The post Cultural Loyalty: The Hidden Cost of Being Rooted but Restless first appeared on SUNGJEM AIER.
]]>The hidden cost of cultural loyalty often lies in the quiet battles we fight within ourselves. The kind that doesn’t make headlines but tugs relentlessly at our choices. It’s the constant pull between honoring cultural norms and chasing personal freedom. And while no one explicitly says “you can’t do this,” the silent pressures often speak louder than words.
Growing up in a culture rooted in tradition feels like walking a tightrope. Village councils and societal norms pulls us from one end while we also try to tiptoe into modernity.
We carry more than just our names. We carry our villages, our families, and the understanding that every mistake reflects on everyone we belong to.
Take the simple decision of moving abroad to work or study. Technically, there’s support. Parents cheer you on, friends wish you well, but there’s a lingering thought that follows you: “Should I be staying back?”
It’s not always loud, but it’s there. The cultural expectation that, one day, you’ll return home, settle down, and carry on the legacy. It’s not an obligation enforced by rules but by love, duty, and tradition.
This push and pull isn’t only about culture; it’s about identity. Psychologists talk about cognitive dissonance, the discomfort we feel when our actions conflict with our values.
For many of us, values are shaped by generations before us. You learn that sacrifice is noble. That family comes first. That peace within the community is greater than personal freedom. And when you dream of something different, it feels like betrayal.
There’s pride in belonging, but also guilt in stepping away from it.
And this isn’t just cultural, it’s psychological. Cultural loyalty creates belonging, but it can also cause guilt when personal dreams clash with group expectations. This concept of collectivist guilt (individuals feel responsible for group well-being) can slowly lead to anxiety, depression, and burnout.
In communities like ours, where cultures hold very strong communal ties, often foster a sense of collective responsibility. This means that individuals weigh their decisions against the larger good. It’s why many of us hesitate to pursue choices that could be seen as “selfish.”
Even everyday decisions like what you wear, how you express opinions, even the way you engage with your faith. Every choice is filtered through, “What will people think?” and ‘Will this reflect badly on my family?”
I remember when I first chose to study psychology. The reactions were a mix of confusion and concern.
“Why would you want to be around crazy people?”
“You’ll isolate yourself.”
“You might lose your faith.”
There was genuine fear that delving into the human mind meant stepping away from God. Ironically, it was my faith that shaped my compassion for others.
It wasn’t just the career choice that raised eyebrows but the implication that I might ‘forget’ my faith or become too ‘westernized.’ Subtle nudges and suggestions that I reconsider, that I “pray on it more,” or find a more “suitable” path.
These kinds of conversations create a breeding ground for guilt and self-doubt. Are we making decisions for ourselves, or for the version of ourselves we think others will accept?
In many communities, therapy is often sidelined, with prayer centers being the first (and sometimes only) recourse. The belief isn’t malicious, generations have rooted this belief in the understanding that suffering is spiritual and healing comes through faith. But this often leaves mental health struggles in the shadows.
There’s another layer to this and it’s what psychologists call learned helplessness. When people are told, time and again, that prayer is the only path to healing, it can lead to a quiet resignation. Over time, it feels pointless to seek help elsewhere because the belief has been shaped that nothing else will work. It’s not a lack of faith, it’s a conditioned response.
Labeling mental health issues as spiritual failings silences people.
I’ve seen it happen. Someone struggling silently, told to “pray harder” or ‘”have more faith.” And when the struggle continues, it feels like a personal failure. Shame grows, and so does the isolation. People stop seeking support, not because they don’t need it, but because they believe it’s futile to ask for it.
But the truth is, therapy doesn’t diminish faith. If anything, it strengthens it by offering tools to navigate pain that prayer alone may not address. It helps break that cycle of helplessness, reminding people that seeking help isn’t weakness, it’s courage.
I’ve seen families whisper about “mental illness” as if it’s a shameful secret. Some would rather seek spiritual deliverance than acknowledge the need for psychological support.
This isn’t to undermine faith. No, I believe spirituality can be a strong pillar of mental health. It only becomes problematic when it’s the only solution offered.
I strongly believe that it’s time for a conversation that bridges faith and therapy.
Prayer and counseling can coexist.
Yes, faith can offer strength, but it shouldn’t replace professional support.
Healing requires both spiritual and psychological work and understanding this can reduce the stigma to create space for healthier conversations.
It’s not just about “me.” It’s about “we”- the family name, the community reputation, the village honor. Whether it’s career choices, marriage, or lifestyle decisions, cultural loyalty can feel like a constant filter.
Even in the smallest of decisions. It could be dressing a certain way or voicing a different opinion. I’ve felt the need to measure how it might reflect on my family.
Will people think I’ve changed too much?
Will they assume I’ve forgotten where I come from?
Sometimes it feels like I’m skating on thin ice, constantly balancing who I am and who I’m expected to be.
Even amid internal turmoil, people expect you to show resilience and stay silent about struggles.
But this only fuels isolation and anxiety.
This is a classic example of role conflict. On one side, there’s the role of the ‘dutiful child.’ This one honors tradition, staying close to family, maintaining community ties. On the other, there’s the role of the ‘independent self.’ It is the side that wants to explore, to take risks, to choose a path that feels personal and free.
The challenge is that both roles matter, but they rarely coexist peacefully.
Research shows that unresolved role conflict doesn’t just create stress, it chips away at self-identity. Over time, this emotional labor can lead to anxiety, burnout, and even a sense of disconnection from yourself.
So where do we draw the line? And how do we do it without breaking the ties that bind us to our roots?
The truth is, there’s no easy answer. It’s not as simple as saying “just live your life.” And it’s not about completely rejecting traditions, either. Some cultural norms are beautiful. They’re about community, connection, and mutual care.
But the question is, how do we hold onto these values while making space for personal growth?
Perhaps it’s about time we acknowledge that while tradition shapes us, it doesn’t have to chain us. And seeking therapy isn’t dishonoring faith. Just as pursuing personal dreams isn’t rejecting family.
It’s about embracing the complexity of who we are, the individuals shaped by culture but also by personal desire and emotional well-being.
Maybe the most respectful thing we can do is to live authentically, even if that means taking roads less traveled. To acknowledge that while traditions have given us strength, it’s okay to question what no longer serves our mental health.
Growth is uncomfortable.
You can love your roots and still want to fly. And wanting more for yourself doesn’t mean wanting less for your community.
It’s a messy balance. But maybe that’s okay.
Not choosing between tradition and tomorrow, but learning how to walk with both.
Navigating cultural loyalty often brings up questions about personal choices. Selfish or Selfless? explores this reflection further, shedding light on the dilemma of decision-making.
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]]>The post Forgiveness Fatigue and the Cost of Always Being Kind first appeared on SUNGJEM AIER.
]]>I’ve always been the person who preaches forgiveness. The one saying “just let it go,” brushing off hurt and moving forward without holding grudges.
But the older I get and the more life decides to humble me, I realize there’s only so much forgiving you can do before you start losing little pieces of yourself and you start confusing forgiveness with self-betrayal.
Somewhere deep inside, I’d internalized this idea that if I chose not to forgive, it somehow made me a bad person. Ungodly. Unkind. Falling short of the “good example” I thought I was supposed to live by. That guilt creeps in when you least expect it. Even when you’re protecting yourself.
At some point, always being the bigger person just starts making you feel… smaller. And I’ve come to learn that maybe the problem isn’t you; but maybe you’re just hanging around too many little people.
(And no, this is not about height. I’m 5’1, life from this altitude is already humbling enough.:))
I mean the people who never take accountability. The ones who leave you with the mess. The ones who expect you to do the emotional labour of forgiveness while they screw up over and over again.
There’s this silent, never-ending expectation to just keep forgiving. To turn the other cheek and take the high road. But no one talks about how lonely the high road is when you’re the only one walking it.
When you reach this point of realization, it’s not about forgiving them.
It’s about asking yourself why you’re still sitting at the same table with people who keep serving you pain.
In therapy, we talk about forgiveness a lot- how it’s essential for healing, how holding onto resentment can keep you stuck, how you have to forgive others, and even yourself, to finally move on.
But I find myself wondering… Is it really forgiveness that you need? Or is it just release? Is it simply the act of putting the weight down, regardless of whether or not the people who hurt you ever change?
I used to think forgiveness worked like one of those fake-it-till-you-make-it things; like peace would follow if I just kept pretending I was over it. But it never did.
And what does forgiving yourself even mean? How do you do it? Is it true you can’t move forward until you do?
It’s one thing to forgive other people for what they’ve done. But forgiving myself for the times I stayed too long, tolerated too much, kept turning the other cheek when I knew I was running on empty? That’s been harder.
You hear it everywhere- “Forgiveness is part of healing.” “Forgive yourself to move on.” And yes, there’s truth in that.
But there’s a part that often gets overlooked: Forgiveness doesn’t mean pretending nothing happened. It doesn’t mean excusing the harm. And it definitely doesn’t mean forcing yourself to feel peace when all you feel is hurt.
There’s a point where forgiveness stops being healing and starts being harmful:
But here’s what I’m learning- you don’t have to forget to move on. And you can protect your peace without playing the martyr.
Forgiveness doesn’t always look like reconciliation or wiping the slate clean. Sometimes, forgiveness is simply saying:
“I don’t have to keep reliving this.”
“I don’t have to keep holding this pain.”
“I’m done carrying this. I’m done carrying them. And I’m done carrying the shame of finally choosing myself.”
That might look like forgiveness from the outside. But inside, it’s something quieter, more personal. It’s just you choosing to finally let go of what’s too heavy to keep carrying.
Here’s what I tell clients now, especially the ones who feel stuck on this idea that they have to forgive in order to heal: Don’t force it. Ride it.
Sit with the anger. Sit with the hurt. Let them run their course.
Because the truth is, anger isn’t always toxic. Sometimes it’s clarity. Sometimes it’s the only thing keeping you from going back to a place you don’t belong.
And the hardest person to forgive is yourself for:
Ignoring the red flags.
Letting them hurt you again.
Believing people would change.
But do you have to forgive yourself to move on?
I think… yes. But not in some big, dramatic, ceremonial way. You don’t have to write yourself a letter or shout it from the rooftops. Yes, you can let go of what has been eating your mind without having to be the bigger person or make excuses. You just have to decide you’re done punishing yourself for being human.
That’s it.
That’s the moment healing starts.
Just know that you’re not a bad person for being tired. You’re not “lesser” for being angry. You’re not failing some invisible moral test because you decided your heart has limits.
And if you’re still figuring out how to forgive yourself?
Same. Me too.
That’s just part of the process. The first step is realizing you never had to be superhuman in the first place.
And if you’ve ever questioned whether protecting your peace makes you selfish, this reflection on being selfless or selfish dives deeper into why setting boundaries and choosing yourself isn’t as simple or as selfish as it seems.
Release isn’t linear. Some days you’ll feel light and free. Other days, the weight sneaks back in. The goal isn’t to become some perfectly healed, endlessly forgiving, endlessly loving person who never feels hurt or anger again.
The goal is just peace. Whatever that looks like for you. Maybe that’s walking away and saying, “I forgive you, but I’m done.”
And when you’re ready, in your own time, forgiveness can be yours too.
Not as a gift to them.
But as freedom for you.
The post Forgiveness Fatigue and the Cost of Always Being Kind first appeared on SUNGJEM AIER.
]]>The post Doomscrolling: Effects on Mental Health & How to Stop first appeared on SUNGJEM AIER.
]]>Doomscrolling can reinforce negative thoughts and a negative mindset, something that can greatly impact your mental health. – Cleveland Clinic
Every Sunday, like clockwork, my phone sends me the dreaded screen time report. And every Sunday, I stare at the numbers in disbelief. “Five hours a day? That can’t be right. I have a life. I do things.” But do I? Because if my phone says I spent nearly a full workday scrolling through the abyss of social media, then what exactly have I been doing with my existence?
Welcome to the joyless black hole known as doomscrolling– where your thumb keeps scrolling, your anxiety keeps rising, and your sleep schedule keeps suffering.
Doomscrolling has become second nature to many of us. It’s the 21st-century version of staring into the void, except the void stares back with breaking news, Twitter arguments, and Reels that somehow know too much about your childhood trauma.
But why do we do it? And more importantly, how do we stop?
Doomscrolling is the habit of endlessly consuming negative news, often on social media or news apps, despite knowing it’s making you feel worse.
It’s like a catching a whiff of something disturbingly potent. You know it’s bad, but instead of walking away, you lean in, sniff again, and then invite everyone around you to confirm just how terrible it is. Before you know it, you’re all inhaling misery like a pack of overly curious sniffer dogs, suffocating in the very thing you should have ignored.
The term gained traction around 2020 when we were all practically glued to our screens, refreshing endlessly for the latest on the pandemic, political chaos, or whatever fresh disaster had decided to trend that day. But even outside of global crises, doomscrolling has cemented itself as a daily ritual for many of us.
The answer lies in our brain chemistry. It’s not just a lack of willpower, it’s your brain working exactly as it was designed to because your brain loves information, especially when it thinks that information is critical to your survival.
Back in the day, this instinct kept us alive. For instance, knowing which berries were poisonous or where predators lurked was the difference between life and death. Fast forward to today, and that same wiring has us refreshing news feeds, scanning for threats we can’t outrun, and obsessing over crises we have no control over.
And let’s be real, sometimes scrolling isn’t even about the news. Scrolling is like a coping mechanism.
Uncomfortable social situation? Your phone becomes a shield.
Awkward silence? Time to ‘urgently’ reply to a text that doesn’t exist.
Someone makes eye contact? Oh wow, would you look at that, suddenly I must scroll through my 2017 photos like I’m on a top-secret mission.
It’s the modern-day ‘I’m busy, don’t talk to me’ sign, except, it’s socially acceptable.
Social media and news feeds are designed to be sticky, meaning they keep us engaged by constantly offering new, unpredictable content. Every scroll is like a scratch card- you don’t know if you’ll uncover a funny meme, a juicy headline, or something totally useless, but the suspense keeps you going.
And that’s where the dopamine trap comes in.
Dopamine- the brain’s reward chemical. It fuels behaviours that feel good temporarily, whether it’s gambling, binge-watching, or, you guessed it, doomscrolling. Every new post, headline, or update delivers a quick dopamine hit, trapping us in a cycle of “just one more” until suddenly, an hour (or three) has disappeared.
Bad news sticks. Our brains are wired to pay more attention to negative information because evolutionarily speaking, that’s what kept us safe. It’s why we rubberneck at car crashes. We can’t look away from danger. Except now, it’s an endless scroll of worst-case scenarios, and we’re trapped in the front row with no intermission.
We doomscroll because we think staying informed gives us power over the chaos.
News Flash! It doesn’t.
But our brains don’t get the memo. We convince ourselves that if we read one more article, refresh one more time, or check one more source, maybe we’ll finally make sense of the mess.
We tell ourselves that knowing every detail will prepare us, that awareness equals action. But in reality, we’re just passively absorbing negativity, tricking ourselves into thinking we’re doing something useful.
(And if part of your doomscrolling is secretly fueled by needing to stay ultra in control 24/7, maybe check out my blog on hyper-independence too. Just saying. :))
Scrolling might offer temporary relief, but it comes at a cost. Here’s how it messes with you:
We’re constantly bombarded with bad news, perfectly curated lives, and opinions we never asked for. It’s a lot for one brain to handle. And that overload doesn’t just stay inside our heads, it spills out into how we connect with the people around us.
Conversations interrupted by constant screen-checking are all too common. Have you ever been in a conversation where someone just can’t put their phone down? Annoying, right?
Should you continue? Pause? Pretend you didn’t notice?
That tiny moment speaks volumes. When screens take priority, real-life connections suffer.
Relax, I’m not saying you need to delete all your social media and disappear into the wilderness. Although, let’s be honest, the thought has crossed most of our minds. But quitting the internet isn’t exactly realistic. Instead, here’s a few tips on how you can regain control:
Doomscrolling, like everything in life, comes with the good and the bad. It connects us, entertains us, and sometimes even helps us cope. But if your screen time report keeps making you question your life choices, then maybe it’s time for a change.
While we can’t control what’s happening in the world, we CAN control how much we let it consume us. The world will keep spinning whether we check the news 50 times a day or just once. And unless we’re journalists or policymakers, most of the information we obsess over won’t change our daily lives.
So the next time you catch yourself trapped in an endless scroll, ask yourself: “Is this actually helping me? Or am I just looking for control in a place where it doesn’t exist?”
Yes, you can still scroll a little but don’t forget to look up every once in a while. Some of life’s best moments happen off the screen.
(But, you know, finish reading this first. Then log off.)
The post Doomscrolling: Effects on Mental Health & How to Stop first appeared on SUNGJEM AIER.
]]>The post God, Guilt, and the Quiet Panic of Growing Up Religious first appeared on SUNGJEM AIER.
]]>I still say grace before meals. I still pray before bed and after I wake up just as I did growing up on Sunday school benches, youth services, memory verses, and sermons about heaven and hell. Even now, as an adult living on my own, some habits are stitched so deeply into my religious routine that they feel automatic.
There’s something oddly comforting about ending the day the same way I did when I was five years old, like wrapping myself in a piece of home no matter where I am.
It makes me feel like I’m tethered to something bigger, something familiar, especially on nights when the only thing standing between me and the endless scroll of anxious thoughts is a whispered prayer I’ve said a thousand times before.
But somewhere between those childhood rituals and adult reality, something else crept in, too. Something heavier, quieter. Harder to pray away.
It was this whole other side of growing up religious that no one really warned me about. The side that clings to you even after you’ve left the church building. The guilt. The shame. The fear of somehow getting it wrong.
And that’s where the quiet panic begins.
For so many of us raised in religious homes, adult anxiety doesn’t always come from trauma in the obvious sense. Sometimes it’s quieter. Sometimes it’s the soft, persistent fear of not measuring up. Of being watched. Judged. Left out of the “kingdom.”
And it’s not just Christianity. This is bigger than one faith. Across so many religions, shame and fear get used as tools to keep us in line.
“God is watching.” “Karma will catch up.” “Confess or suffer.”
And as kids, we listen. We absorb. And then, 20 years later, we wonder why we can’t sleep at night, why we ruminate over every mistake, why “forgive yourself” feels impossible.
See, religious anxiety isn’t always loud. Sometimes it shows up as perfectionism. Overthinking. The constant replaying of conversations, scanning for the thing you might’ve said wrong. Sometimes it’s that urge to confess thoughts you haven’t even acted on, just in case.
It’s wild, really. Because studying psychology taught me to call it by other names: anxiety, intrusive thoughts, hypervigilance, perfectionism.
But the first name I ever learned for it? Sin.
And I know I’m not alone.
I’m not saying religion is the villain here. I’m still a believer practicing my faith the best way I know how but growing up in a setting where doubts meant weakness and suffering was just “God testing you” ? Yeah, that tends to leave a mark.
It starts small.
“Don’t lie.”
“Don’t swear.”
“Don’t wear that.”
“Don’t think that.”
“Don’t want that.”
When you’re a kid, it’s just the rules. You follow them because you’re told they keep you good, pure, worthy. But over time, “goodness” stops being about actions and starts becoming something you attach to your identity. Something fragile that you can lose.
So what happens when you slip up?
Maybe you told a lie. Or skipped church. Or dated someone you shouldn’t have. Or questioned what you’d been taught.
Cue the guilt.
Then the internal monologue becomes:
“I’m disappointing God.”
“I’m not good enough.”
“I’ve failed.”
And sure, guilt has its place. It reminds us where we’ve strayed. But when you learn it through the lens of sin and punishment, it becomes something heavier. It turns into chronic self-surveillance. And suddenly, what was supposed to be a source of comfort becomes an endless loop of trying to be “better,” “holier,” “more worthy.”
That’s the part we don’t talk about enough:
How faith can coexist with fear. How anxiety can masquerade as devotion. How guilt, if we’re not careful, can become the engine of our spirituality instead of love.
As a therapist and as a Christian, I’ve had to spend years untangling those knots. Asking myself where my faith ends and where fear begins. Learning how to keep the rituals that bring me peace while unlearning the ones that keep me small.
Religious shame is different from ordinary shame.
Religious shame doesn’t just say, “I did something wrong.”
It whispers “ I am what’s wrong.”
Because when morality is tied to your worth as a person, mistakes stop being moments. They become identities. You don’t just mess up. You ARE messed up.
And that kind of shame follows you into adulthood in ways you don’t always recognize:
Religious shame prides itself in telling you that certain parts of you- your curiosity, your feelings, your doubts- are wrong for simply existing. And even years later, when you know better, when you’re actively unlearning it all, there’s still that quiet voice whispering, “But what if you’re wrong? What if you’re bad after all?”
And I’ve seen firsthand how these beliefs follow people into therapy rooms, sitting between us like an uninvited guest.
I remember a supervisor once bragging that he turned away a client because they were an atheist. He said, and I quote,
“HOW CAN I HELP YOU IF YOU DON’T BELIEVE IN GOD?”
I couldn’t believe it!
Because isn’t the whole point of helping people… to help people? Isn’t empathy supposed to stretch beyond our personal beliefs?
Faith should never be a filter for who deserves care. And yet, in spaces like ours, where religion isn’t just part of the culture, it IS the culture, those lines blur way too easily.
Where I’m from, there’s this unspoken (and sometimes loudly spoken) rule:
If you don’t believe in the “right” thing, You’re an outsider. An antichrist. A problem.
And hearing that as a practicing therapist? It’s disturbing. Because what happens when someone’s suffering doesn’t align with the teachings they were raised with? What happens when faith starts fueling the very anxiety it’s supposed to soothe?
That’s the kind of thing nobody prepares you for.
The silent battles. The guilt. The endless loop of “if only my faith was stronger…”
And growing up, I heard a lot of that. A lot of “us” and “them.” Who’s “saved” and who’s “lost.” Who’s “good” and who’s “wrong.”
But after everything I’ve studied, after all the people I’ve sat across from and listened to, I don’t think it works like that. I don’t believe one religion is better than another. Because at the core, the golden thread running through every major belief system is simple:
Treat others the way you want to be treated.
Psychology calls it reciprocity.
Newton said, “For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.”
Religion says, “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.”
The golden rule. The ripple effect. The energy you put out is the energy that comes back to you.
Whichever one you listen to; it’s all the same lesson.
This is the complicated part for me.
After over a decade of learning how the human mind works, how it breaks, how it bends, how it heals, the more I started to see the tangled threads between religion and mental health.
No matter what your faith looks like, a lot of us are carrying this invisible pressure to be good enough. To earn love. To avoid punishment. To belong.
I’ve seen people carry guilt that wasn’t theirs to hold.
Shame that was planted in them before they even had the words to name it.
And I’ve seen the damage done when religion is used as a measuring stick for worthiness.
I’ve also seen the good- the hope, the structure, the peace that faith can bring. I still experience that myself. But I know now that it’s okay to separate faith from the fear and control that sometimes come packaged with it.
Because here’s what I believe growing up has taught me:
And more than anything, you are allowed to stop proving your worth.
Here’s where I’ve landed: I don’t believe any higher power, in any form, wants us living in constant guilt or shame.
What I believe is this: Your relationship with the divine, whatever that means to you, is yours to build. Yours to nurture.
And if that relationship makes you feel anxious, afraid, or unworthy? It’s time to reimagine it. Because peace shouldn’t feel like a reward you earn for behaving perfectly. It should be the ground you stand on, no matter what.
And for me, I always find the most comfort in knowing that I have someone to talk to just as my clients do. Someone who doesn’t judge, doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t roll their eyes.
It’s a deep, unwavering comfort of being truly known and still fully loved. And when I pray, it isn’t performative. I’m not trying to be “good.” I’m just… talking. Sharing. Trusting that I’m heard. That’s the faith I choose now.
But that’s just me, in my Baptist life, in my Christian ways.
And I think anyone can feel that same peace, no matter what they believe.
Because it’s less about the name we give to our higher power and more about the relationship we build with it. When you strip away the fear and guilt, when you sit quietly with your own idea of the divine, what’s left should feel safe and freeing, not suffocating. Like the version of love that never asks you to earn it.
And when you find that…
It’s not fear anymore.
It’s home.
The post God, Guilt, and the Quiet Panic of Growing Up Religious first appeared on SUNGJEM AIER.
]]>The post Hyper-Independence: The Price of Always Being Self-Sufficient first appeared on SUNGJEM AIER.
]]>“When relying on others has historically led to hurt or disappointment, we train ourselves to avoid vulnerability altogether.”– Dr. Nicole LePera, on hyper-independence
I’ve always prided myself on being a strong, independent woman- cue the knowing looks and the jokes that come with that phrase. But even with all the eyes that want to pry open my sense of self, I like being self-sufficient and I don’t like asking for help.
There’s something undeniably cool about being that person- self-sufficient, emotionally untouchable, navigating life with the precision of a Swiss Army knife.
The internal monologue goes something like:
Need help? No, thanks.
Feelings? Keep them far, far away.
I don’t know what it is about showing vulnerability that makes me want to instinctively shut down or immediately abort mission. Maybe it’s the fear of being seen as weak, or maybe it’s just the way I’ve wired myself to function. If there’s a way to handle something on my own, you can bet I’ll find it.
But I’m starting to realize slowly and stubbornly that maybe, just maybe, I can’t do everything alone. And, more importantly, I don’t have to.
Hyper-independence goes beyond just being self-sufficient. It’s self-reliance on steroids! It’s the extreme need to handle everything alone, to the point where accepting help feels uncomfortable or even threatening. At it’s core, it’s rooted in the deep-seated belief that you cannot or should not rely on others, no matter what.
Thing is, hyper-independence is often praised as a strength. But what if that relentless “I got this” attitude is actually a defense mechanism in disguise? Many psychologists seem to think so too and there is research that backs this claim.
Numerous studies have linked this trait to trauma, especially when past experiences have taught you that relying on others leads to disappointment, betrayal, or loss of control. For many, it’s not just a personality trait; it is developed as a survival strategy.
If you grew up in an environment where you couldn’t depend on others, you learned to depend on yourself. If trust was broken one too many times, you decided you were better off never giving anyone the chance to let you down again. And if vulnerability ever led to pain, you learned to lock it away completely.
Overtime, emotional neglect can reinforce this “I’ll do it myself” mentality not out of strength, but as a way to shield you from future pain.
Hyper-independence feels like strength. And to an extent, it is. There’s something empowering about knowing you can rely on yourself. But when taken to an extreme, it becomes exhausting and isolating.
I’ve had moments where I was drowning in stress, knowing full well that I had people in my life who wanted to help, but I still refused to reach out. Not because they weren’t capable, but because some part of me just couldn’t do it. Maybe you’ve felt that too. The internal voice whispering, “You should be able to handle this,” or worse, “No one else will understand.”
The irony? The very thing meant to protect us (not depending on anyone) often ends up hurting us instead. Humans are wired for connection. Studies show that social bonds reduce stress, improve mental health, and even increase lifespan. So by way of this theory, when we deny ourselves support and push people away, we’re fighting against our own biology. Eventually, we end up alone- not because no one cares, but because we never let them in.
And that’s how hyper-independence turns into a slippery slope towards burnout. Doing everything alone may work for a while, but at a certain point, the weight gets too heavy. And when you don’t have a support system to fall back on, the cracks start to show.
So, if you’ve spent years convincing yourself that you don’t need anyone, how do you start letting people in? It won’t happen overnight, but healing starts with small, intentional steps:
Being independent is a good thing but being so independent that you shut people out? Not so much. Strength isn’t about carrying the world on your shoulders; it’s about knowing when to share the weight. And accepting help doesn’t mean you’re weak or you’ve failed. It just means you’re human.
So, to all my fellow hyper-independent souls out there, you don’t have to do this alone. You never did.
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]]>The post Debunking Five Misconceptions About Psychology first appeared on SUNGJEM AIER.
]]>When it comes to psychology and therapy, there are many misconceptions that prevent people from seeking the help they need. Let’s debunk five of the most common ones:
One of the most common misconceptions about therapy is that it’s just a one-to-one conversation with the patient and therapist sitting across from each other. Although that’s not how every therapy session goes, you can’t be blamed for only thinking that therapy is all about talking because popular TV shows and movies only show this side of therapy. Except for a few, the therapist is always a glasses-wearing, formally dressed, writing pad holding, excessively nodding person!
There are so many types and forms of therapy in the world. The extensive study of psychology has introduced many pioneers, founders, and developers of different forms of therapy that benefit society in many ways.
Psychologists have always understood that each person is unique and thus needs unique approaches to tackle their problems.
So, no. Talking is not everything a therapy session is. Depending on what type of therapist you go to, you will have different experiences. Therapists use various techniques, like role-playing and group sessions, to understand client needs.
This age-old stigma has glued on to us like gum on our shoes. It never really goes away. Tiny traces of it always remain.
Anything that gives you solace, lets you feel at peace and maybe takes your mind off of the stress a little bit, if not all, is therapeutic.
You don’t need to have a raging, life-threatening problem to go to therapy. Not everyone who goes to therapy needs to pop pills to feel better.
People come for struggles with relationships, self-confidence, career choices, self-esteem, motivation, and so many more.
When repressed, suppressed, and not dealt with, the minor, seemingly insignificant problems and issues are prone to manifesting themselves into more extensive issues and consuming power over you.
I can’t stress enough the power our mental state holds on our physical life. We think by suppressing such thoughts, we are growing, and we’re not affected by it. But more often than not, this issue comes back and manifests itself in many forms that we don’t even realize why it happens. This is where therapy comes in.
What you think might be a trivial matter could be the biggest struggle for some. So when someone comes to you for help on such issues, be open to lending them a listening ear; that could be all they need.
You’ll never know unless you deep dive into your own self and uncover the truth.
Therapists believe in “no shame, no blame.” But one of the most used phrases with misconceptions about psychology is that they blame your past for your problems.
However, the entire repertoire of a therapist consists of “no judgment” no matter what. The job exists so people have a safe place to talk about problems without fearing judgment or shunning.
Contrary to popular belief, not all therapy focuses on the past. Yes, many problems can have their roots in the past, and uncovering the past truth will give you answers. There’s no denying that flipping through your book of life will undoubtedly bear the answers to some of the problems you have now. But sometimes, the answer lies in the now.
Take Solution-Focused Brief Therapy, for example. Therapists who specialize in this form of therapy focus on the problem at hand. They do not need to know your past to understand your situation now. Focusing on solutions, they say ‘the problem is the problem, not the person.
Misconceptions that therapy is a quick fix, is widespread. But therapy is not a quick fix. Unlike traditional pain killers, therapy does not have a one-stop solution to all your problems.
They say “good things take time,” and I believe that taking your time to navigate through life, with each step, calculated in a way that benefits you, adds up to make a life for yourself that’s free from unnecessary stress.
A typical therapy session lasts 40-45 minutes, and this can be repeated 2-3 times a week. It will depend on your case and what your therapist deems is beneficial for you. Although, some new forms of contemporary therapy, like Brief therapy, are considerably shorter than traditional therapy.
With that said, the beauty of therapy lies in the relationship you build with your therapist and vice versa. A healthy relationship takes time and effort from both ends. When this happens through days, weeks and months, it makes the relationship even more important to your mental health.
There is a fundamental importance in the building of a strong client-therapist relationship. Only if the connection is strong will you trust your therapist, be open, and eventually allow you to accept yourself.
Trusting your therapist is everything in a therapy session. And for this, you need a positive therapeutic relationship.
When we talk about psychology misconceptions, one thing that rings loud is the idea that therapists give you all the answers. But the truth is, you should never go into therapy expecting clear-cut solutions to all your problems. You can, but if you do, you’ll most probably come out of it discouraged or dissatisfied.
The main goal of therapy is to guide you and give you the necessary tools to navigate your life correctly. Therapists are there to listen to your problems. They try to understand how you feel, and develop coping strategies to help you find your way in life successfully.
In many ways, your therapist is the older adult in the movies, spewing wisdom. Or they can be the person you meet to ask directions when you’re lost, the one that ushers you to your seats in a show. Ultimately, your therapist is the one with the map.
They first learn where you’re coming from, where you want to go, then give you the directions and the tools you need to get there.
I once heard a saying that goes something along the lines of, “if you give credit to your therapist for feeling better, the job of the therapist is not yet complete. But if you credit yourself for getting where you are, then you have had the opportunity of finding the right therapist for you.”
Don’t let misconceptions hold you back from achieving mental well-being. Discover practical strategies for building a healthy mindset in our article, What goes into building a healthy mindset?
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]]>The post Re-author your life: Narrative Therapy for Lasting Change first appeared on SUNGJEM AIER.
]]>Whenever I get asked the question, “Who are you?” a hundred different answers run through my mind.
I am a scholar for those who know the education system,
I am ‘my name’ for those who are holding pens and writing boards,
My parents’ daughter for relatives,
And my brother’s sister for those who know him,
For friends of friends, I am a friend’s friend (yes, friend, 5 times!).
I am a psychologist for my clients,
To my customers, a business owner
and I am a writer for my readers.
Each of these identities forms a narrative, a story I tell about myself, which Narrative Therapy, in turn, helps us examine and reshape. Indeed, even with this whole paragraph of identities that I and others have about me, I can still be another 100 paragraphs’ worth of identities.
The problem is the problem; the person is not the problem. – M. White & D. Epston
Narrative therapy believes that you are the stories you tell about yourself. Reality is socially constructed, therefore, the interactions we have with people become our reality. Moreover, narratives of our lives, including hardships, achievements, and hopes, form our experiences, and consequently, our live stories.
It lets people create stories, controlling their realities. We tell stories that identify who we are by stitching together different moments in our lives into a cohesive whole. These stories carry the essence of who we are. By the logic of this type of therapy, the narrative you carry about your life is your reality.
If I carry a story about me as a good cook, I have come to this conclusion by putting together a series of events in my life where I was appreciated for the food I prepared. Indeed, the more snippets of stories I add to this, the easier it is to demonstrate how I am a good cook because “someone once said…”
However, my competence in cooking is fiercely dominated by the idea that I have done exceptionally well in a sequence of events while dismissing the times that I might have done a terrible job because it does not fit into the dominant story- that I am a good cook. Similarly, negative thoughts can fester in your mind and actively convince you that you are what you think.
These are the “problem-saturated stories.”
A problem-saturated story might be someone who believes ‘I’m always going to fail’ after a single setback, or someone who defines themselves as ‘unlovable’ based on past relationship experiences.
Like many others, narrative therapy carries a political and social agenda- to help individuals liberate themselves from their culture dominated problem-saturated stories.
These stories are ‘distorted,’ ‘disempowering,’ and ‘unhelpful’ assumptions that dominate our narratives; sometimes to a point where it might seem unlikely that an alternate story exists.
The problem story paints the picture of an event or an experience in such a way that it cripples the reality of the storyteller, making it seem like there’s no end to the problem and nothing can be changed.
The narrative therapist will try to flip this situation by showing the narrator that there are visible choices and responses they can make to change the dominant problem story.
Instead of, “Anxiety is trying to control me,” we externalize the anxiety. Hence, you can begin to see it as a separate entity, something you can challenge and manage, rather than an inherent part of yourself.
In other words, therapist helps the narrator tell their story from a different point of view, one that makes them more powerful, bigger and stronger than the problem.
Narrative therapy aims to brand the narrator as the expert in their experience through capitalizing on the individual’s story-telling tendencies. The uniqueness of our cultures and societies birth different dominant discourses which can influence our personal narratives and become our realities.
Think you’re incompetent?
Really?
Who told you that?
A single critic?
A constant echo chamber?
Or a past failure you can’t shake?
Now, be honest: would you tell a friend they’re a failure, day after day?
Would you crush their confidence with every task?
Of course not. So why do it to yourself?
As social beings, we navigate an intricate web of unspoken rules, designed to maintain harmony. We crave peace, not just on a global scale, but within our own minds. Whether we seek relaxation after a long day or the satisfaction of reaching a hard-won goal, peace is the underlying pursuit. So, why the stark contrast?
Why do we meticulously avoid criticizing our friends, yet relentlessly berate ourselves?
Keenly aware of their emotional landscapes, we guard against careless negativity. Their feelings are our priority, as we seek to preserve the peace between us.
But then, the pivotal question: if we extend such careful consideration to others, why deny ourselves the same?
Why does the pain we inflict on ourselves carry less weight than the pain we might inflict on another?
How can we claim to love others while neglecting to love ourselves?
If we would never label a friend incompetent, unlovable, or hopeless, why do we subject ourselves to such harsh judgments? Why remain trapped in a self-destructive narrative when we possess the power to rewrite it?
We are the narrators of our lives. Our thoughts and words shape our reality. They do!
You are the narrator of your life story.
Therefore, you are quite literally what you think!
From the perspective of the therapist, these dominant discourses play the most vital role in creating the problem stories which bring people to therapy in the first place.
Unlike most therapies, narrative therapy is focused on the way people construct meaning rather than on the way people behave. The prime detail in therapy is to separate the person from their problem so that the issues are externalized, creating a clear distinction between “an individual with problems” and “a problematic individual.”
Narrative therapy believes that all people have good intentions and don’t need or want problems. Which stands true because who wants to be prematurely bald, constantly burdened, stressed out and on edge?
As the goal of therapy is to separate the person from the problem, once this is done, people are free to create and re-author their own stories.
The therapists seeks to UN-label individuals as “the problem”
There exists a notion in existential psychology that believes in a world with no inherent meaning. (A detailed story for the next blog!) Therefore, if there is no meaning in existence then people can create their own meaning.
There is no absolute truth because people can have multiple interpretations of a single event/experience. Narrative therapy encourages people to create their own stories and negate the “universal or absolute truths” that do not necessarily apply to them.
Finding meaning and purpose in your life that serves you and your truth is the final goal.
You are more than the stories that bind you. If not now, when? If not you, who?
Your story starts now.
Beyond reshaping your narratives, practical steps are essential for a healthy mindset. To learn more about these strategies, consider reading What goes into building a healthy mindset?.
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]]>The post Selfish or Selfless Choices: How to Decide When Both Feel Wrong first appeared on SUNGJEM AIER.
]]>Life is a constant tug-of-war between being selfish or selfless. Do we chase dreams that fulfill us but might distance us from loved ones, or do we stay grounded, sacrificing personal goals for the sake of family and stability? It’s a dilemma that doesn’t have a one-size-fits-all answer.
Would you rather experience ultimate life satisfaction or choose self-sustenance if it meant sacrificing the life you truly want? Scenarios where both align are rare, and to those who have them, I salute with the highest stature.
Bukowski, one of my favorite writers, wrote,
“Do what you love and let it kill you.”
and I think that this phrase carries so much weight in the idea that following our passions doesn’t always result in what most people’s ideal life looks like.
‘Most people’ being our own family, friends and in large, the society we live in. Some are keener on achieving that ‘ideal standard of living’ and that may be what gives them life satisfaction and that’s okay; while the rest can strive for life satisfaction with one penny a day type of life.
These are the selfish or selfless choices that define our lives.
It all boils down to whether we can sleep dreaming about running through hay fields in dungarees and rosy cheeks or whether we dream the type of dreams where the ground keeps falling beneath us and we can’t stop running.
Some say that’s just how life works- you can’t always get what you want. But I choose to believe otherwise. I think we always have a choice, even when it’s the hardest one to make.
It’s like needing night to appreciate the day, or silence to understand sound. You can’t know light without a little darkness. Life is full of these contrasts. Some people accept things as they come, and others push to change them. Funny how we always seem to want what we don’t have. When choices are limited, we crave more. When we have too many, we wish for simplicity.
But when faced with selfish or selfless choices, we can either accept the limits or fight to create the life we desire.
Simple? No. But possible? Always.
Some may say that this philosophy is selfish because we are draining our blood, sweat and tears for something that’s truly and solely for us; but for the self it’s a selfless deed –for selflessly loving ourselves so much that we are ready to do something so earnestly, without knowing fatigue to achieve the end goal.
Consider this: you’re offered your dream job, but it’s far from home. Your parents, aging or ailing, rely on you. Do you stay close, choosing stability and family, or take the job and bear the weight of distance? Each option carries its own pain and reward.
Neither choice is easy, and each comes with its own burden of judgment and consequence.
What I’m trying to convey is that no matter what decision you make, there will always be a good and bad side to it from all perspectives. For instance, you take the job and move away from home, then for you, it’s a selfless deed to yourself to carry the burden and heartache of leaving your family behind to pursue your dreams probably to support your family in the future. While people see it as a selfish deed because “you are ungrateful and don’t love your parents who have supported you your whole life.”
In the other instance, if you don’t take the job, you’re crazy! You lost the opportunity of a lifetime! While there may be people who appreciate your decision to reject the job, I think that the lamentations of our parents will supersede our sacrifices, perhaps being reminded on the daily and having to relive that for the rest of our lives. This is the narrative that has been heard and listened to for a lot of us.
The core of this dilemma isn’t about being selfish or selfless. It’s about understanding that every choice has its own complexity, shadowed by personal values and societal expectations. This blog isn’t just to share my thoughts but also to remind you- you’re not alone in feeling trapped in these dilemmas. Or maybe, it’s just to validate that I’m not the only one!
If you’ve ever felt the weight of societal or familial expectations shaping your decisions, especially when it comes to faith and identity, you might find some comfort in my reflections on navigating guilt and belief in God, Guilt, and the Quiet Panic of Growing Up Religious.
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]]>The post COST first appeared on SUNGJEM AIER.
]]>The cost, a relentless tide…
And then I felt it.
It fell- my heart
It fell from my chest and I didn’t even try to stop it
It broke.
I swear I felt it break
It broke mercilessly and nothing could stop it.
I felt it.
Bits of my heart in the rubble
I hear it wail in the heartache
I feel it.
The wreckage that is my heart
I feel it scratching against my skin
I let it consume me.
The post COST first appeared on SUNGJEM AIER.
]]>The post CLOCKWORK first appeared on SUNGJEM AIER.
]]>Clockwork gears grind, a feeling starts low…
It starts in the chest…
a little hollow, a little heavy.
In a walk-jog manner
picking up speed so fast, it skips over the lump in my throat.
Crash lands into soft flesh…
A little empty, a little crammed
in full throttle
with no signs of slowing down, it marmalizes my grooves and ridges.
Setting sail without a word…
a little relieved, a little hurt
in a sluggardly manner
makes its way down, down to the kickback.
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