensteinian and solution-focused sensibility can shift the way we listen, the way we ask questions, and the way we understand change itself. This is an episode about clarity, humility, and the ethical depth of therapy when it becomes less a laboratory of explanation and more a living conversation in which people can begin to speak and live differently together.

In this episode of Psyche Podcast, I continue my Philosophy & Solution-Focused Therapy series by turning to Steve de Shazer's essay, “Don't Think, But Observe: What Is the Importance of the Work of Ludwig Wittgenstein for Solution-Focused Brief Therapy?” In it, I explore why Wittgenstein matters so deeply to Solution-Focused Brief Therapy, not because he gives it some hidden grand theory, but because he helps us see why the longing for that kind of theory can pull us away from the living reality of therapy itself. I reflect on de Shazer's argument that meaning is rooted in use, in context, in forms of life, and I consider what that means for a therapeutic practice that refuses to get trapped in diagnostic abstraction and instead stays close to language, relationship, exception, and observable change. Along the way, I make the case that Solution-Focused Therapy is far more philosophically serious than its critics often assume, and that its restraint, its precision, and its attention to what is actually happening in a person's life may be part of what makes it so radical.

In this episode of Psyche Podcast, I continue my series on the philosophy behind solution-focused therapy by taking up a fascinating and delicate question: can Ludwig Wittgenstein be understood as an autistic man, and if so, what might that help us see about his philosophy, about neurodivergence, and about therapy itself?Drawing from Alan Griswold's essay on Wittgenstein, along with broader reflections on Wittgenstein's life and thought, I explore the limits of retrospective diagnosis while still taking seriously the possibility that his relationship to language, precision, social life, and meaning may have emerged from a distinctly neurodivergent form of experience.From there, I connect Wittgenstein's ideas about language-games, meaning, and forms of life to a more humane and expansive way of understanding autism. I also connect those ideas to the spirit of solution-focused therapy, with its deep attention to language, lived reality, and the creation of more workable futures.This is an episode about philosophy, neurodivergence, and what becomes possible when we stop treating difference simply as defect and begin listening for a different grammar of being.

In this episode, I begin a loose new series exploring the philosophical influences behind Solution-Focused Therapy, especially the work of Steve de Shazer. Too often, Solution-Focused Therapy gets caricatured as simplistic, overly optimistic, or not serious enough about suffering. I argue that this misses something much deeper. Beneath its lightness of touch is a remarkably sophisticated way of thinking about language, change, and the construction of possibility.I offer a biographical sketch of de Shazer and then trace some of the major intellectual currents that help illuminate his work, including Wittgenstein, pragmatism, Derrida, and Paul de Man. Along the way, I reflect on why Solution-Focused Therapy may be less about uncovering the hidden truth of a problem and more about helping create new descriptions that make different futures imaginable.This is an episode about language, suffering, restraint, and the quiet radicalism of asking a different kind of question.

In this episode, I explore a question that has followed Richard Rorty for years and feels especially urgent now: did his pragmatism, and his rejection of universal foundations for truth, help create the post-truth culture we are living in? Drawing from Eduardo Mendieta's article “Rorty and Post-Post-Truth” in the Los Angeles Review of Books, I argue that this is ultimately a caricature of Rorty. What Rorty challenged was not facts, evidence, or public accountability, but the fantasy that truth requires a metaphysical guarantee outside human history, language, and democratic life. Rather than leading to cynicism or political manipulation, his work points us back to the communal labor of justification and to the fragile social conditions that make truthfulness possible at all.I also make the case that what has far more plausibly given rise to our post-truth moment is the erosion of social trust, the collapse of social capital, and the polarizing effects of algorithmic media environments that reward outrage, identity, and reaction over shared inquiry. So this becomes not just an episode about Rorty, but about what democratic culture needs in order for truth to have public life at all.

In this episode, I explore Richard Rorty's essay “Moral Identity and Private Autonomy” from Essays on Heidegger and Others and think through one of the tensions that has been staying with me lately: how to honor private self-creation without letting it collapse into a form of individualism that forgets public responsibility. I reflect on Rorty's reading of Foucault, his idea of the “knight of autonomy,” and why I find myself deeply resonating with that figure through my own sense of being an otrovert — someone drawn to autonomy, inward authority, and the refusal of borrowed foundations.At the same time, I wrestle with my fear that the private/public distinction can leave democratic life too thin, even as I remain deeply doubtful that a return to shared religious, philosophical, or universal foundations would actually produce the solidarity people imagine. From there, I explore Rorty's provocative suggestion that people can be humane without being universalists, and I consider how art and culture — including the imperfect but moving example of Apple TV's Shrinking — may help create a shared public vocabulary through empathy, grief, failure, and recognition rather than through doctrine or theory.This is an episode about autonomy, democracy, suffering, self-creation, and the difficult task of trying to remain faithful to one's own vocabulary while still taking part in the shared work of making the world more decent for others.

In this episode, I explore Richard Rorty's chapter “Freud and Moral Reflection,” a reading of Freud that has really stayed with me as I've been getting more into Rorty lately. I make it clear that I'm not claiming this is simply the definitive or orthodox way to understand Freud, and that many people in psychoanalysis would likely push back on Rorty's interpretation, but I do find his perspective deeply suggestive and very alive for thinking about therapy. Moving through Rorty's contrast between self-purification and self-enlargement, I reflect on what it might mean to approach the psyche not as a battleground between the noble and the beastly, but as a complex inner world populated by voices, parts, and what Rorty calls "inner peers". Along the way, I think about how this chapter can help us imagine therapy less as a moral washing and more as a place of curiosity, interpretation, and greater internal hospitality.

If the philosopher is a poet, what does that make the therapist?In this episode, I work through insights from Richard Rorty's Philosophy as Poetry and begin to trace their implications for psychotherapy, arriving at a shift that feels both subtle and profound—therapy not as a process of uncovering truth, but as a collaborative act of creation.Moving away from the idea of a fixed self waiting to be discovered, I explore a Rortyan approach where identity is continuously constructed through language, relationship, and imagination, and where the therapist is no longer the one who knows, but a curious partner in the process of redescription.What matters is not whether something is true, but whether it opens up new ways of living.This is a conversation about agency, experimentation, and the quiet but radical idea that therapy is not about finding yourself……but about helping to write what comes next.

In this episode, I reflect on Adam Phillips' essay “On Getting the Life You Want,” the first chapter of his new book Getting the Life You Want, and use it as a way of thinking through some questions that have been deeply alive for me lately. Starting from my growing obsession with American pragmatism, especially Richard Rorty, I explore why Phillips feels so striking to me at this moment, as someone who seems able to bring Freud, psychoanalysis, and a kind of pragmatist pluralism into the same conversation.This is also my first real attempt to seriously read Phillips, even though my friend Barry Taylor has been suggesting him to me for years, and part of what makes this encounter feel so timely is how much his work resonates with my own sense that neither psychoanalysis nor philosophy gives us final truths so much as powerful descriptions, usable fictions, and ways of opening a life.Along the way, I explore Phillips' contrast between pragmatism's question — what life do you want? — and psychoanalysis's more difficult question — why might you not want to know what you want? What follows is a meditation on desire, authority, self-creation, ambivalence, and the strange difficulty of living a life that actually feels like your own.

Relational-cultural therapy has long shaped how I think about growth—that we are formed in and through connection, and that much of our suffering comes from disconnection. But in this episode, I take that idea further by sitting with something my friend Helena Vissing shared with me, drawing from Stephen Grosz's Loves Labor, about the twin anxieties of engulfment and abandonment.What unfolds is a deeper look at what RCT calls the central relational paradox—not just as a relational pattern, but as something more fundamental to who we are. The very strategies we develop to preserve connection are the same ones that prevent us from being known within it. And even more than that, the tension between closeness and distance may not be something we overcome, but something we live.I explore what it means to think about love, connection, and authenticity through this lens—where the goal is not to get the distance exactly right, but to become more aware of how we move within it, and how we repair when it inevitably goes wrong.

What happens when a society becomes so certain it's right that it starts shaping everyone else's life around that certainty?In this episode, I finally sit with John Stuart Mill's On Liberty—a text I had long avoided—and find in it a sharp critique of something very alive today: the moral and cultural force of Christian nationalism.Mill warns that oppression doesn't just come from governments, but from social pressure, moral consensus, and the demand that everyone fit one approved way of living.I'm not here to endorse Mill—but to think with him, and to push back against any ideology that claims it already knows, for all of us, what a life should look like.

The Fool, the zero card of the tarot, isn't a symbol of naïveté so much as a break from the system itself—a figure who stands both inside and outside the structures that try to define a life. Drawing on Byung-Chul Han, Gilles Deleuze, Félix Guattari, and Plato, I explore the Fool as a different kind of subject—what I'm calling the ortovert: someone oriented toward autonomy and individuality without collapsing into individualism or rejecting the shared world altogether.Along the way, I think through the Fool's wandering, rhizomatic path, its resistance to optimization and forced belonging, and its connection to what Plato might call a kind of holy madness. And with David Abram in the background, I turn to the often-overlooked presence of the animal in the card, not as a minor detail but as something essential—a reminder that whatever freedom the Fool represents is not disembodied, but grounded in instinct, sensation, and a return to forms of life that aren't governed by constant performance or self-optimization.

In this episode, I sit with Jorge Ferrer's Substack piece “Not a Summit, but a Forest: Why One True Religion May Be a Biological Absurdity,” not as an endorsement or critique, but as a way of thinking through a deeper question about how we organize meaning and live alongside difference. Ferrer challenges the assumption that truth must converge into a single dominant position, offering instead a vision of plurality as something inherent to life itself—something generative rather than problematic. I follow that thread beyond spirituality, asking what it might look like to move away from hierarchical systems that demand one right answer, and toward a way of living that can hold difference without collapsing it into sameness.

I picked up Junji Ito's Black Paradox again the other day, and what stayed with me wasn't just the horror—it was the structure underneath it. The sense that even our attempts to escape ourselves don't actually take us out of the loop… they just reorganize it.In this episode, I use the story as a way into something I see all the time in the therapy room: the difference between wanting to die and wanting relief from being who you are. Drawing on Richard Boothby's rethinking of the death drive, Lacan's notion of objet a, and Todd McGowan's work on capitalism and desire, I explore how what feels like an exit often becomes a new object that keeps us moving.Even death, in this story, becomes something that can be extracted, priced, and sold.And Pitan—the most unsettling figure in the narrative—ends up embodying a kind of subject without lack. Not trapped in the loop, but perfectly adapted to it.This isn't an episode that offers resolution. It's an attempt to stay with a harder question: what do you do with a desire for an outside… when there is no outside?Maybe the work isn't to escape the loop.Maybe it's to start seeing it more clearly.

In this episode, I sit down with Helena Vissing—a licensed psychologist based in California, educator at the California Institute of Integral Studies, and host on the New Books in Psychoanalysis podcast.What unfolds is a wide-ranging and deeply honest conversation at the intersection of psychoanalysis and somatic therapy—two fields that often sit in tension, but, as Helena argues, may actually need each other more than we think.We explore the limits of both traditions: the risk of reducing the body to “nervous system tinkering,” and the equal risk within psychoanalysis of losing the body altogether. Along the way, we wrestle with the mind-body problem, the unconscious, and what it might mean to “free associate” not just through speech—but through sensation itself.This is also a personal conversation. I share my own resistance to somatic work, my tendency to live as a “brain on legs,” and the deeper questions that raises about embodiment, knowledge, and the illusion of mastery.We get into:Why both psychoanalysis and somatics can drift toward false certaintyThe danger of treating therapy as a problem to solve rather than something to encounterIntegration vs. multiplicity—and whether a unified self is even possibleThe role of not-knowing in both analytic and somatic workAnd how the body may be present even in its absenceThis is less a definitive statement and more an opening—a conversation that stays with the tension rather than resolving it.

What if the thought you just had wasn't quite yours?Not in the sense of influence or conditioning—but structurally. At the level of what thinking is, and where it happens.In this episode, I sit with a reading from Alenka Zupančič's Disavowal that I haven't been able to shake. Moving through Descartes and Lacan, I explore the idea that the cogito—I think, therefore I am—doesn't ground the subject in certainty, but actually marks a split. Something gets discarded in Descartes' method, and that remainder doesn't disappear. It continues.Lacan locates the unconscious right there—not as hidden content, but as a thinking process that exceeds us. Impersonal. Active. Ongoing.It thinks.Not: I have unconscious thoughts. But: thinking is happening—and I'm not necessarily where that thinking is.I work through what this means philosophically, clinically, and personally—especially how it challenges the idea that therapy is about gaining full ownership over your mind. Because as useful as that goal can be, it might also miss something essential.

In this solo episode of Psyche, I explore a provocative idea from philosopher Quentin Meillassoux: the possibility of a God that does not yet exist, but may one day come into being. Drawing from his essay The Immanence of the World Beyond, I unpack his argument that the only true necessity in the universe may be contingency itself—that reality is radically open and the future is not fixed.What interests me most is how this philosophical vision resonates with my work as a therapist. People often arrive feeling trapped in narratives of inevitability, convinced their lives cannot be otherwise. In contrast, I've long been drawn to what Bill O'Hanlon calls possibility thinking—not positive thinking, but the simple refusal to close the future.This episode explores how Meillassoux's philosophy of radical contingency might offer a surprising metaphysical foundation for a kind of hope that doesn't rely on certainty—only on the possibility that something new may still emerge.

In this episode, I reflect on Louis Theroux: Inside the Manosphere and what it reveals about the world of online masculinity influencers. As a therapist who works primarily with young men—and as the father of three teenage sons—I feel a responsibility to understand the ideas shaping how many young men think about identity, power, and relationships.Drawing on the work of psychoanalytic philosopher Mari Ruti and her essay “The Portable Phallus,” I explore how the bravado of the manosphere can be understood as a performance of the phallus—the symbolic marker of power and authority in psychoanalytic theory—rather than genuine confidence. What looks like dominance on the surface often reveals a deeper insecurity and anxiety about masculinity underneath.Along the way, I also reflect on how a claim made in the documentary—that men have no inherent value and must create it—echoes, but deeply distorts, themes found in the philosophy of Friedrich Nietzsche. Ultimately, the conversation turns toward a deeper question raised by Erich Fromm: the need for richer frames of orientation that help young men develop strength, responsibility, and intimacy without reducing masculinity to domination or status.

In this solo episode, I explore the Dark Forest theory—a provocative answer to the Fermi paradox suggesting that intelligent civilizations may survive by remaining silent and hidden in a dangerous universe.From there, I follow a series of philosophical and theological connections. I discuss the work of Bogna Konior, traditions of negative theology and the hidden God, Gnostic suspicions about the cosmos, and the darker vision of nature explored by Jill Carroll in The Savage Side: Reclaiming Violent Models of God. I also bring in mystical ideas from Kabbalah—like Tzimtzum and Ayin—alongside psychoanalytic reflections from Richard Boothby on the sacred and the encounter with Das Ding.This episode is speculative and exploratory, asking what it might mean if the deepest structure of reality is marked less by revelation than by silence, hiddenness, and mystery.

In this solo episode of Psyche, I reflect on a provocative article by Manu Bazzano titled Against Integration. Bazzano challenges one of the deepest assumptions in modern psychotherapy—the idea that the goal of therapy is to integrate the self into a unified whole. Drawing on philosophical currents influenced by thinkers like Friedrich Nietzsche as well as Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari, he invites us to consider whether the human psyche might be better understood as a multiplicity rather than a singular identity.In this episode, I explore why I find Bazzano's work so compelling while also sitting with the tension it creates for me as a practicing therapist. On one hand, I resonate deeply with the critique of reducing a person to a single, unified self. Anyone who has spent time in a therapy room knows that human beings are complex, contradictory, and often composed of multiple voices pulling in different directions.At the same time, I also wrestle with a practical question that emerges both in my own life and in the lives of my clients: is a radically multiple self actually livable? When identity becomes too fragmented, people often experience anxiety, instability, and the unsettling feeling that they are not really a self at all.Rather than choosing between the ideal of perfect integration and the chaos of pure multiplicity, I explore the possibility that psychological health might lie somewhere in between. Perhaps the task of therapy is not to eliminate our inner plurality but to learn how to negotiate among the different parts of ourselves—creating enough coherence to live meaningfully while still honoring the multiplicity that makes us human.This episode is less about settling the debate and more about dwelling inside the tension. Because sometimes the most important conversations in psychology are the ones that refuse to offer easy answers.

Many people think burnout just means they need more rest. But what if burnout isn't really about being tired?In this episode I explore the deeper psychology of burnout and why it often emerges when our work becomes disconnected from meaning. Drawing from psychology, philosophy, and clinical experience, I unpack why rest alone often doesn't fix burnout—and what actually helps people reconnect with purpose, agency, and a sense of aliveness.

Lately I've been carrying a specific kind of dread. Watching the situation with Iran develop, and noticing how often God gets woven into the justification for violence — quietly, almost liturgically, until you can't tell where the political calculation ends and the sacred mission begins. That observation sent me back to Slavoj Žižek, and to an argument I find both uncomfortable and urgent: that it isn't the absence of God that makes everything permissible. It's the presence of God. Or more precisely, the certainty that you're acting in his name.In this episode I trace both sides of that paradox — including the challenge my stepson puts to me constantly, that without God there's no real ground for ethics at all. I spend time with Hegel, Paul Tillich, and Todd McGowan on the idea of a God who doesn't control history and therefore can't be invoked to sanction it. No clean resolution. Just a question I think we need to be asking right now.

This episode is a close reading of Saving Genitality: Toward a Freudian Virtue Ethics, a new essay by Sohrab Ahmari published by Everyday Analysis.The argument Ahmari makes is stranger and more interesting than it might first appear. Freud, for all his reputation as the great debunker of bourgeois morality, never managed to evacuate his clinical concept of "normality" of ethical content. His account of psychological health — centred on what he called genitality, the mature organisation of sexuality toward heterosexual, reproductive union — turns out to carry an implicit moral claim: that health and virtue are, in the end, the same thing.That claim puts Freud in unexpected company. It places him closer to Aristotle than to the statistical normality of nineteenth-century medicine — closer to a tradition that insists human beings have a nature, and that living well means living in accordance with it.In this episode I try to unpack that argument carefully and honestly — moving through the collapse of classical teleology, Hume's is-ought problem, MacIntyre's diagnosis of modern moral discourse, the Wolfman case, and the tension between the pleasure principle and the reality principle. I also spend time with where the argument strains: the Lacanian objection, the empirical critiques of Freud, and the political implications of framing one form of sexuality as the mature norm.I don't endorse everything here. But I think it raises questions worth sitting with.Essay: Saving Genitality by Sohrab AhmariPublished by Everyday Analysis (2026) — everydayanalysis.co.uk

What drives people into the arms of white Christian nationalism — and why does it hold them so completely? In this episode, I go beneath the politics and into the psychology, using psychoanalytic theory to deconstruct what the movement is actually doing at the level of the unconscious. Drawing on Philip Gorski and Samuel Perry's The Flag and the Cross, Pamela Cooper-White's landmark paper "God, Guns, and Guts," and the testimony of former evangelical minister Brad Onishi, I examine white Christian nationalism not as a fringe aberration but as a religious power order — a cosmology of hierarchy held together by fear, trauma, and the desperate human need for order in a world that feels like it's coming apart. I move through Freud's group psychology, the narcissistic leader, Klein's paranoid-schizoid splitting, castration anxiety and gun culture, and end with the most unsettling question of all: who is carrying the shadow the rest of us won't claim?

What if the belief that you're special is the very thing keeping you from your own life?In this episode, I explore one of the quietest and most consequential assumptions most of us carry: that we matter in a cosmic sense. That we were meant to be here. That our particular existence is not an accident.Drawing on Adam Phillips' razor-sharp provocation in Missing Out, Ernest Becker's unsettling theory of heroism in The Denial of Death, and Irvin Yalom's clinical insight into what he called the illusion of personal specialness, I trace where the need for significance comes from, what it costs us, and what might be waiting on the other side of it.I look at how parents — out of genuine love — install a sense of cosmic specialness in their children, and what happens when adolescence and adulthood deliver the reckoning. I also spend time in the consulting room, where one client's relational struggles turn out to be rooted in something older and deeper than anyone first suspected.This isn't an episode about giving up. It's about the strange freedom that becomes available when we stop needing the universe to confirm us.

In this episode, I reflect on the 2017 Electric Dreams adaptation of Philip K. Dick's “The Commuter” alongside Adam Phillips' idea of the unlived life. Macon Heights — the town that never officially existed — becomes a powerful metaphor for the life we imagine would have been smoother, more coherent, less burdened.Drawing from my clinical work with autistic clients, I explore whether our defining “symptoms” or fractures are actually structural — and what it would mean to remove them. If you could erase the wound that shaped you, would you still be yourself?This is an episode about fantasy, identity, and the unsettling cost of chasing a seamless life.

In this episode, I explore whether Georges Bataille can be read as a radical theologian precisely because he refuses to save God.Drawing from Allan Stoekl's essay “Bataille, Teilhard de Chardin, and the Death of God,” I contrast Teilhard's vision of convergence and Omega with Bataille's insistence that completion ends in rupture — that absolute knowledge collapses into nonknowledge.Although I no longer identify as a Christian, I remain drawn to radical theology. Here, I wrestle with a tension I feel even within progressive theology: after rejecting a literal deity, do we still preserve a highest ground — a metaphysical guarantor — under another name?Bataille's atheism forces me to ask whether a truly radical theology must relinquish even that.Not comfort.But courage.

In this episode, I explore Georges Bataille's account of religion through Zeynep Direk's reading — not as belief in a divine being, but as the acknowledgment of the movement where life and death pass into each other.I reflect on my own shift beyond doctrinal Christianity and how I'm developing what I call ethical hedonism — a way of honoring pleasure, eros, and vitality without abandoning structure or responsibility.We'll talk about ego, excess, abjection, and the festival as a necessary interruption of productivity — and why building small “festivals” into our lives may be essential for psychological health.

What if transcendence isn't a ladder we climb but a descent we resist?In this solo episode, I explore an intuition that first confronted me in my own therapy — especially when I began taking my dreams seriously. The symbols that unsettled me most were the ones that betrayed my conscious morality and stirred disgust or erotic charge. And yet, those very images carried psychic energy that felt unmistakably sacred.Bringing together Bataille's claim that the sacred can be entered through the latrine, Philip K. Dick's idea of the “trash stratum,” alchemical transformation, Lacan's notion of jouissance, and Kristeva's theory of abjection, I challenge the spiritual-material dualism that elevates prayer above orgasm and transcendence above embodiment.If the sacred erupts precisely where identity destabilizes — in what we expel, repress, or deem impure — then the places we most want to reject may not be obstacles to depth. They may be its doorway.

In this solo episode, I explore what Jeffrey Kripal calls the traumatic secret — the uneasy coordination between trauma and transcendence in mystical literature — through the philosophy of Georges Bataille.I reflect on how Kripal shaped my own intellectual and spiritual development during a season of deconstruction, teaching me how to remain open to mystery while staying critically grounded. From Bataille's ideas about eroticism, death, and transgression to Huxley's filter theory and the destabilization of the ego, I examine the possibility that rupture does not “cause” mystical experience but may sometimes allow it to appear.This is not a romanticizing of trauma or a defense of supernaturalism. It's an inquiry into thresholds — those moments when the structures of the self tremble and something larger presses in.The shell must be broken.What emerges remains a mystery.

I don't believe in astrology.But while reading I Don't Believe in Astrology by Deborah Silverman, I found myself unexpectedly confronted — especially by the fact that Capricorn is traditionally associated with The Devil card in the tarot.Not evil. Attachment.In this solo reflection, I explore ambition, purpose, materialism, and the subtle chains we don't realize we're wearing. I talk about being a terrible boss but deeply driven, about the difficulty of being still, about the constant hum of productivity in my nervous system, and about Freud's death drive and the superego's demand to produce.This isn't a book review. It's a meditation on compulsion, freedom, and what it might mean to loosen the chains without abandoning ambition.I don't take the symbols literally.But I do take what they reveal seriously.

I've been using the phrase ethical hedonism in recent episodes, but I realized I hadn't slowed down enough to ask a foundational question: what do I mean by pleasure?In this solo reflection, I think out loud about pleasure as subjective, embodied, relational, and psychologically complex. I explore the neuroscience of dopamine, the difference between craving and deep presence, and how culture shapes what we're allowed to enjoy.This episode isn't definitive. It's a work in progress. A serious attempt to ask whether pleasure — when it enhances vitality, connection, and coherence — might actually be an ethical guide rather than something to mistrust.

In this solo episode, I explore a tension that I've encountered both personally and clinically—the way some high-control religious communities can feel deeply warm, relational, and inviting at first, and yet over time reveal a much more rigid and exclusionary structure underneath.I begin with a personal reflection on being re-exposed to Douglas Wilson while listening to conversations about Christian nationalism, and how his winsome, calm, and disarming tone stands in stark contrast to what I see as deeply dangerous ideas—especially when it comes to democracy, pluralism, and the ability for real difference to exist.From there, I unpack what I'm calling aesthetic hospitality—the way warmth, attentiveness, and belonging can function as a kind of soft power that draws people in before they've had the chance to fully discern what they're stepping into.Drawing on psychoanalytic insights, including Todd McGowan's critique of community and James Hollis' distinction between internal and external authority, I explore how belonging in these systems is often conditional, particularly for LGBTQ+ individuals, and how exclusion is frequently reframed as truth, morality, or righteousness.This episode is ultimately an invitation to develop a deeper kind of discernment—not just asking whether a community is kind or welcoming, but whether it can actually tolerate your full existence without requiring you to become someone else in order to belong.

What if suffering isn't the clearest sign I'm on the right path?In this episode, I explore the legacy of high-control Christianity and its elevation of pain as virtue, contrasted with a different ethical vision rooted in aliveness, pleasure, and embodied experience. Drawing on David Congdon, Linn Tonstad's resurrection-centered theology, and Carrie Jenkins' work on love, I begin to reframe pleasure as something deeper than indulgence—as a guide toward a more fully lived life.This is an exploration of ethical hedonism, not as an escape from suffering, but as a way of no longer centering it.

I've been reading Pleasure Activism by adrienne maree brown as a way of making sense of what I've been calling my own ethical hedonism — not indulgence, not impulsivity, but the question of whether pleasure might actually function as guidance.Included in that book is Audre Lorde's classic essay The Uses of the Erotic, which I recently told a group chat might be one of the best essays I've ever read. In this solo episode, I unpack why.Lorde reframes the erotic not as performance or spectacle, but as a form of embodied knowledge — a deep connection to our capacity for joy that becomes a lens through which we evaluate our lives. When we reconnect with that internal hum of aliveness, she argues, we can no longer settle for what is merely safe, conventional, or externally approved.Along the way, I explore a resonance I can't ignore — the connection between what Lorde calls erotic knowledge and what James Hollis describes as inner authority. They are not saying the same thing. They are not operating in the same tradition. And yet both point toward an internal guidance system that asks us to live from alignment rather than expectation.This episode weaves together ethical hedonism, embodied joy, clinical reflections, and the responsibility that comes with knowing your own capacity for depth.Once you know your capacity for joy, you are responsible to it

In this solo episode, I return to James Hillman's chapter on the puer aeternus and pothos from Loose Ends — and explore how longing may not be a problem to solve, but the very engine of being alive.Building on Jung's reflections on the wanderer while moving beyond a mother-centered interpretation of desire, Hillman reframes longing as structural to consciousness itself. I weave his insights together with Lacan's notion of lack, Jaak Panksepp's SEEKING system in affective neuroscience, Emmanuel Coccia's reflections on fear as the death of desire, and even a Rumi quote I strongly disagree with.This episode is also deeply personal. I reflect on my own journey in therapy, the suspicion of desire within Christian spaces, the demonization of the puer archetype, and why I'm learning to trust longing again — including how erotic pursuit can become a conscious participation in that blue flame rather than a distraction from it.What if wandering isn't immaturity?What if desire isn't deception?What if depression is, at least sometimes, the extinguishing of the flame that keeps us reaching?Not all who wander are lost.

Esther Perel has named Jack Morin as a major influence on her thinking about desire — so I returned to The Erotic Mind. What emerged was a theory of passion that feels even more relevant now.In this episode, I explore Morin's Erotic Equation — attraction plus obstacles equals excitement — and connect it to psychoanalytic reflections on lack, resistance, and the structure of desire. Drawing on Todd McGowan and Fichte's concept of Anstoß, the obstacle that functions as both barrier and propulsion, I examine why desire often thrives in tension rather than total security.This is a deep dive into longing, ambivalence, power, and the paradox that keeps erotic life alive.

When Bella Freud—great-granddaughter of Sigmund Freud—sat down with Esther Perel on Fashion Neurosis, I knew I had to listen. What unfolds is not a conversation about trends or aesthetics, but about identity, masculinity, desire, and the psychology of being seen.In this solo reflection, I explore clothing as a kind of “second skin”—a psychological boundary between self and world. Drawing from Perel's thinking on Eros in Mating in Captivity, Valerie Steele's idea of fashion as skin ego, and even a touch of Jack Morin's erotic equation, I reflect on why what we wear is never neutral.I share a story from my therapy room about helping an autistic client build confidence through intentional style, what it's like to shop for clothes with my 16-year-old son, and why paying attention to how people craft themselves might be one of the most countercultural practices available to us right now.Fashion isn't superficial. It's relational. It's embodied. And in a world where we rarely look up from our screens, noticing what someone is wearing might be one small way of saying: I see you.

More and more men are showing up in therapy convinced that desire is a technical problem—something that can be solved through optimization, symmetry, and self-correction. Jawlines, ratios, bodies, images. Looksmaxxing promises certainty, control, and relief from rejection, but what it actually delivers is anxiety, perfectionism, and a dead end.In this episode, I bring together several threads that have been colliding for me lately: re-watching Mad Men, clinical conversations with men struggling under the pressure to optimize themselves, and Jacques Lacan's unsettling idea of objet petit a—the object-cause of desire that can never be perfected, possessed, or secured.Along the way, I draw on Slavoj Žižek's famous example of Cindy Crawford's mole, and on Jessica Paré's portrayal of Megan Draper, whose gap-toothed beauty in Mad Men illustrates a simple but uncomfortable truth: desire doesn't emerge from flawlessness, but from the excess, the gap, and the imperfection that refuses to be optimized away.This episode is a critique of looksmaxxing culture, perfectionism, and the fantasy that being desirable means becoming complete—and an invitation to think about desire as something far less controllable, far less marketable, and far more human.

In this solo episode, I reflect on Bad Bunny's Super Bowl halftime performance as more than a cultural moment—it becomes a doorway into memory, migration, colonial history, and the psychology of diaspora.Born in Puerto Rico to a Puerto Rican mother and an American father, I weave my own family story into a broader reflection on what it means to live between worlds, shaped by love, economic precarity, mental health struggle, and displacement. Drawing on a formative course I took on Puerto Rican history, I explore the unfinished colonial relationship between Puerto Rico and the United States and how colonialism doesn't just extract resources—it fractures continuity and reorganizes psychic life.I also spend time with one of Bad Bunny's most powerful songs, Lo Que Le Pasó a Hawái, reading it through the lens of diaspora psychology: anticipatory grief, forced migration, split belonging, and the quiet violence of watching home become uninhabitable while still loving it deeply.At the center of the episode is a concept that has stayed with me for years: sacred hospitality. I argue that Puerto Rican love—expressed through exuberant joy, warmth, rhythm, and generosity—is not naïve optimism but an ethical and spiritual response to colonial harm. Joy, here, becomes resistance. Hospitality becomes strength.In a moment when fear and hatred feel increasingly normalized, this episode is an invitation to remember that the United States is irreducibly complex—and that the only thing stronger than hate is love, lived as sacred hospitality.

In Part Three of this Heated Rivalry series, I turn my attention to Ilya and the moment in Episode Five that changed how I understood his character entirely. When Shane lets Ilya speak in Russian — without translation, without explanation — the series opens into a deeper story about borders, belonging, and the cost of building a life far from home.This episode explores Ilya not just as a romantic lead, but as a figure shaped by immigration, queerness, and the constant negotiation between safety and authenticity. From a therapeutic lens, I reflect on what it means to live at the intersection of national, legal, and relational borders, and why being allowed to speak from one's deepest interior world — even when it cannot be fully understood — can be a profoundly human form of connection.This is one angle on Heated Rivalry, and part of a larger ongoing conversation. There is much more still to explore, but here I stay with Ilya, Episode Five, and the quiet devastation — and courage — of being foreign everywhere.

In this episode, I'm joined by Elisabeth Schilling for a slow, careful conversation about Eros—not as romance or scandal, but as a force that shaped the early history of psychoanalysis itself.Using A Dangerous Method as a starting point, we explore Carl Jung's relationships with Sabina Spielrein and Toni Wolff, and the ethical, psychological, and relational tensions that emerge when desire enters spaces meant for healing, learning, and transformation. We talk about transference and countertransference before they were fully theorized, about intimacy before professional boundaries were clearly named, and about how early analysts struggled to hold erotic energy without being overtaken by it.This is not an episode offering verdicts or moral simplifications. Instead, it's an attempt to sit with paradox: how Eros animates creativity and depth, how it destabilizes certainty, and why the frame—in therapy, academia, and relationships—matters precisely because Eros is real.Along the way, we reflect on monogamy and polyamory as relational architectures, the danger of spiritualizing desire, the cost of boundary violations, and what Jung's unfinished struggles still teach us about intimacy, responsibility, and human limitation.This conversation is for listeners interested in depth psychology, ethics, and the complex terrain where desire, care, and power intersect.

In Part Two of this ongoing reflection on Heated Rivalry, I slow down and focus on the interior life of Shane Hollander and why his character has resonated so deeply with autistic and neurodivergent viewers, even without the show ever naming him as such.Rather than treating this as a question of diagnosis, I explore Shane as a way of being in the world — his pacing, his relationship to regulation, structure, intimacy, and safety — and why that portrayal feels so recognizably human to so many people. From a therapeutic lens, I reflect on representation beyond stereotypes, the cost of masking, and what it means to be in relationships that adapt to a nervous system rather than demand performance from it.This episode is one thread in a much larger conversation. There are many other angles still to explore in Heated Rivalry— cultural, relational, clinical, and symbolic — and this reflection is meant as a continuation, not a conclusion

In this episode, I sit with Heated Rivalry not as a show to review, but as a story that quietly pushes against the emotional tone so much of our culture has normalized. In a media landscape saturated with cynicism, distance, and dystopian assumptions about intimacy, this series lingers on warmth, pleasure, and the slow, imperfect development of trust.From a therapeutic perspective, I explore why that matters — especially for men, for queer and neurodivergent people, and for anyone who has learned to expect that closeness will come at a cost. I reflect on masculinity beyond emotional shutdown or collapse, on intimacy without guarantees, and on why therapy itself can be understood as an anti-dystopian practice rooted in the belief that connection, under the right conditions, does not destroy us.This episode is only one way into Heated Rivalry. There are many other angles still to explore — relational, symbolic, cultural, and clinical — and this conversation is very much the beginning rather than the conclusion.

In this solo episode, I reflect on a moment from my clinical work with a young male client who brought in a conversation from the Joe Rogan podcast, where online debater Andrew Wilson suggested that therapy is ineffective and that what people really need is simply a good friend.Rather than responding defensively, I take the question seriously and explore a deeper philosophical and psychological inquiry: what actually makes therapy different from just talking to a friend?Drawing on ideas from the therapeutic frame, research on listening, and the role of ritual and experience in psychological change, I reflect on how therapy functions as a distinct kind of relationship — one shaped by structure, depth, attention, and meaning.This is not an argument that everyone needs therapy, but a reflection on what therapy can offer when it works well, how it differs from everyday conversation, and why both friendship and therapy may serve different but complementary roles in a human life.

I don't usually post public criticism. It's just not really my mode. I'm far more interested in dialogue, curiosity, and building ideas than tearing other people's work apart.But in this episode, I reflect on why I found a recent Jungian podcast on polyamory genuinely disappointing—not simply because I disagree with its conclusions, but because I expected more depth, more reflexivity, and more psychological subtlety from a tradition that prides itself on precisely those things.I explore the limits of how polyamory was framed in that conversation, including the use of straw-man arguments, the assumption that sexuality is fundamentally about attachment, and the tendency to psychologize or spiritualize lived relational realities into “inner” symbolic processes. Along the way, I ask a deeper question: if we're going to analyze the unconscious motivations of people who practice polyamory, are we also willing to examine our own unconscious reactions against it?This is not an episode defending or promoting any particular relationship structure. It's an invitation to take depth psychology seriously—especially when it becomes morally or emotionally charged—and to ask whether suspicion, discomfort, and archetypal loyalty are being mistaken for psychological insight.In other words: what happens when a depth tradition stops turning its tools back on itself?

On a drive home after dinner with my kids, listening to Tim Henson's Original Sin, a constellation of ideas came together around the work and life of psychoanalytic philosopher Mari Ruti. This episode is a personal, creative reflection on Ruti as a kind of “meek rebel” — someone deeply relational, politically engaged, and radically committed to inner freedom without ever surrendering herself to social belonging.At the heart of the episode is a story I heard from Gail Newman about Ruti's time in Vienna: how she accepted the invitation to collaborate on The Creative Self, but only if she could rent her own apartment — needing solitude not as withdrawal, but as the condition of her thinking, writing, and creativity.Thinking with Rami Kaminski's idea of otroversion, and drawing on Ruti's own words about singularity, intimate revolt, and the limits of external revolution, this episode is an affectionate, speculative portrait of a life oriented toward depth over performance, inner freedom over recognition, and creativity over coherence.Not a scholarly argument — just a meditation on what it might mean to live a deeply relational life without ever losing one's singularity.

In this solo episode, I reflect on two recent conversations that have been quietly reshaping how I think about faith, love, and identity—my dialogue with theologian David Congdon on polyamorous Christianity, and my conversation with Rami Kaminski on otroversion and The Gift of Not Belonging.On the surface, these episodes come from very different worlds. But as I sit with them, I begin to hear a shared invitation: to step out of inherited scripts, resist mono-normative ways of living, and take responsibility for crafting an ethical, relational, and spiritual life that is truly our own.This episode explores the courage it takes to choose your own adventure—to discover your authentic voice, to seek deep connection without losing yourself to groupthink, and to live without the false safety of guarantees. Drawing from my work as a therapist and from the heart of Green Flags, I reflect on what it means to belong without disappearing, to love without rigid rules, and to build a life rooted in curiosity, integrity, and real intimacy.If you've ever felt like you don't quite fit the scripts you were handed—this one is for you.

What if not belonging isn't a flaw—but a form of freedom?In this episode of Psyche, I sit down with psychiatrist and author Dr. Rami Kaminski to explore his powerful book, The Gift of Not Belonging: How Outsiders Thrive in a World of Joiners. Together, we unpack his concept of otrovertness—a way of being in the world where a person may appear gentle, kind, and socially capable on the outside, yet internally refuses to surrender their identity to groupthink, ideology, or social pressure.Dr. Kaminski describes the otrovert as a kind of meek rebel: someone who doesn't need to be loud, defiant, or disruptive in order to be free. Instead, their rebellion is inward—rooted in the radical act of thinking for themselves, feeling for themselves, and refusing to let the crowd define who they are.We talk about how modern culture confuses belonging with safety, how early socialization trains us to trade authenticity for acceptance, and why so many sensitive, neurodivergent, and deeply thoughtful people grow up feeling like outsiders—even when they seem to “fit in” just fine.This conversation also explores:Why connection is not the same as belongingHow otrovertness relates to autonomy, attachment, and inner freedomWhy obedience often gets mistaken for goodnessAnd how living outside the emotional herd can actually lead to a calmer, more meaningful lifeIf you've ever felt like you were never meant to live according to someone else's script—this episode will speak directly to you.