Not every flower blooms. Some spend an entire season pushing against frozen ground, waiting for warmth that never arrives. Others are damaged before they ever have the chance to open, carrying invisible scars that keep their petals tightly closed. From a distance, they may look lifeless or forgotten. But beneath the surface, something important is still happening.

People are often like that. We tend to celebrate those whose talents are obvious, whose confidence is visible, and whose success unfolds in full view of the world. We admire the flowers in full bloom. Yet we rarely stop to wonder about the ones that never opened, perhaps because life never gave them the conditions they needed.

Some children grow up in homes where encouragement is replaced by criticism. Some adults spend decades trapped by fear, trauma, poverty, illness, or impossible expectations. Others bury their dreams beneath responsibility, convincing themselves that survival is more practical than hope. Over time, they begin to believe they were never meant to bloom at all.

But potential is not measured by appearance. A seed doesn’t fail because winter lasted too long. A flower isn’t defective because it bloomed later than the others or not at all. Sometimes what looks like failure is simply the consequence of an environment that could not sustain growth.

Imagine judging every flower by the same calendar. The tulip would seem early. The sunflower would seem late. The perennial would appear asleep while the annual stole the spotlight. Nature understands what we often forget: growth has its own timing.

There are people walking through the world carrying unopened versions of themselves. Hidden artists who never picked up a brush. Brilliant minds who never stepped into a classroom. Compassionate leaders who were taught to stay quiet. Inventors, musicians, writers, parents, and healers whose gifts remain unseen because they never found enough light.

But not every unopened flower is waiting for better weather. Some have everything they need to bloom, yet refuse. They cling to the safety of the bud because opening means becoming vulnerable. Some are simply too stubborn to bloom. They resist change, reject help, or become so attached to who they’ve been that they never allow themselves to become who they could be. The soil is fertile. The rain has fallen. The sun has risen. Yet they remain closed. Not because they can’t bloom, but because they won’t.

The tragedy isn’t that some flowers never bloom. The tragedy is that they eventually stop believing they ever could or choose the familiarity of remaining closed over the uncertainty of becoming something new.

Yet life has a remarkable way of surprising us. Sometimes a single act of kindness, one encouraging voice, an unexpected opportunity, or the decision to take one small step is enough to awaken something that seemed permanently dormant. What appeared dead was simply waiting.

Perhaps blooming isn’t the only measure of a flower’s worth. Its roots still strengthened the soil. Its presence still nourished the ecosystem. Its existence still mattered, even if no one ever stopped to admire its petals.

The same is true for people. Your value has never depended solely on what the world gets to see. Some lives bloom publicly. Others quietly enrich everyone around them in ways that cannot be photographed or applauded. And some remain closed by choice, mistaking comfort for protection until they forget that flowers were never created to stay buds forever.

And sometimes the flower that seemed destined never to bloom is simply waiting for a season that hasn’t arrived yet.

-Jennifer Donohue LCMHC

References:

Andersson, I., Persson, J., & Kajonius, P. (2022). Even the stars think that I am superior: Personality, intelligence and belief in astrology. Personality and Individual Differences, 187, 111413.

Campion, N. (2012). Astrology and popular religion in the modern West: Prophecy, cosmology and the New Age movement. Ashgate Publishing.

Dockterman, E. (2021, August 12). Why astrology apps are booming. Time.https://time.com/6083293/astrology-apps-personalized/

Forer, B. R. (1949). The fallacy of personal validation: A classroom demonstration of gullibility. Journal of Abnormal and Social Psychology, 44(1), 118–123.

Jung, C. G. (1970). Synchronicity: An acausal connecting principle. Princeton University Press.

McAdams, D. P. (2008). Personal narratives and the life story. In O. P. John, R. W. Robins, & L. A. Pervin (Eds.), Handbook of personality: Theory and research (3rd ed., pp. 242–262). Guilford Press.

Nickerson, R. S. (1998). Confirmation bias: A ubiquitous phenomenon in many guises. Review of General Psychology, 2(2), 175–220.

Pew Research Center. (2025). 3 in 10 Americans consult astrology, tarot cards, or fortune tellers. Pew Research Center. https://www.pewresearch.org/religion/2025/05/21/3-in-10-americans-consult-astrology-tarot-cards-or-fortune-tellers/

Vyse, S. A. (2014). Believing in magic: The psychology of superstition (2nd ed.). Oxford University Press.

     People call this “waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

    But it’s rarely pessimism in the simple sense. It’s usually history. When someone has lived through enough emotional whiplash, unexpected losses, betrayals, financial instability, medical scares, addiction, rage, abandonment, or chronic unpredictability, the brain starts treating uncertainty like a threat detection exercise. Good news becomes suspicious. Kindness becomes questionable. Stability feels temporary. And happiness starts carrying an uncomfortable side effect: fear. Not fear of the present moment itself, but fear of losing it.

     So even while good things are happening, part of the mind is already rehearsing grief. This often confuses people on the outside.

They’ll say:
“But things are finally going well.”
“You should be happy.”
“Why can’t you just enjoy it?”

     Because nervous systems do not automatically update simply because circumstances improve. A person can intellectually know they are safe while emotionally remaining prepared for danger. That split is exhausting.

     Some people become hypervigilant in relationships:
reading tone changes, watching facial expressions,
tracking response times, looking for subtle evidence that abandonment is coming. Others do it with money: unable to relax financially no matter how stable things become. Others do it with health, success, parenthood, career advancement, or happiness itself. The underlying belief is often:
“If I stop preparing, that’s when everything will collapse.” So, the mind stays busy.

Scanning.
Predicting.
Bracing.

     Not because the person enjoys anxiety, but because anxiety once functioned like protection. If chaos was unpredictable growing up, hyperawareness may have genuinely helped someone survive emotionally.

     The problem is that survival strategies rarely disappear automatically once the danger is over. They linger. And sometimes they continue firing long after the emergency has ended.

     That's one reason people can feel strangely uncomfortable during peaceful periods of life. Calm removes distraction. It exposes unresolved fear underneath the surface.

     For some individuals, uncertainty became so associated with pain that they began believing emotionally preparing for catastrophe could somehow soften future loss.

     But anticipatory suffering does not actually protect people from grief. It just causes them to experience pieces of the grief early, repeatedly, and unnecessarily. People end up mourning disasters that never arrive. Meanwhile life keeps happening in front of them.

     This does not mean people should become naïve or blindly optimistic. Pain exists. Loss exists. Human life is uncertain. But there is a difference between healthy awareness and living in a permanent state of emotional pre-impact. Eventually the work becomes learning how to remain present without constantly gripping for control. Learning that vigilance is not the same thing as safety. Learning that peace can exist without immediately searching for evidence that it’s about to disappear. And maybe most importantly:

Learning that not every good thing is a setup for pain.

J. Donohue

Clients today receive psychological input from everywhere. A person may see their therapist every other week, then spend the days between sessions tracking moods on an app, processing worries with ChatGPT, consuming mental-health content on social media, and engaging in online peer communities. By the time they return to session, their thoughts, emotions, and narratives have already been shaped—sometimes clarified, sometimes intensified, sometimes distorted. This is not an emerging trend. It is the current landscape.

I experience this directly in my clinical work. A client will ask a question in session, then push back with: “Well, ChatGPT said…”—not as curiosity, but as deflection. What often follows is not insight but avoidance. Accountability is uncomfortable. External validation is easier.

AI is especially seductive because it is agreeable. It reflects, reassures, and affirms without resistance—it literally tells you what you want to hear. That can feel like growth. But in reality, this is collusion and enabling at its finest—the very posture ethical therapy works to avoid. In clinical work, collusion reinforces stuckness; enabling soothes distress while preserving the behavior or belief that sustains it. Therapy is ethically obligated to interrupt that cycle, not participate in it.

The ego loves collusion because it is comfortable. Immediate relief. Lowered discomfort. A sense of progress without behavioral change. Dopamine without direction. Comfort without results. This is not harmless. It creates the illusion of healing while quietly maintaining the problem.

The question facing the profession is not whether these tools exist or whether clients will use them. They will. The real question is whether therapy will remain a clearly defined, ethical, and accountable practice—or whether it will dissolve into a broad, unregulated mental-health marketplace where everything that feels supportive is treated as treatment. If therapy is to remain protected, ethical, and defensible, we must be willing to state plainly what it is—and what it is not.

Therapy is not simply emotional support. It is a regulated clinical relationship grounded in ethics, confidentiality, scope of practice, and accountability. It requires formal training, supervision, licensure, and an enforceable duty of care. It also requires malpractice insurance—an often overlooked but essential safeguard that exists precisely because psychology treatment carries real risk. That requirement is not incidental. It reflects the profession’s acknowledgement that clinical influence has consequences, and that practitioners must be accountable if harm occurs. That structure exists because psychological work carries risk. The frame is not optional; it is protective. By contrast, unregulated tools operate without enforceable accountability. If a client follows a recommendation from an AI system and experiences harm, there is no clinician responsible, no ethical review, and no meaningful pathway for recourse. This absence of accountability is not incidental—it is a defining difference between treatment and technology.

Confidentiality is not a courtesy; it is a legal and ethical obligation. Therapists are bound by HIPAA and professional standards that strictly govern how personal health information is collected, stored, used, and protected. Clients disclose intimate details in therapy because there are enforceable safeguards in place—and real consequences when those safeguards are violated. Unregulated tools do not operate under those constraints.

Clients are increasingly disclosing deeply personal information—trauma histories, relationship conflicts, mental health symptoms—into systems that are not subject to HIPAA, do not guarantee confidentiality in the clinical sense, and do not clearly define how data is stored, retained, or used. This is not empowerment. It is exposure.

Ethical therapy does not ask clients to exploit themselves in the name of “processing.” It protects privacy precisely because psychological material is sensitive, contextual, and capable of causing harm when mishandled. When psychological influence is delivered without containment, challenge, confidentiality, or responsibility, harm becomes more likely—not less.

Many tools clients rely on between sessions borrow therapeutic language without assuming therapeutic responsibility. Mood-tracking apps prompt emotional monitoring without context. Influencers offer diagnostic narratives without assessment. Peer communities often reward intensity and identification rather than integration. AI tools fluently validate, reflect, and reframe language, creating the experience of being understood while bypassing the ethical and legal constraints that govern treatment. These inputs may be comforting. They may even be useful in limited ways. But they are not treatment. Help is not the same as therapy.

Artificial intelligence requires particular clarity. Tools like ChatGPT are not inherently harmful. They can assist with organizing thoughts, generating language, or offering general psychoeducation and sure a great dinner recipe if needed. Pretending otherwise undermines professional credibility. The problem arises when AI begins to function as if it were a therapist—offering validation without responsibility, reassurance without assessment, and reflection without accountability.

Unlike therapy, AI has no relational accountability. It does not track patterns across time in a clinically meaningful way. It cannot recognize avoidance, contradiction, or emotional escalation—it cannot make any visual observations either. It does not know when reassurance is reinforcing anxiety or when processing has become destabilizing. It cannot assess risk, modulate intensity, or intervene when containment is required. It also carries no enforceable obligation to protect confidentiality in the way therapy does.

What AI fundamentally cannot offer is the therapeutic relationship itself. One of the most powerful mechanisms of change in psychotherapy is transference—the way a client’s past relational patterns, expectations, defenses, and emotional responses emerge in the room and become available for examination, interruption, and repair. Transference is not a technique; it is a live, relational process that unfolds over time within a boundaried, accountable relationship.

AI cannot participate in transference. It does not evoke, tolerate, or respond to the emotional projections that arise in human relationships. It cannot hold tension, survive frustration, or model repair. It cannot notice how a client relates to the therapist as data. Without this relational field, a central mechanism of therapeutic change is absent. What this creates is a dangerous illusion: the experience of being understood through collusion rather than care, disclosure without protection, and validation without ethical responsibility.

Therapy is not only about insight. It is about timing, dosage, containment, protection, and relationship. A trained therapist knows when to slow a client down, interrupt a narrative, redirect attention, or hold silence—while simultaneously tracking the relational dynamics unfolding in the room. AI responds endlessly—at any hour, without limits. For clients prone to anxiety, trauma, or compulsive thinking, this can unintentionally strengthen the very loops therapy is designed to disrupt. Reflection becomes rumination. Processing becomes activation.
Meaning-making accelerates without integration.

When clients arrive in session after extensive AI-based “processing,” therapists are often left disentangling narratives that were reinforced through collusion rather than clinical judgment—and disclosures that occurred outside any meaningful confidentiality framework. The work becomes corrective rather than collaborative.

At the same time, outright prohibition is neither realistic nor clinically necessary. When clients insist on using AI alongside psychotherapy, the ethical task is not to compete with the tool but to reassert the boundaries of treatment. This requires clarity, not defensiveness.

Clinically sound navigation includes naming what AI can and cannot provide, explicitly differentiating support from treatment, and redirecting the client’s use of external tools toward observation rather than reliance. Rather than asking, “What did ChatGPT tell you?”, the more useful question is, “What did you notice about yourself while using it?” This keeps the locus of work inside the therapeutic relationship and restores agency without collusion.

Therapy remains the place where meaning is tested, not just generated; where patterns are interrupted, not merely named; and where accountability is held in real time. External tools may offer language, but therapy determines relevance, timing, and impact. The deeper risk is role confusion.

When unregulated tools consistently use therapeutic language—validation, reframing, interpretation—they begin to resemble treatment without assuming responsibility for outcomes, privacy, protection, or relational impact. Clients may no longer clearly distinguish between a regulated clinical relationship and an unregulated conversational tool. Over time, authority shifts. Therapy becomes just one input among many rather than a distinct and protected practice.

When harm occurs, there is no pathway for accountability. No ethical review. No professional responsibility. The therapist, however, remains accountable for the aftermath.

This is not a call for surveillance, prohibition, or control. Therapists are not responsible for managing every external influence in a client’s life. But we are responsible for protecting the frame of our work. That means clearly differentiating therapy from other forms of support, naming limits explicitly, and helping clients understand how external inputs affect them—without pretending those inputs are equivalent to treatment. Clarity is not resistance to change. It is stewardship.

If therapy is to remain credible, trusted, and ethically defensible, the profession must be willing to say what should not be controversial: Not everything that feels therapeutic is therapy. That distinction matters—for clients, for clinicians, and for the future of the field.

—Jennifer M. Donohue, M.A., LCMHC

This pattern repeats itself year after year, regardless of diagnosis, age, or background. Clients often arrive focused on what others are doing wrong, convinced the work will center on changing someone else’s behavior. As they talk, a different picture emerges—they are deeply involved in managing outcomes that are not theirs to control. They track moods, anticipate reactions, soften consequences, and step in early to prevent discomfort. By the time they sit down in my office, they are exhausted—not from their own lives, but from running someone else’s.

Over-identification turns awareness into obligation. Someone is upset and the body reacts before the mind has time to assess whether action is required. Someone discloses anxiety and the environment subtly reorganizes around it. Someone struggles and responsibility migrates toward the most capable person in the room. No agreement is made, no discussion occurs, yet the transfer happens reliably. Once responsibility is absorbed this way, tension becomes constant and resolution stays out of reach. This reflex—stepping in, taking over, managing—has been described for centuries as a predictable human tendency rather than a personal flaw.

This is where ancient philosophy and modern clinical work quietly overlap. Stoicism is not treated here as belief or worldview, just as cognitive orientation. In the same way cognitive behavioral therapy is not about “positive thinking,” Stoicism was never about emotional suppression. Both are concerned with the same practical problem: what happens when the mind repeatedly invests energy in what it cannot control.

In therapy, when someone ruminates, catastrophizes, or reinforces negative loops, the work is not to argue with their feelings. It is to interrupt the misplacement of effort. Attention is redirected from imagined outcomes, other people’s reactions, or anticipated harm back to the only workable domain: one’s own behavior, choices, and responses. This does not require philosophical agreement. It is a functional realignment.

Early Stoic thinkers were describing the same pattern long before clinical language existed. They observed that distress escalates when people attempt to manage external events, other people’s emotions, or future outcomes—and stabilizes when responsibility is narrowed to what is actually actionable. The insight was behavioral, not abstract. Modern therapy applies the same principle without requiring clients to subscribe to any philosophy at all.

In practice, this looks identical. When responsibility is misassigned, the nervous system stays activated. When effort is returned to its proper scope, tension drops. Whether framed as cognitive restructuring, behavioral containment, or the distinction between what is and is not up to us, the intervention is the same: stop reinforcing mental activity that has no leverage.

Diagnosis intensifies this pattern. What begins as useful clinical information slowly becomes identity. Patterns are treated as fixed traits. Explanation shifts into exemption. Statements like “I have anxiety,” “this is just how I am,” or “you can’t expect more” stop describing experience and start dictating behavior. Meanwhile, someone else compensates—managing tone, anticipating reactions, lowering expectations, and carrying the emotional and logistical weight required to keep things functional. Resentment forms quietly and predictably. This dynamic reflects an old mistake: confusing understanding with obligation.

Identifying with diagnosis flattens people. Complexity is lost, agency narrows, and struggle becomes a permanent condition rather than an experience requiring engagement. In my work, diagnosis remains contextual: it informs the work without defining the person. Suffering does not eliminate responsibility. Understanding does not cancel expectation. When diagnosis replaces ownership, growth stalls. Long before modern clinical language existed, agency was already understood as the only stable ground a person could stand on regardless of circumstance.

Identifying with other people’s internal states produces the same erosion. One person becomes dysregulated and the other steps in to regulate. One avoids discomfort while another absorbs the consequences. One collapses and another holds the system together. This arrangement is often mistaken for closeness or loyalty, but it is imbalance, and imbalance often requires someone to carry more than their share.

-J. Donohue

The Donohue Approach™

References

Epictetus. (n.d.). The Enchiridion (E. Carter, Trans.). Project Gutenberg. https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/45109

Hayes, S. C., Villatte, M., Levin, M. E., & Hildebrandt, M. (2011). Open, aware, and active: Contextual approaches as an emerging trend in the behavioral and cognitive therapies. Annual Review of Clinical Psychology, 7, 141–168. https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3369517/

Marcus Aurelius. (n.d.). Meditations (G. Long, Trans.). Project Gutenberg. https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2680

Nolen-Hoeksema, S., Wisco, B. E., & Lyubomirsky, S. (2008). Rethinking rumination. Perspectives on Psychological Science, 3(5), 400–424. https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC2597729/

Segal, Z. V., Williams, J. M. G., & Teasdale, J. D. (2002). Mindfulness-based cognitive therapy for depression. Guilford Press. https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC2907090/

Watkins, E. R. (2008). Constructive and unconstructive repetitive thought. Psychological Bulletin, 134(2), 163–206. https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC2614443/

Watkins, E. R., & Roberts, H. (2020). Reflecting on rumination: Consequences, causes, mechanisms and treatment of rumination. Behaviour Research and Therapy, 127, 103573. https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC7113166/

     Not long ago, I had an experience that put all of this into sharp focus.  I was driving when my surroundings suddenly stopped making sense. Nothing looked familiar, even though the original route I was on was one I had driven dozens of times. My body reacted before my mind did. Fear. Adrenaline. I gripped the steering wheel tighter and kept driving straight, waiting for something—anything—to look recognizable.  Eventually, something did. I pulled myself together, turned on my GPS, and drove home.

     It wasn’t until I was there—safe, still, able to think—that I began to understand what had happened. I retraced the route, calculated the distance, and estimated the time between the last point I clearly remembered and the moment everything felt unrecognizable. About three miles. Roughly five minutes, assuming I was driving the posted speed limit of 45 miles per hour in that area (note: I had to look this up). I couldn’t tell you whether I stopped at lights or drove straight through them. That part is missing.

     At first, I tried to explain it away. I told myself it was because I’m geographically challenged. The truth is, I couldn’t find my way out of a paper bag if my life depended on it. But this wasn’t confusion. This wasn’t distraction or disorientation either.  This was something else entirely. I didn’t get lost, I got hijacked.

When I got home, I told my boyfriend what had happened. As I tried to describe it out loud, I could hear how strange it sounded. I told him it felt as if I had been abducted by an alien—lifted out of my own consciousness, taken somewhere without my awareness, and then dropped back into my body a few miles down the road, and then "woke up." Five minutes gone. Three miles traveled. No memory of how I got there.

     He was scared for me. Scared enough that he didn’t want me driving. And I understood why. From the outside, it looked dangerous. It was dangerous. From the inside, it felt scary and unsettling, like suddenly realizing you're in the middle of a movie you don’t remember starting.

     What struck me most was the moment I “came to.” There was a clear sense of regaining consciousness—of snapping back into myself. One second I was gone, and the next I was there, aware, alert, and trying to make sense of what had just happened; only it wasn’t seconds, it was minutes and miles.

     That moment told me this wasn’t distraction or absentmindedness. It was a nervous system event.  So instead of assuming something was wrong with me, I did what I encourage my clients to do: I slowed down and got curious.

     Over the next few days, I revisited everything leading up to that moment. I looked carefully at the emotional landscape I had been moving through—stress, grief, loss, cumulative pressure, the quieter kinds of overwhelm that don’t always announce themselves loudly. I asked myself what my nervous system might have been carrying that my mind hadn’t fully acknowledged yet.

     Nothing dramatic stood out. And that mattered too. Dissociation doesn’t always come from a single identifiable trigger. Sometimes it’s the result of sustained load—too much held for too long without enough discharge or support.

     What I didn’t do was stop driving altogether. Avoidance would have taught my nervous system that driving itself was dangerous. Instead, I rebuilt trust deliberately. I drive short distances. Familiar routes. Daylight hours. I stay present in my body. I intentionally engage my senses—my breathing, listen to calm music, feel my hands on the wheel, feel the seat beneath me, watch the road—obviously. And for taste? it's good idea to keep sour candy in the car—that'll definitely keep you "awake."

 I remind myself—out loud, if needed—that I am safe and here. 

     This experience didn’t mean I could no longer drive. It meant my nervous system had asked for my attention, and presence. Once I listened, adjusted, and supported it, the fear loosened its grip. The road became the road again.

     And to be clear, this is not the same thing as driving on “autopilot,” which most of us do every day. The human brain is remarkably efficient. We are capable of doing many things at once without conscious effort—listening to music, sipping coffee, talking through Bluetooth, following GPS directions, even sending verbal text messages—all while navigating traffic, stopping at lights, watching for hazards, and getting ourselves safely where we’re going.

     That kind of driving is not a problem. It’s a testament to how sophisticated and adaptive the brain really is. We are present enough to respond, adjust, and stay oriented, even if we aren’t consciously narrating every moment.

     Dissociation while driving is something else entirely. It is not divided attention. It is not distraction. It is not multitasking. It is a disruption in awareness—a break in continuity—where consciousness itself temporarily steps offline.

     For nearly two decades in the room with patients, I’ve heard every version of dissociation described—from feeling “knocked out” to “teleported.” The experience itself is frightening enough; listening to how it unfolds inside someone’s mind is no less unsettling. Dissociation doesn’t just pull a person away from their surroundings—it pulls them away from themselves. And when patients try to put words to that loss of connection, you can feel the fear in the room.

     It’s the brain’s way of protecting you from distress. It creates space between you and overwhelming thoughts, feelings, memories, or sensations. But when it becomes chronic or uncontrollable, that’s when it needs attention.

     It can show up as feeling emotionally numb, disconnected from your body, or watching yourself from outside like your life is unfolding behind glass. I've had clients describe it as being on a movie set—present but nothing feels real.

     Dissociation is often connected to trauma—especially childhood trauma, complex PTSD, and experiences of neglect or abuse. But it can also develop in environments where emotional safety is missing, where gaslighting or invalidation are constant or where stress and loss keep stacking up without relief.

     When fight, flight or fawn responses aren't options, the brain sometimes chooses freeze, and dissociation is part of that response. You might feel robotic, numb, floaty, have trouble concentrating or speaking, or question whether something really happened, a lapse in time with no recall of what occurred— can be very confusing, and scary.

     Sometimes dissociation hides in plain sight because it looks like other things. I’ve had clients told they were “just depressed” because they felt flat and emotionally numb. Others were sent down the ADHD path because they couldn’t focus, forgot things, or lost time. And plenty have been told it might be neurological—absence seizures, migraines, post-concussion issues.

     Here’s the thing: those aren’t bad guesses. Dissociation can mimic depression, ADHD, or medical conditions. The difference is in the texture of it. Depression feels heavy, dissociation feels absent. ADHD is distractible, dissociation is disconnected. A seizure knocks you out; dissociation makes you feel like you’ve stepped out. Which is why the first step is always to rule out the medical stuff and then zoom out for context—what’s driving the symptoms?

     Long-term dissociation can interfere with work, personal relationships, and emotional health. It increases vulnerability to unsafe people or environments and creates barriers to healing because you’re cut off from your emotional experience.      So, what do you do? Check in with your primary care physician. It's important to rule out any other potential causes. If it's not correlated to anything physical or medical, then obtaining a trauma-informed evaluation is critical.

     It's important to recognize it and journal anytime you're feeling disconnected, gone or emotionally checked out. Try to determine what triggered it. What were you feeling? What was happening around you? What can you recall prior? What we're doing? Where is the last place you remembering being present?      Grounding techniques can also help bring you back into the present moment. Try splashing cold water on your face, holding ice cubes, smelling strong scents like peppermint or citrus or coffee grinds.  Use all of your senses: The "5-4-3-2-1" method (5 things you see, 4 you feel, 3 you hear, 2 you smell, 1 you taste) or move your body—stretch or walk around your home.

     If you’re dissociating often, your nervous system may not feel safe, even if your environment is. Trauma-informed therapy can help—EMDR, Somatic Experiencing, Internal Family Systems (IFS), and other body-based practices. Creative expression and self-compassion also support reconnection.           Dissociation isn’t a character flaw; it’s a coping skill your brain built to help you survive. But it pulls you from reality. That can be scary because you can't just plan to dissociate. It comes on suddenly without your knowledge—and not always when you're sitting safely on the couch. Recognizing the weight our past experiences place on our bodies is a large part of the process. The work begins when we start reshaping the life we’re living now. And that doesn’t always require a total overhaul—sometimes, it’s about small but intentional shifts in our routines, environments, and mindset. Grounding and reality-based exercises are key. Changes may feel subtle at first, but over time, they can recalibrate the entire way we function, paving the way for a more balanced, sustainable version of ourselves.

     Learning to stay present is only half the battle. The harder part comes next: facing what you worked so hard to push down. And I’ll be real with you—therapy feels worse before it feels better. Dissociation protects you by creating distance, but talking about what happened brings everything back into focus. That’s why so many people avoid it. Even sitting in the room and naming it can feel heavier than the trauma itself. But here’s what matters—you already survived it. You lived through the thing you thought might break you, and now you’re here, telling your story. That’s the part people forget: the fact that they survived is proof they can handle the work of healing, even when it feels terrifying.  -J. Donohue

The Donohue Approach™️

References

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

Ogden, P., Minton, K., & Pain, C. (2006). Trauma and the body: A sensorimotor approach to psychotherapy. New York, NY: W. W. Norton & Company.

Porges, S. W. (2011). The polyvagal theory: Neurophysiological foundations of emotions, attachment, communication, and self-regulation. New York, NY: W. W. Norton & Company.

Putnam, F. W. (1997). Dissociation in children and adolescents: A developmental perspective. New York, NY: Guilford Press.

van der Kolk, B. (2014). The body keeps the score: Brain, mind, and body in the healing of trauma. New York, NY: Viking.

     I sit with people every day who don’t believe they have any power at all. They describe themselves as incapable, fragile, behind. They talk about anxiety as if it runs their lives, as if they’ve never made a decision without it interfering. When asked what they want help with, they often say things like, “I don’t trust myself,” or “I fall apart,” or “I can’t handle things the way other people can.” But when they start describing their lives in detail, a different picture emerges.

    They’ve gotten themselves through school, work, parenting, relationships, illness, loss. They’ve made hard decisions under pressure. They’ve adapted when plans fell apart. They’ve shown up to responsibilities even while feeling unsure or afraid. They’ve kept going. The accomplishments are endless.

     They don’t see any of that as evidence of strength. They frame it as having no choice—or as just surviving. Because in their minds, power only counts if they were confident at the time. This is a pattern I see constantly and a perspective that needs shifting.

     Most of us dismiss our own capacity because it didn’t feel good while we were using it. Anything done while anxious, overwhelmed, or uncertain gets discounted. Fear becomes proof that we weren’t really in charge, rather than information we carried while still acting. But fear doesn’t negate agency. Discomfort doesn’t erase decision-making.

     Most of us move through our days on autopilot.  We answer quickly. We explain ourselves preemptively. We adjust our tone to keep things moving. When people say, “I didn’t even think about it—I just did it,” they assume no choice was involved. But the opposite is true. Even without conscious deliberation, people function, adapt and succeed. That’s not nothing. That’s power.   

     What it usually means is that the choice has been practiced for a long time. When someone tells me they “can’t help” over-explaining, I hear years of learning that being misunderstood had consequences. When someone says they “can’t help” stepping in to fix things, I hear a history of being relied on. When someone says they “can’t help” staying quiet, I hear past experiences where speaking up made things worse. These are not personal flaws. They are learned responses that once made sense.

     We start to feel stuck when we stop noticing that these responses are still choices—not because they’re wrong, but because they’re happening without reflection. What’s usually missing isn’t effort or insight. It’s evidence.

     In therapy, a lot of the work is slowing things down enough to notice what’s already there. I encourage clients to look at moments they skip over: the times they didn’t send the message, didn’t escalate the argument, didn’t say yes immediately, didn’t collapse even though they felt like they might. Moments they were in control.

     Clients often wave these moments off; “That doesn’t count.” But it does counts. Most of us also overlook how often we’ve evaluated situations accurately. We sensed something was off. We knew a boundary was needed. We recognized when something wasn’t working. We may not have acted on it right away, but the awareness was there.

     That awareness is part of your power. Many of us tend to think power shows up as bold action or certainty. In the room, it shows up as restraint. As hesitation that buys time. As choosing not to repeat the same response, even when the alternative feels uncomfortable.

     Many clients are surprised when we start naming this. They’ve spent years collecting evidence of failure and ignoring evidence of competence. Therapy often becomes the place where that imbalance gets corrected. Not by telling people they’re strong. But by helping them see what they’ve already done.

     Power doesn’t appear all at once. It becomes visible when we start paying attention to our own history—not the highlights, but the day-to-day decisions we’ve made while managing fear, pressure, and uncertainty.

     Once we start to see that pattern, it’s harder to keep believing we are incapable. The evidence just won’t support it.  

-J. Donohue The Donohue Approach™

This difference isn’t unusual—and it’s not about imagination, creativity, or psychological depth. It has far more to do with how the brain moves through sleep, how it wakes up, and how memory works in the moment between dreaming and consciousness.

Do we all dream? Yes. Everyone dreams—multiple times a night. Dreaming happens primarily during REM sleep (Rapid Eye Movement), a stage where: • The brain is highly active • The body is temporarily paralyzed • Emotional and visual regions are lit up • Logical sequencing and time tracking are reduced.

When someone says “I don’t dream,” what they usually mean is: “I don’t remember my dreams. Dream recall and dreaming are not the same thing.

Why some people remember dreams so vividly?

1. Timing of awakening matters People who remember dreams often wake up during REM sleep or immediately after a REM cycle. When you wake during REM, the dream is still “online” in short-term memory. If you wake during deeper non-REM sleep, the dream may never make it into conscious recall.

2. The memory bridge is fragile Dreams aren’t stored like regular memories. During REM sleep, the hippocampus is less active, and the brain prioritizes emotion and imagery over sequencing. Details fade quickly unless attention is placed on the dream immediately upon waking.

3. Individual brain differences Frequent dream recallers often show greater activity in regions associated with attention and internal awareness, lighter sleep, or more frequent micro-awakenings.

Do people dream in color?

Yes—most people do. Color is common in dreams, though some people don’t notice it unless asked. Emotional intensity often determines how vivid color appears.

Can you see faces in dreams?

Yes, but dream faces are often composites. The brain pulls from stored visual memory, blending features from people you’ve seen before. That’s why dream faces often feel familiar but unplaceable.

Why partners can be so different Differences in dream recall can stem from genetics, sleep stages, stress, how abruptly someone wakes, and how the brain transitions into consciousness.

What are dreams for?

From a neuroscience perspective, dreams help with emotional processing, memory consolidation, and cognitive flexibility. Dream recall is a byproduct, not the purpose.

What do we do with dream recall? Nothing is required. Remembering dreams doesn’t mean greater insight and forgetting them doesn’t mean something is missing. Dreams offer emotional snapshots, not hidden messages.

What about feelings in dreams?

Feelings in dreams are often stronger, clearer, and more memorable than the images themselves. During REM sleep, emotional centers of the brain are highly active while logical oversight is reduced. This is why fear, love, anxiety, relief, or joy can feel amplified and immersive.

Emotions are more likely to survive waking than visual details. Someone may forget the setting of a dream but wake with a lingering emotional tone. That residue reflects what the nervous system was processing, not a symbolic message.

Can you recognize someone in a dream even if their face isn’t clear?

Yes. Recognition in dreams does not depend on visual accuracy. You can know with certainty who someone is based on emotional familiarity, voice, role, or the feeling they evoke, even if their face is blurred, altered, or never fully seen.

The brain encodes who someone is before what they look like. That’s why people often say, “I knew it was them,” even when the image doesn’t fully match waking reality.

Can you ever guarantee a face in a dream?

Sometimes, especially with emotionally significant people. But facial accuracy is inconsistent. Dream faces may be clear, blended, distorted, or unnecessary altogether. Recognition often carries more weight than visual confirmation.

Why feelings and recognition matter more than images Dreams prioritize emotional processing and relationship mapping over visual realism. A dream can feel powerful without being visually sharp. The emotional truth often outlasts the story itself.

The takeaway Dreaming is universal. Dream recall is not. Some brains hold the door open longer—and that’s all.

References

American Academy of Sleep Medicine. (2021). REM sleep and dreaming. https://aasm.org

Cleveland Clinic. (2022). Dreams and REM sleep. https://my.clevelandclinic.org

Freud, S. (1953). The interpretation of dreams (J. Strachey, Trans.). Basic Books. (Original work published 1900)

National Institute of Neurological Disorders and Stroke. (2023). Brain basics: Understanding sleep. https://www.ninds.nih.gov

Sleep Foundation. (2023). Dreams and dream recall. https://www.sleepfoundation.org

Walker, M. (2017). Why we sleep: Unlocking the power of sleep and dreams. Scribner.

     No one creates New Year’s goals out of satisfaction. No one says, “That went great—let’s preserve it.” No one looks back at the last twelve months and thinks, “Perfect. Let’s bring all of that forward unchanged.”

     Goals and resolutions are created because something felt wrong. Something dragged. Something didn’t work the way it was supposed to. Maybe last year wasn’t a full dumpster fire —but it probably wasn’t  something anyone wanted to frame and hang on the wall. January becomes the moment where dissatisfaction gets formalized.  Everything gets reset. That tone matters more than people realize.

     Goals, resolutions, and intentions all respond to that moment differently.

     Goals are the most structured. They are specific, measurable, outcome-driven. They assume capacity, consistency, and follow-through. For some people, that clarity is grounding. Goals give shape to effort. They narrow focus and reduce ambiguity. When someone has enough margin in their life, goals can be stabilizing rather than stressful.

     But goals are indifferent to context. They don’t adjust for grief, illness, caregiving, financial strain, or nervous system overload. When life interrupts, goals don’t soften—they register deviation. Missed targets become data points, and over time, those data points start to feel personal.

    Champagne, fireworks, ball drops and confetti are not in celebration of the past years success but rather hope for a better future.

    Resolutions take that same structure and add symbolism. They arrive with ceremony. They mark a break. “This year will be different.” The implication is not subtle: something about last year was unacceptable. Resolutions depend on contrast—before and after, broken and fixed.    

     That’s why they tend to fail loudly. When a resolution collapses, it doesn’t feel like a scheduling issue or a capacity issue. It feels like a broken promise. Not circumstantial. Moral. The person didn’t just fall behind; they failed to become who they said they would be.   

     Intentions don’t operate on that logic. They don’t require last year to be condemned in order to justify movement. They don’t need a clean break or a dramatic declaration. An intention can exist without framing the past as a problem that needs to be corrected.

     That’s why intentions often get labeled as mild or safe—and why people who are used to pressure sometimes distrust them. They don’t demand proof. They don’t measure. They don’t escalate when things get messy.

     But what makes intentions different isn’t that they’re vague. It’s that they’re fail-proof.

     Goals fail when they aren’t met. Resolutions fail when they’re broken. Intentions don’t fail—they wait.

     An intention doesn’t become invalid because you had a hard week or lost momentum. It doesn’t disappear because something else took priority.   

     There’s no ceremony required to return to it, no recommitment speech, no reset. You just come back when you can. That return might be small. A moment of noticing before reacting. A decision not to add judgment on top of exhaustion. A choice to stop escalating something that would have spiraled last year. None of that looks impressive. None of it photographs well. But it matters, because the intention was never about control. It was about orientation. Intentions work in real lives—lives with interruptions, competing demands, and uneven capacity. They build forgiveness into the structure instead of treating deviation as a flaw.

You don’t blow an intention. You don’t fall off it.  You don’t ruin the year because you lost the path.  You pick it up where you are.

     For people who have spent years operating under pressure—internal or external—that difference matters. It allows movement without turning the past into evidence. It lets the year begin without striking a match and calling it motivation.

     Not every year needs to be redeemed.  Not every past version of you needs correcting.

     Sometimes the most meaningful shift is choosing a direction that doesn’t require the last twelve months to be a dumpster fire in order to justify moving forward.    

     Goals and resolutions aren’t the problem. They’re tools. Powerful ones.  But intentions determine the tone you carry while using them—and whether progress feels like direction or punishment.

     Stop asking, “What are your goals for this year?” or “What resolutions did you set?”

This framing carries pressure.

Try this instead:

“Any intentions for the year?”

-J. Donohue

The Donohue Approach

     There are relationships that fall apart because of cheating, lies, distance, or boredom. That’s the easy kind to understand. But the kind that’s harder to name is when the relationship gets uneven in ways that don’t look dramatic from the outside but pull you apart from the inside. It’s when someone gives their self-control to the past and their rawest self to the person who’s here now. It’s when the person who stayed becomes the one who pays.

     He already lost his ex-wife. That chapter of his life is closed (hmmmm is it though?). There’s no romance lingering, no fantasy of getting back together, no secret attachment. And yet he still holds himself together around her in ways he doesn’t with you. Maybe it’s the muscle memory of years of walking carefully, or maybe it’s the leftover pressure of co-parenting, history, and unresolved consequences. Whatever the reason, the restraint shows up there. It doesn’t show up here.

     Around you, his guard drops. He reacts fast. He interprets your tone, your emphasis, your questions, your boundaries as accusations—even when nothing accusatory was said. You’ve watched it enough times to know the pattern: you ask for clarity and he hears blame, you state a need and he hears criticism, you repeat yourself to prevent a misunderstanding and he hears judgment. You could whisper and it would still land like a warning shot. This isn’t because your delivery is wrong; it’s because his nervous system hears guidance as exposure. Somewhere along the way, instruction got tied to inadequacy, and now your voice is pulling on a thread you didn’t stitch into him.

     What makes this harder to sit with is the contrast. You’ve seen how he speaks to other people—how he can monitor his emotions, hold his tongue, regulate his tone, keep himself from exploding—and you can’t ignore that his self-control is selective. He uses it where the cost feels high. He drops it where he thinks the relationship can hold the weight. And so you get the version of him that never had to grow up all the way. You get the backdraft from fires that aren’t even burning anymore.

     Over time, the reaction to your feedback—or what he thinks is feedback—starts carving something out of you. You become smaller without realizing it. You begin limiting what you bring up, how often you speak, how directly you say things. You stop giving reminders because they start fights. You stop making requests because they get misheard. You stop expressing needs because they get spun into accusations. You learn to carry the weight alone, because handing him even a fraction of it gets thrown back at you like blame. You’re not trying to avoid conflict. You’re trying to avoid disappearing.

     This is how loyalty turns into self-erasure. You start out helping, then cushioning, then compensating, then over-functioning, then apologizing for the very same reactions you tried to prevent. You confused caretaking with connection, and it took a while to tell the difference. You hold the emotional center of the relationship because someone has to, but eventually you realize you’ve been holding it by yourself. The longer you stay in that role, the more you start questioning whether love is something you feel or something you perform.

     What complicates this dynamic further is that he may not even know he’s doing it. He may believe he’s reacting to you, when in reality he’s reacting to an older script. Your voice lands on the part of him that was once criticized, once humiliated, once controlled, once inadequate. You bring up your needs, and the old shame wakes up before the present-day man does. The reaction you receive isn’t proportionate to the moment; it’s proportionated to the story his body still believes. The tragedy is that you get treated like the one who caused that wound, when you’ve been the one tending it.

     And while you’re trying to sort through all of this—the past that hits the present, the uneven restraint, the misheard intentions—there’s another question growing in the background: what about you. Not “what about us,” not “what about the relationship,” but what about you as a person. There’s a moment, usually quiet, where you realize you’ve spent so long trying to stabilize him that you stopped stabilizing yourself. You got good at preventing his collapse and forgot to prevent your own. It’s not that you believed he couldn’t survive without you; it’s that you believed the relationship couldn’t survive without your constant adjustment. But now you see that you don’t want to survive a relationship that requires you to vanish. You don't want to survive anything. What you want is an equal relationship built on love, loyalty and respect. Keeping him together so you wouldn't fall apart. But now you don’t need him to stay standing, that’s his responsibility. Staying is the thing that breaks you.

     Recognition is key. Notice the relationship for what it is—not what it was, not what you hoped it would become, not what you can carry to keep it afloat. And not to maintain a script you wrote about what it could be and hoped for. Once you name the pattern, the next step is stabilizing yourself before stabilizing anything else. You stop rescuing first—not to punish, but to observe. You watch how he handles his own reactions when you stop cushioning them. You watch whether he can sit with discomfort without exporting it onto you. You watch whether he can hear a request without turning it into an indictment. You don’t announce the observation; you just gather data.

     If the relationship steadies when you stop holding everything, then there is something to build from. If it collapses without your labor, then you’re not leaving a relationship—you’re leaving a role. And the truth is, many relationships end long before anyone walks away. The separation begins the moment you stop betraying yourself to preserve connection. Planning for separation doesn’t mean you’re gone; it means you’re preparing for the possibility that staying costs more than leaving.

     Stabilizing a relationship is possible only when both people stabilize themselves. Recognizing that it’s not possible is painful, but it’s clarity—not failure. And if separation becomes the path, let me remind you not to leave in chaos, resentment, or impulsivity. You leave in alignment. You leave with dignity. You leave once you’ve already come back to yourself. Because the real loss was never losing him. It was losing you while trying to keep him.

-J. Donohue

The Donohue Approach

RELATIONSHIP TRUTHs-101

References

Brandão, T. (2019). Attachment, emotion regulation, and well‑being in couples. Frontiers in Psychology, 10, 1–11. https://pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/articles/PMC7383855/

Abrahams, L. (2024). Talking to someone who interprets everything as an attack. Lissy Abrahams Blog. https://www.lissyabrahams.com/blog/talking-to-someone-who-interprets-attack

Gottman Institute. (2025). The four horsemen: Defensiveness. The Gottman Institute. https://www.gottman.com/blog/the-four-horsemen-defensiveness/

Couples Therapy Inc. (2025). Emotional labor in relationships: The invisible weight. Couples Therapy Inc. https://couplestherapyinc.com/what-is-emotional-labor-hidden-cost-relationships/

Wang, Y. (2022). Marital stress and emotion work in same-sex and different-sex couples. Journal of Marriage and Family, 84(5), 1201–1220. https://pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/articles/PMC10540605/

Kaplan, S. (2021). Giving your partner feedback without provoking defensiveness. Psychology Today. https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/liking-the-child-you-love/202103/giving-your-partner-feedback-without-provoking-defensiveness

Desire, contrary to myth, doesn’t disappear with age. It simply stops auditioning. Later-life intimacy tends to be more responsive than performative, more collaborative than competitive. There’s also a noticeable reduction in urgency. No one is rushing toward a future fantasy. The focus is comfort, enjoyment, and mutual consent—ideally without needing an orthopedic consult the next morning.

Age-gap partnerships introduce another variable—especially when one partner is a decade or more younger. It’s not the cliché of older men with younger women; it’s the quieter reality of someone in their fifties or early sixties falling for someone in their late sixties or seventies. The younger partner doesn’t usually fear becoming “too old” to be loved—they fear becoming alone while still wanting to be loved. Clinically, this presents as anticipatory attachment: staying present while privately imagining an ending they can’t control. There’s love, but also math. When the older partner is healthy, the age gap feels like nothing. When illness enters the room, the gap becomes a clock. Couples who navigate this well don’t pretend the future won’t come; they talk about it, plan for it, and refuse to let inevitability ruin intimacy. The emotional work here isn’t minimizing mortality—it’s learning to love without letting fear of loss hollow the relationship before loss even arrives.

Late marriage after loss introduces a different set of psychological variables. Widowed or long-partnered individuals often approach commitment with both openness and restraint. Love is wanted, but permanence is negotiated more carefully. There is memory in the body—decades of attachment that don’t disappear just because someone is ready for connection again. Clinically, this can look like slower pacing, greater need for autonomy, and a clear distinction between companionship and caretaking. Marriage, if it happens, is less about building a life and more about aligning two already-established ones.

Adult children often experience these relationships very differently than their parents. Even when supportive, there can be anxiety beneath the surface—about loyalty to the deceased parent, about shifts in family structure, and yes, about money. Concerns about inheritance, estate planning, and financial vulnerability frequently masquerade as protectiveness. From a clinical lens, this is less about greed and more about fear: fear of loss, fear of instability, fear of change happening without their consent.

These dynamics can create quiet tension. Parents may feel scrutinized or infantilized, while children struggle with the uncomfortable realization that their parent’s emotional life exists independently of them. Navigating this requires unusually direct communication—about boundaries, finances, legal planning, and expectations. Avoiding these conversations doesn’t preserve harmony; it just delays conflict.

Boundaries tend to improve dramatically with age, but they are often tested here. Older adults may find themselves defending choices they never had to justify before. Clinically, this is a developmental reversal—children monitoring parents rather than the other way around. Successful later-life partnerships tend to be those where the couple presents as a united front while still acknowledging family concerns without surrendering autonomy.

Later-life romance also includes realities younger couples avoid—health concerns, medications, finances, caregiving, and contingency planning. Interestingly, this realism often strengthens connection rather than weakening it. Love that survives pill organizers, prenuptial agreements, and honest conversations about end-of-life planning is not fragile—it’s grounded.

Elderly romance matters because it challenges the idea that intimacy belongs only to the young or uncomplicated. Attachment needs persist across the lifespan, and with age, they often become clearer, calmer, and more honest.

References:

Brown, S. L., Bulanda, J. R., & Lee, G. R. (2012). Transitions into and out of cohabitation in later life. Journal of Marriage and Family, 74(4), 774–793. https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1741-3737.2012.00994.x

Carr, D., & Boerner, K. (2013). Dating after widowhood: Does social context matter? Journals of Gerontology: Series B, 68(4), 541–550. https://doi.org/10.1093/geronb/gbt014

Fitzroy, R. E. (2022). Intimacy, commitment, and emotional interdependence in older adult relationships. Frontiers in Psychology, 13, 916345. https://doi.org/10.3389/fpsyg.2022.916345

Lüscher, K., Hoff, A., & Lamura, G. (2022). Companionship in later life partnerships: Everyday interactions and well-being. Frontiers in Sociology, 7, 980865. https://doi.org/10.3389/fsoc.2022.980865

Fileborn, B., Brown, G., Lyons, A., Hinchliff, S., Heywood, W., Minichiello, V., & Crameri, P. (2017). Safer sex in later life: Qualitative insights from older adults. Archives of Sexual Behavior, 46(6), 1651–1662. https://doi.org/10.1007/s10508-016-0921-3

What’s the Difference?

At first glance, they might just seem like two versions of the same treat—but their ingredients tell a different story. Dark Chocolate: – 50–90% cocoa solids – Little to no milk – Less sugar – Rich, bitter taste Milk Chocolate: – 10–50% cocoa solids – Contains milk solids or milk powder – More sugar – Sweet, creamy taste

The Benefits of Dark Chocolate (aka the Overachiever)

Dark chocolate doesn’t just taste rich—it’s rich in benefits: – Antioxidant Powerhouse: It’s loaded with flavonoids, particularly flavanols, which help fight inflammation and protect your cells from damage. – Heart Helper: These flavanols also improve blood flow and lower blood pressure by boosting nitric oxide levels. – Brain Booster: Increased blood flow to the brain means better focus and memory. – Mood Lifter: It boosts endorphins and serotonin—nature’s feel-good chemicals. – Blood Sugar Friendly: With less sugar and a lower glycemic index, it’s less likely to spike your blood sugar.

The Perks of Milk Chocolate (Yes, It Has Some!)

Milk chocolate might not have the same “health halo” as dark chocolate, but it still brings a few things to the table: – Calcium Source: Thanks to its milk content, it offers a boost of calcium, important for bone and dental health. – Instant Comfort: That creamy, sweet bite? Scientifically proven to release feel-good endorphins. – Post-Workout Recovery: Chocolate milk (yep!) has been shown to help with muscle recovery and energy replenishment.

So… Which One Wins?

It depends on your goals: – For health-conscious indulgence: Go for dark chocolate with at least 70% cocoa content. – For a comforting, nostalgic treat: Reach for milk chocolate in moderation. – For recovery after a workout: Believe it or not, chocolate milk is a legit option.

Final Bites of Wisdom

Both types of chocolate can be part of a balanced lifestyle when eaten mindfully. The key is quality—look for minimal ingredients, low sugar, and ethically sourced cocoa when possible. So whether you’re team dark or team milk, enjoy it without guilt. After all, life’s too short not to savor the sweet stuff.

References:

Healthline. (2023). 7 Proven Health Benefits of Dark Chocolate. Retrieved from https://www.healthline.com/nutrition/7-health-benefits-dark-chocolate

Cleveland Clinic. (2022). Is Dark Chocolate Good for You? Retrieved from https://health.clevelandclinic.org/dark-chocolate-health-benefits

National Institutes of Health (NIH). (2020). Cocoa Flavanols and Brain Function. Retrieved from https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC7071338

     ADHD brains struggle with task switching, stopping one dopamine source for another, executive function regulation, and initiating the next step even when you want to. It’s like your brain says, “I have to get out of the car and go inside but I’m not done sitting here.”

You see this in the day-to-day.

     Take the “I just need to shower” moment: you tell yourself you’ll jump in in two minutes, but somehow you stare at one spot on the wall and suddenly 40 minutes disappear. Or the “time to leave the house” moment when shoes are on, bag is packed, and somehow, you’re reorganizing a junk drawer, wiping down the kitchen countertops, answering an email, changing the toilet paper roll, and now you’re late for something you genuinely wanted to go to. Even getting out of bed—transitioning into your day can feel overwhelming especially on the days when the reward is limited. Transitions need to be stimulating. So, mundane things like getting out of the car, going to take a shower or brush your teeth, sitting down to pay bills, walking to the mailbox or worse—walking back. Going from one task to another can be dreadful—it's unstimulating because the in-between of tasks is boring.

     Switching from fun to responsibility is a battle. You decide it’s time to pay bills, and your brain responds, “Absolutely not. I’m emotionally attached to doing nothing right now.” And when you’re hyper-focused? Forget it. Someone announces dinner and your brain acts like stopping will cause the universe to crack open and swallow your progress. You cannot be moved. At all. I just tell people "Sorry I can't, I'm in the zone."

    Bedtime is another classic example.  You’re exhausted, fully ready for sleep, and somehow you end up scrolling, wandering, snacking, remembering something from 2008, or cleaning a corner of a closet. Bed was 45 minutes ago. You’re still upright. Because the transition is the hard part. Actually going to bed—doing the going—is hard. I know, sounds nuts, right?

     Why this happens: ADHD brains rely on dopamine to shift tasks. Transitions create a drop in dopamine, and your brain resists the shift because it registers as discomfort or friction. The reaction isn’t dramatic—it’s chemical.

     There are ways to work with this wiring. Announcing the transition out loud (“Okay, we’re shifting now”) gives your brain a cue. I often shout "one, two, three—let's go."  Breaking anything into a micro-step helps because the starting line is the barrier, not the task. A 60-second “wind-down minute” helps the brain close one tab before opening another. Pre-loading the next step—laying out clothes, putting shoes by the door, opening the bills—makes the transition stupidly easy. Sensory anchors like one specific song, a scent, or even a snack can serve as signals to shift lanes.

     If you live with someone, ask for a cue, not a lecture. “Shift time” works better than a paragraph about why you need to hurry. And finally, build buffer time into everything. You don’t need 5 minutes to leave the house. You need 20. Align a dopaminergic reward to the transition.  Honoring that is recognizing how your brain works.

     ADHD brains aren’t bad at transitions; they’re just wired differently for them. A neurotypical brain can shift gears with minimal effort, but an ADHD brain needs a clear reason, a cue, or a dopamine-based reward to disengage from one thing and move toward another. It’s not laziness, and it’s not resistance—it’s a neurological lag between intention and action. Once you understand that, you stop “struggling” and start working with your brain instead of wrestling against it. You build systems, cues, and rewards that create momentum instead of relying on sheer willpower. Don’t be so hard on yourself. You just need to learn how your brain works.

References

Attention Deficit Disorder Association. (2022). ADHD and executive function challenges. https://add.org/executive-function-and-adhd/

Barkley, R. A. (2023). ADHD: What the science says. https://www.russellbarkley.org/

Brown, T. E. (2013). Brown model of executive functions in ADHD. https://www.brownadhdclinic.com/model-of-adhd/

Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. (2023). Symptoms and diagnosis of ADHD. https://www.cdc.gov/ncbddd/adhd/facts.html

Children and Adults with Attention-Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder. (2021). Executive functioning and ADHD. https://chadd.org/about-adhd/executive-functioning/

When a child avoids therapy, it rarely means the issue isn’t real. It means therapy asks them to face discomfort: honesty, vulnerability, accountability, and emotional exposure. Anxiety gets disguised as anger. Avoidance shows up as defiance. And parents get blamed for “making” them go.

For parents of an only child, the pressure can be even heavier. With no siblings to balance the emotional weight, the entire climate of the home sits on one parent-child system—meaning the parent takes the full impact when behaviors escalate, and the child refuses help.

Here’s the piece families aren’t told: a clinician can’t treat what they can’t see. If the child refuses therapy, the work shifts to the parent. At that point, therapy unintentionally becomes a support system for the parent—helping them manage the child’s anxiety, meltdowns, shutdowns, and patterns.

There’s also a hidden dynamic: the more the parent attends therapy alone, the more the child learns that avoiding therapy “works.” The parent does all the emotional heavy lifting, while the child stays in control by refusing to participate. This becomes negative reinforcement—the child avoids discomfort, the parent handles everything, and the loop strengthens.

As a therapist this happenstance is unconventional and perhaps unethical. If you see this trend starting to unfold in therapy that is meant for the child, it’s important to draw the boundary, address the parent and redirect the process. For starters, you cannot assess and diagnosis what you cannot observe. And any information you collect is bias—given only from the parent’s perspective—you don’t get the full picture. And vicariously treating the child through the parent is not an actual treatment method.

Kids don’t manipulate because they’re malicious. They manipulate because it’s effective. If refusing to enter the room gets the parent to back off, that becomes the strategy. If blowing up the parent’s phone gets reassurance, attention, or control, that behavior gets repeated. These are anxiety-driven patterns, not character flaws.

When the child won’t come to therapy, treatment begins with the parent—not because the parent is the problem, but because the parent is the one showing up. The focus shifts to structure, consistency, emotional containment, boundaries, and limiting the feedback loops that keep the child’s avoidance alive. Once the home stabilizes, the child’s resistance often softens, and that’s when real treatment can begin. But again, the data you are working with is through the parent so keep that in mind.

STRATEGIES FOR PARENTS

1. Reduce the payoff for avoidance: If refusing therapy leads to endless discussions, negotiations, or emotional rescuing, the behavior gets reinforced. Keep responses brief and consistent.

2. Stop the emotional ping-pong: If the child floods the parent with texts, calls, or demands, teach the parent to delay responses, set limits, and avoid giving anxiety instant relief.

3. Shift the spotlight: Instead of “you need to talk to the therapist,” use “this is what our home needs.” Parents reclaim authority without power struggles.

4. Regulate the home before regulating the kid: A dysregulated household guarantees a dysregulated child. Parents learn to set the emotional tone rather than react to it.

5. Build predictable boundaries: Anxious kids calm down when the world is predictable. Consistency becomes the treatment before the treatment.

Therapy only works when the child participates. Until that point, the work is stabilizing the parent, strengthening the environment, and interrupting the patterns that allow avoidance to keep winning. Sometimes the first real change happens before the child ever walks into the room.

-Jennifer Donohue LCMHC

The Donohue Approach™

References

Albano, A. M., & Kendall, P. C. (2002). Cognitive behavioral therapy for children and adolescents with anxiety disorders: Clinical research advances. International Review of Psychiatry, 14(2), 129–134.

Allen, J. G., & Fonagy, P. (2016). The development of the child’s capacity to mentalize: Implications for child therapy. Journal of Child Psychology and Psychiatry, 57(3), 231–244.

Comer, J. S., & Kendall, P. C. (2004). A symptom-level examination of parent–child agreement in the diagnosis of anxiety disorders. Journal of the American Academy of Child & Adolescent Psychiatry, 43(7), 878–886.

McLeod, B. D., Wood, J. J., & Weisz, J. R. (2007). Examining the association between parenting and childhood anxiety: A meta-analysis. Clinical Psychology Review, 27(2), 155–172.

Silverman, W. K., & Ollendick, T. H. (2005). Evidence-based assessment of anxiety and its disorders in children and adolescents. Journal of Clinical Child and Adolescent Psychology, 34(3), 380–411

.

Before going deeper into addiction science, let’s clear up the misconception that “These meds were only meant for diabetes.” Yes, Semaglutide was originally created for Type 2 diabetes, however, during trials patients lost significant weight—so significant the FDA created a higher‑dose version for weight management. Tirzepatide followed the same path. So no—people aren’t stealing diabetes meds. Medicine evolves when a drug shows powerful benefits. We see this in other drugs; this isn’t new in medicine. Some of our most effective treatments were discovered by accident. Bupropion (Wellbutrin) for example, was created as an antidepressant and ended up becoming one of the most successful smoking-cessation tools. Naltrexone ( ReVia, Vivitrol) was designed for opioid use disorder and later became a cornerstone treatment for alcohol cravings and binge eating. Clonidine, guanfacine, and prazosin all started as blood-pressure medications before becoming essential in ADHD, trauma, and PTSD-related nightmares. Anti-seizure medications like gabapentin and topiramate evolved into treatments for anxiety, alcohol reduction, migraines, and binge-eating. Even metformin, propranolol, sildenafil (Viagra), Botox, and SSRIs were repurposed after clinicians noticed powerful effects outside their original purpose. The pattern is the same every time: a medication is created for one problem, and the real story appears when we see what it does in the body and brain. GLP-1 medications are following that same path — diabetes → weight loss → and now a measurable impact on addictive cravings. Weight loss started as a side effect, then became a treatment. Now, addiction‑reduction might be the next.

For decades, addiction has been treated as a siloed problem—separate from weight, separate from metabolism, separate from the rest of a person’s physiology. But in the last few years, like the other medications mentioned earlier, something unexpected has happened. As millions of people began using medications like semaglutide and tirzepatide for diabetes and weight management, clinicians around the world started noticing the same surprising pattern: people weren’t just losing interest in food. They were losing interest in alcohol. Cigarettes. Late-night bingeing. Compulsive behaviors like nail biting, that used to feel impossible to control were suddenly quiet.

What began as individual stories has quickly grown into a legitimate scientific question: Are GLP-1 medications also acting on the brain’s reward system—and can they reduce addictive behavior?

Researchers now believe the answer may be yes. These medications don’t simply regulate blood sugar or appetite. They reach deep into the brain regions that control dopamine, craving, impulse, and reward. And early clinical trials, population studies, and neurobiological evidence all point toward a new understanding: addiction, metabolism, and reward are not separate systems—they’re intertwined.

This article takes a deeper look at what the science actually shows, how these medications affect the brain, and what this means for addiction treatment going forward. It’s not speculation. It’s emerging neuroscience, and it may reshape how we understand compulsion, craving, and self-control in the years ahead.

Medications like semaglutide (Ozempic, Wegovy) and tirzepatide (Mounjaro, Zepbound) were originally designed for diabetes and obesity, but emerging research suggests they may also reduce addictive behaviors. These medications don’t just act on the pancreas—they cross into the brain and influence regions involved in reward, craving, impulse control, and emotional regulation.

GLP-1 and GIP/GLP-1 medications reach key areas including the nucleus accumbens (dopamine reward), the ventral tegmental area (dopamine origin), the amygdala (emotion and stress), the insula (craving and urges), and the prefrontal cortex (impulse control). In addiction, dopamine spikes reinforce compulsive behaviors. GLP-1 agonists appear to flatten these surges, reducing the rewarding “hit” that drives drinking, smoking, overeating, or drug use. They don’t remove desire entirely—they quiet the noise, so self-control becomes possible again.

A 2024 randomized controlled trial in JAMA Psychiatry (Oliva et al.) tested semaglutide in adults with alcohol use disorder over nine weeks. Participants receiving semaglutide reported significantly lower alcohol craving and drank less in a lab-controlled self-administration task.

A large 2024 Nature Communications cohort study of more than 400,000 patients found that individuals taking semaglutide had a dramatically lower recurrence rate of alcohol use disorder compared with those on other weight-loss medications (hazard ratio 0.44).

Clinicians are reporting similar real-world patterns: patients who drank nightly describe “forgetting to drink,” weekend binge drinkers “lose interest after one drink,” and smokers say cigarettes feel “flat” or “pointless” on tirzepatide. Clients with compulsive eating report, “The urge isn’t loud anymore.”

Animal studies also support the mechanism. Rodents given GLP-1 agonists show reduced preference for alcohol, cocaine, opioids, and high-fat food. These medications suppress dopamine spikes in the nucleus accumbens and reduce cue-triggered seeking behavior—one of the biggest relapse risks.

Because these medications interact with dopamine, A concern around whether semaglutide or tirzepatide interfere with ADHD stimulant medications like Adderall, Vyvanse, or methylphenidate. The answer, based on neurobiology and current clinical evidence, is no—they work in different dopamine systems and do not cancel each other out.

ADHD stimulants increase dopamine and norepinephrine in the prefrontal cortex, improving focus, working memory, and cognitive control. GLP-1 medications primarily affect the mesolimbic reward pathway, flattening dopamine surges tied to cravings, impulses, and addictive reward-seeking. These are different circuits with different functions.

GLP-1 medications quiet the “reward noise,” not the “focus circuitry.” Studies show no decline in attention or executive functioning in patients taking both medications, and many report improved emotional regulation and reduced impulsive overeating or drinking. This aligns with ADHD neurobiology: individuals with ADHD often have heightened reward sensitivity, and GLP-1–related dopamine modulation may actually reduce impulsivity without touching cognitive focus pathways.

Current evidence indicates no pharmacological interaction between ADHD stimulants and GLP-1 medications, and no reduction in stimulant effectiveness. Instead, the two can work synergistically—stimulants improve top-down control, while GLP-1 agonists reduce bottom-up reward-driven impulses.

Addiction is not about willpower—it’s a looping system of reward, reinforcement, and impaired top-down control. GLP-1 medications appear to intervene by slowing dopamine release, reducing reward anticipation, weakening cue-driven craving, and enhancing prefrontal control. Together, these effects create a window where therapy, skills, and accountability can work more effectively.

Human trials are still small and short-term. Most research focuses on alcohol, with less human data on opioids, stimulants, cannabis, or behavioral addictions. Long-term relapse outcomes are unknown, and GLP-1 medications are not FDA-approved for addiction treatment. More studies are underway, including a Phase 2 trial of tirzepatide for alcohol use disorder (NCT06994338).

GLP-1 medications don’t cure addiction or remove cravings entirely. They’re not a replacement for therapy or structured care. But they can quiet compulsive drive enough to allow choice, stability, and progress. For many, that window of control is life changing.

- Jennifer Donohue, LCMHC

References

Arnsten, A. F. T. (2009). The emerging neurobiology of ADHD and executive function. Neuropsychopharmacology, 34, 66–73.

Berridge, K. C., & Robinson, T. E. (2016). Incentive-sensitization theory of addiction. Addiction, 111, 4–22.

Biederman, J., & Faraone, S. V. (2005). Attention-deficit hyperactivity disorder. The Lancet, 366, 237–248.

ClinicalTrials.gov. (NCT06994338). Tirzepatide in alcohol use disorder.

Cortese, S. (2012). The neurobiology of ADHD. CNS Drugs, 26, 89–98.

Egecioglu, E., et al. (2013). The GLP-1 analog exendin-4 decreases alcohol intake and reward. Journal of Neuroscience.

Everitt, B. J., & Robbins, T. W. (2016). Drug addiction and cue-driven relapse. Annual Review of Psychology, 67, 23–50.

Faraone, S. V., et al. (2021). The neuroscience of ADHD. Biological Psychiatry.

Frye, B., et al. (2023). GLP-1 receptor agonists reduce alcohol intake and craving: A systematic review. Alcohol.

Giulietti, F., Filipponi, A., Rosettani, G., et al. (2020). Pharmacological approach to smoking cessation: An updated review for daily clinical practice. High Blood Pressure & Cardiovascular Prevention.

Hsu, T. M., et al. (2015). GLP-1 signaling in reward pathways of the mesolimbic system. Journal of Clinical Investigation, 125, 722–734.

López-Fernández, F., et al. (2022). GLP-1 receptor activation reduces cocaine and alcohol intake: Rodent models. Addiction Biology.

Moawad, M. H. E., et al. (2024). Efficacy of naltrexone/bupropion in treatment of binge-eating disorder. Psychiatry International, 5(3), 22.

Oliva, A., et al. (2024). Semaglutide for alcohol use disorder: A randomized clinical trial. JAMA Psychiatry.

Richardson, A. S., et al. (2024). GLP-1 receptor agonists and reduced risk of alcohol use disorder. Nature Communications, 15, 1223.

Shirazi, R. H., et al. (2013). GLP-1 receptor stimulation suppresses reward-driven behavior. PLOS ONE, 8, e78665.

Sonuga-Barke, E. J. S. (2010). ADHD as a reinforcement disorder. Psychological Bulletin, 136, 601–623.

Spencer, T. J., et al. (2015). Mechanisms of stimulant action in ADHD. Journal of Clinical Psychiatry.

Volkow, N. D., & Morales, M. (2015). The brain on drugs: From reward to addiction. Cell, 162, 712–725.

Volkow, N. D., et al. (2011). Motivation deficits in ADHD: Neural mechanisms. Biological Psychiatry, 69, 794–803.

Wilkes, S., Evans, A., Henderson, M., & Wilson, M. (2008). The use of bupropion SR in cigarette smoking cessation. International Journal of Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease, 3(4), 673–687.

     When most people think about mental health, they picture the brain, a tangle of neurons firing, a vague notion of “chemical imbalances” pulled from a half-remembered commercial. But the brain isn’t running the show alone. In fact, your heart and your gut are just as involved, and just as important, in shaping how you think, feel, react, and heal.      Modern psychology, as well as ancient wisdom, tells us something powerful: we don’t have just one brain. We have three. There’s the head brain, the thinker, the analyzer, the storyteller. There’s the heart brain, your emotional compass, your source of empathy and connection. And there’s the gut brain, your instinctive, survival-driven decision-maker. Each of these command centers has its own intelligence. When they work in harmony, life feels clear, grounded, and energized. When they’re out of sync, it feels like three people fighting over the same steering wheel. The brain is the primary communicator, housing billions of neurons that fire constantly to plan, solve problems, make decisions, store memories, and regulate emotion, at least, it tries. But it doesn’t work alone. It responds to what the heart and gut are reporting. If your gut sends out distress signals, the brain often reads it as anxiety. If the heart’s rhythm turns erratic, the brain might interpret that as fear or sadness. Thanks to neuroplasticity, the brain is also always changing, adapting to experience, thought patterns, and habits. You can rewire your brain at any age. The heart has a brain of its own, about 40,000 neurons that can feel, sense, remember, and even make decisions. It communicates with the brain constantly, often sending emotional signals before you’re even aware you’re feeling something. When the heart’s rhythms are smooth and coherent, you think more clearly, stay calmer under stress, and connect more deeply with others. But when those rhythms are jagged, it might look like an unexplained racing heart during minor stress, chronic loneliness, or emotional disconnection. Fortunately, practices like heart-focused breathing, mindfulness, and gratitude can train the heart-brain connection and restore coherence quickly. Your gut, the second brain, houses around 500 million neurons and produces over 90% of your body’s serotonin, the key neurotransmitter for mood regulation and happiness. It plays a critical role in digestion, immune regulation, emotional signaling, and your intuitive “gut feeling.” When the gut is inflamed or out of balance due to poor diet, chronic stress, or bacterial overgrowth, it can cause a domino effect in the rest of the system. This dysfunction can show up as anxiety, depression, brain fog, fatigue, digestive issues, and autoimmune flare-ups. In short: your gut health is your mental health. There’s no separation. Now picture these three systems, brain, heart, and gut, as best friends on a group chat. If the gut sends a panicked message, the brain starts bracing for danger and the heart speeds up. If the heart broadcasts sadness, the brain goes into protective mode and the gut tightens. If the brain spirals with negative thoughts, it disrupts the balance in the heart and gut. They’re all constantly communicating, which is why healing the mind requires addressing the entire system. Talk therapy and medication can help, but without including the body and its internal messaging system, results often fall short. When this heart-gut-brain connection is disrupted, it might look like chronic digestive issues paired with mood swings, a racing heart even in calm environments, emotional numbness, brain fog, or a sense of being stuck or hopeless without clear cause. The signs may seem unrelated at first, but they all point back to a disconnected inner network. To strengthen the connection, start small. Stimulate your vagus nerve with cold showers, deep breathing, or singing. Eat mindfully and focus on gut-friendly foods while cutting out processed junk. Use heart coherence practices, breathe deeply into your heart space, and visualize someone or something you’re grateful for. Move your body daily through walking, yoga, or stretching. And most importantly, connect with safe, supportive people. Relationships regulate the nervous system more than we realize. For deeper healing, therapies like EMDR, Somatic Experiencing, and Internal Family Systems can help recalibrate the entire triad. At the heart of The Donohue Approach is a belief that healing isn’t just mental, it’s biological, emotional, relational, and behavioral. It teaches you to reconnect your heart, gut, and brain so they work in sync, not in opposition. You build emotional resilience from the inside out. You shift the physical habits, nutrition, breathing, movement, which impact your emotional state. And above all, you create internal safety, because your nervous system can’t heal if it still thinks you’re under attack. When your three command centers align through intentional strategies rooted in neuroscience, psychology, and mind-body medicine, you move from surviving to thriving. Your brain is brilliant. Your heart is wise. Your gut is powerful. When they work together, you’re not just surviving, you’re leading, loving, and living fully. This isn’t just mental health. This is whole health. And it is possible for you.

     When our internal command centers are in sync, they help us regulate emotion, make sound decisions, and feel grounded in our experiences.

References

Childre, D., & Martin, H. (2000). The HeartMath solution: The Institute of HeartMath's revolutionary program for engaging the power of the heart’s intelligence. HarperCollins.

Foster, J. A., & McVey Neufeld, K.-A. (2013). Gut–brain axis: How the microbiome influences anxiety and depression. Trends in Neurosciences, 36(5), 305–312. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.tins.2013.01.005

Gershon, M. D. (1998). The second brain. Harper Perennial.

Mayer, E. A. (2016). The mind-gut connection. Harper Wave.

McCraty, R. (2014). Cardiac coherence, self-regulation, autonomic stability, and psychosocial well-being. Frontiers in Psychology, 5, 1090. https://doi.org/10.3389/fpsyg.2014.01090

McCraty, R., Atkinson, M., Tomasino, D., & Bradley, R. T. (2009). The coherent heart: Heart–brain interactions, psychophysiological coherence, and the emergence of system-wide order. Integral Review, 5(2), 10–115.

McEwen, B. S. (2007). Physiology and neurobiology of stress and adaptation: Central role of the brain. Physiological Reviews, 87(3), 873–904. https://doi.org/10.1152/physrev.00041.2006

Siegel, D. J. (2012). The developing mind: How relationships and the brain interact to shape who we are (2nd ed.). Guilford Press.

We are not talking about actual board members, instead a group of people each of whom have a unique set of skills and smarts that keep you together and enhance your life.

“Choose your friends wisely”

“You are who you hang out with”

People come and go but these people, the ones that make up your board, they stay. If you don’t have these people, go find them!

Find the ones who make you feel safe, seen and grounded. The ones that hold you accountable and keep you humble. Make sure you are not the smartest person in the “board room.” Find the ones that have a specific skill set that you benefit from but are not well versed in. For example, perhaps a lawyer or doctor friend, if your are neither, a successful business owner friend, and outdoorsy health nut, a well read one, a Philomath, a comic, a great cook, the well experienced traveler, the frugal kind, the carpenter, the teacher, the one who shows up before you even have to ask. Find the ones that know visiting hours don’t apply because they show up without restraint, consistently. These are the friends you keep. Find the ones that are willing to go through what you’re going through.

Here are the ones you shouldn’t keep: they go.

The ones who drain your energy, complain, cut you down, only come around when they need something. The ones who keep you stuck in old versions of yourself. The ones that make fun of you, are negative, jealous, dismiss you, knock down every idea you have. The ones that can’t level up.

If you know who these “friends” are, let them go! They are NOT your friends let alone your board members.

Here’s why you should let them go:

It’s not cold. It’s not cruel. It’s clarity. It’s self-respect. Changing who you surround yourself with isn’t betrayal, it’s alignment. You need to protect your peace and curate your circle. You are allowed to grow and be surrounded with people who not only help you but want to be there.

We have all heard of the well-known “Freshman 15.” But it isn’t just about bad cafeteria food or the underage alcohol consumption nobody wants to own up to, that leads to the sudden weight gain, it’s about group behavior. Studies show students tend to mimic the eating and exercise habits of their roommates or the friends they keep.

The same goes for people trying to quit smoking. They are more successful in group programs, largely due to the shared accountability and support of their peers, its group behavior.

In the professional world, those who actively network (rub elbows) with high-achievers often find more opportunities for growth and advancement.

These patterns are well-documented across fields in social psychology, behavioral science, and public health, all of which study how our behaviors, habits, and even health outcomes are shaped by the people we surround ourselves with.

The company you keep has a direct link to how you grow.

Surround yourself like you’re building a board.

If your life is your greatest project, then the people around you are your support system, your influence, and your energy source.

Think of it like this:

You’re the CEO of your life. So who’s on your board? Surround yourself with people who challenge your thinking, not your worth, celebrate your wins without jealousy, tell you the truth even if it’s a small truth, (Do I look good in this? Is there food in my teeth?) Keep people that hold you accountable to your highest self, help you grow personally, spiritually, and professionally.

Not everyone deserves a seat at your table. Some people were only meant to pass through the lobby, not sit in on executive decisions.

Take caution in who you choose.

You want mentors, not critics.

You want partners, not passengers.

You want encouragers, not energy vampires.

To determine if you have your board here are a few questions you should be asking yourself:

Does this person enhance my life, or drain it?

Do they invest in me, or withdraw from me?

Would I want them on my board if the stakes were high?

Are they reliable?

Are they teaching me anything?

Do they cause me grief or sorrow?

Do I get 100% from them?

A study published in BMC Psychology found that positive peer relationships significantly improve learning motivation and achievement. That means just being around people who are motivated and growth-oriented can boost your own performance and mindset.

In fact, the influence of our social networks goes even deeper. According to findings published in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, behaviors whether healthy or harmful can ripple out through social circles up to three degrees of separation. In other words, who you choose to be close to doesn’t just impact you it impacts everyone around you. And that’s not just theory. That’s science.

The National Institutes of Health also notes that peer influence plays a major role across all ages. Our brains are wired to value what those around us value, even as adults. So if you’re surrounded by cynicism, comparison, negativity, or drama… don’t be surprised if it starts to rub off.

The stakes are high. This is your life. And the people around you shape how you live it. Choose wisely. Build intentionally. Surround yourself like your future depends on it, because it does. Also, keep in mind that once you’ve gathered your board, you’re expected to be an active member on theirs as well.

“You are who you hang out with” is a powerful reminder that the people we surround ourselves with can influence our thoughts, behaviors, and even our future. Whether it’s ambition, mindset, habits, or emotional energy, your circle often reflects (or infects) your standards.

Want to level up? Audit your circle. Want peace? Choose people who radiate it. Want growth? Be around those who challenge and inspire you.

You’re not just picking company, you’re picking your future.

“You are the average of the five people you spend the most time with” -Jim Rohn

#TheDonohueApproach

References:

Christakis, N. A., & Fowler, J. H. (2009). Connected: The surprising power of our social networks and how they shape our lives. Little, Brown Spark.

Ryan, A. M. (2001). The peer group as a context for the development of young adolescent motivation and achievement. Child Development, 72(4), 1135–1150.

Valente, T. W. (2010). Social networks and health: Models, methods, and applications. Oxford University Press.

Baumeister, R. F., & Leary, M. R. (1995). The need to belong: Desire for interpersonal attachments as a fundamental human motivation. Psychological Bulletin, 117(3), 497–529.

Cialdini, R. B., & Goldstein, N. J. (2004). Social influence: Compliance and conformity. Annual Review of Psychology, 55, 591–621.

Shao, Y., Kang, S., Lu, Q., Zhang, C., & Li, R. (2024). How peer relationships affect academic achievement among junior high school students: The chain mediating roles of learning motivation and learning engagement. BMC Psychology, 12(1), Article 1780.

Christakis, N. A., & Fowler, J. H. (2010). Cooperative behavior cascades in human social networks. Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, 107(12), 5334–5338.  

NIH News in Health. (2021, September). The power of peers. U.S. Department of Health and Human Services, National Institutes of Health.  

Rohn, J. (2001). Jim Rohn’s philosophy for successful living. Brolin Publishing Company.

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Dissociation is one of the most protective yet misunderstood responses in the human nervous system. Clinically, it refers to a disruption in the normal integration of consciousness, memory, perception, and identity. But behind that sterile definition is a highly intelligent biological process: when the system is overwhelmed, it fragments in order to preserve functioning. This isn’t a psychological failure—it’s the brain’s emergency protocol.

When the body perceives threat or extreme stress, it moves through a predictable hierarchy of responses. First comes activation—the fight-or-flight surge mediated by the sympathetic nervous system. If escape or defense is impossible, the body shifts into a freeze response. Dissociation occurs at the far end of that continuum: it’s the nervous system’s way of shutting down conscious awareness when neither fighting nor fleeing is an option.

In neurobiological terms, the amygdala floods with fear signals, the prefrontal cortex (which governs logic and orientation) goes offline, and blood flow redirects toward primitive survival centers. The hippocampus, which normally timestamps and integrates experience, stops functioning effectively. That’s why trauma memories often return as disjointed sensations or flashbacks rather than linear stories—the event was never fully encoded in sequence.

The result is a temporary uncoupling between body and mind: the person continues to move, speak, or perform automatic behaviors, but their subjective presence is suspended. It’s an adaptive anesthesia for unbearable experience.

One client once described it as “seeing life through dirty glass.” They knew where they were—could read street signs, answer questions, follow directions—but nothing felt quite real. “It’s like I’m in the scene but not part of it,” they said. That’s classic derealization, a form of dissociation that dulls the edges of the world when the brain can’t tolerate full clarity. The mind dimmed the light so they wouldn’t burn out.

Another client explained, “It feels like I’m watching a movie of myself. I know I’m sitting in this room, talking to you, but it’s like I’m watching it happen from somewhere behind me.” They weren’t detached from reality; they were detached from themselves within it. Their nervous system had decided that emotional absence was safer than exposure. The detachment protected them, but it also left them lonely inside their own life.

And then there are moments that stretch the limits of comprehension—like the person who made a right turn near home and “woke up” three miles later on an unfamiliar road. They hadn’t lost consciousness; they’d lost integration. The motor system kept driving. The conscious mind stepped aside. It was the brain’s version of an exit strategy.

Each of these people were functioning—breathing, talking, performing learned tasks—but without full access to awareness. The body stayed online. The self went dim.

Dissociation exists on a wide spectrum, from the mundane to the pathological. Mild forms include momentary “spacing out”—driving home without recalling the route or losing track of time during a repetitive task. Moderate forms may include emotional numbing, depersonalization (feeling detached from oneself), or derealization (the world feels unreal or distant). Severe or chronic forms can involve amnesia for significant events, fragmentation of identity, or fugue states in which the person temporarily loses...

Importantly, dissociation is not limited to trauma survivors. It can appear in anxiety disorders, complex stress reactions, ADHD, and even medical crises. The unifying theme is overwhelm—the system perceives that continued awareness would exceed its capacity to cope.

For clinicians, recognizing dissociation is essential. A client who appears calm while recounting horrific experiences may not be regulated—they may be dissociated. Likewise, sudden blankness, delayed responses, or incongruent affect can signal a partial disconnection rather than resistance.

In trauma-informed work, pacing is everything. Asking clients to revisit experiences too quickly risks reactivating the same defensive shutdown that protected them during the original event. Treatment should emphasize stabilization before exploration— grounding, sensory orientation, and building tolerance for small increments of emotional engagement. Only once the client can safely maintain presence can deeper integration occur.

Dissociation is understood as evidence of the system’s intelligence, not its pathology. The mind did what it had to do to keep the person functional. The goal of therapy is not to “remove” dissociation but to teach the brain that it no longer needs to use it as frequently or intensely.

That process requires attunement, psychoeducation, and repetition. Clients learn to notice subtle precursors—blankness, fading sounds, time distortion—and to gently reorient before complete detachment occurs. Over time, the nervous system begins to trust that it can stay present without being annihilated by the emotion.

Dissociation is the nervous system’s last line of defense. It’s not a character flaw, a lack of willpower, or a refusal to engage. It’s the mind’s version of triage—a temporary partition designed to keep someone alive.

The work of healing is helping the system remember that survival no longer requires separation.

© 2025 Jennifer Donohue, M.A., LCMHC | The Donohue Approach™

References

Lanius, R. A., Frewen, P. A., Vermetten, E., & Yehuda, R. (2010). Trauma-related dissociation and altered states of consciousness: A four-dimensional model. European Journal of Psychotraumatology, 1(1), 5628. https://doi.org/10.3402/ejpt.v1i0.5628

Reinders, A. A., Nijenhuis, E. R., Quak, J., Korf, J., Haaksma, J., Vrancken, A., & Paans, A. M. (2003). Hippocampal and amygdalar volumes in patients with dissociative identity disorder and healthy comparison subjects. American Journal of Psychiatry, 160(2), 840-846. https://pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/articles/PMC3233754/

Schäfer, I., Schröder, H. W., & Huss, M. (2017). Dissociation and alterations in brain function and structure: A review of neuroimaging studies. Current Psychiatry Reports, 19(6), 27. https://doi.org/10.1007/s11920-017-0757-y

Schäfer, J. (2025). Depersonalization/derealization disorder. The Lancet Psychiatry. https://doi.org/10.1016/S2468-7499(25)00099-7

van der Kolck, B., & Fisler, R. (1995). Dissociation and memory fragmentation in posttraumatic stress: An empirical review. Journal of Trauma & Dissociation, 1(2), 7-44. https://pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/articles/PMC3310188/

Insurance companies routinely raise premiums and deductibles, yet the public rarely sees transparent data on their claim-payment rates. On average, how many claims do they deny, and for what reasons? This is not a healthcare cost issue—it’s a health insurance issue.

Let’s take subsidies out of the equation, because they only mask the real problem. Without government assistance, the average monthly premium for a Blue Cross Blue Shield plan in Vermont is roughly $800 to $1000 per person, with annual deductibles often ranging from $9,000 to $10,000 for individual coverage. That means someone can pay nearly $10,000 per year in premiums and still be responsible for another $10,000 out-of-pocket before insurance contributes a single dollar toward care.

And even if a person qualifies for subsidies—reducing or even eliminating their monthly premium—that doesn’t mean their deductible goes to zero. Many still face annual deductibles of $9,000 to $10,000, and insurance companies can still deny costly medical services. So, it’s really not helping. What the insurance companies don’t pay, the patient ends up being responsible for.

  In real terms, a person could spend up to $20,000 a year just to maintain access to healthcare—and that’s before copays, prescriptions, or uncovered services (which also needs to be audited as well btw) Insurance companies are collecting thousands in premiums while denying or delaying claims, leaving individuals paying more for less.

The result? Many skip medical visits, delay essential care, or avoid doctors entirely because they can’t afford the out-of-pocket costs—even though they technically “have” insurance.

And if you think insurance companies feel bad that people avoid going to the doctor because of this, you’re wrong—they don’t care. They care about profit margins, not patients. In fact, it’s better for them if you don’t seek care—because if you never go to the doctor, they can’t be blamed for denying or delaying your claims.

And let’s take it a step further-here's another thing insurance company don't care about: because of denied claims and people avoiding healthcare altogether, independent healthcare providers, mental health agencies, and hospitals are forced to chase claims just to get paid. Reimbursements are delayed or denied, creating financial strain across the entire system. Staff shortages are growing, hospital departments are overwhelmed, and healthcare systems at every level are struggling to stay afloat. Ultimately, people who are trying to seek services can’t. Those who go to the hospital aren’t getting the care they need. Many are forced to sit and wait—sometimes for hours—just to be seen or treated. This is posing real harm to people.

Subsidies might soften the blow for some, but they don’t fix the core issue: unregulated, inflated insurance pricing.

Instead of using taxpayer dollars to offset skyrocketing premiums, federal law should cap what insurers can charge and require full transparency on claim approval rates. Taxpayers should not be responsible for covering the difference while insurance companies profit from inaccessibility.

This isn’t a state problem or a federal problem—it’s a systemic one. Until insurance companies are held accountable for what they charge and how little they actually pay, the healthcare crisis will continue—not because care is unavailable, but because the system has priced people out of it.

You ask where money is coming from to help. It should not come from state or federal tax dollars. That does not solve the problem. Although an individual or family can obtain subsidies to cover the gap-- they will pay more in taxes to cover those subsidies.

So, what exactly are insurance companies doing with all this money while denying or limiting claims? This is not merely a state problem or a federal problem—it’s a systemic one. Again, taxpayers should not have to shoulder the burden while insurance companies continue to profit unchecked. Accountability and transparency are long overdue.

And one final thought: this should have nothing to do with politics! Insurance companies don’t discriminate—they don’t care whether you’re a Democrat or a Republican. They care about profit margins, not people. Let that sink in.

References

Blue Cross Blue Shield of Vermont. (2025). 2025 individual/family premiums chart [PDF]. https://www.bluecrossvt.org/documents/2025-individual-family-premiums-chart

Blue Cross Blue Shield of Vermont. (n.d.). Vermont Preferred Bronze Plan: Out-of-pocket limits and deductible details. https://www.bluecrossvt.org/our-plans/employers-and-groups/employers-1-100-employees/plans-small-business/vermont-preferred-bronze-plan

Commonwealth Fund. (2024, December). Trends in employer health insurance costs, 2014–2023. https://www.commonwealthfund.org/publications/issue-briefs/2024/dec/trends-employer-health-insurance-costs-2014-2023

Fountain, K. (2024, August 14). Health insurers ask to increase health plan premiums in Vermont. VTDigger. https://vtdigger.org/2025/05/13/health-insurers-ask-to-increase-health-plan-premiums-amid-rising-health-care-costs/

Kaiser Family Foundation. (2023). 2023 employer health benefits survey: Summary of findings. https://www.kff.org/report-section/ehbs-2023-summary-of-findings/

Kaiser Family Foundation. (2025, January 27). Claims denials and appeals in ACA marketplace plans in 2023. https://www.kff.org/private-insurance/claims-denials-and-appeals-in-aca-marketplace-plans-in-2023/

ValuePenguin. (2025). Average cost of health insurance in 2025. https://www.valuepenguin.com/average-cost-of-health-insurance

Venteur. (2025). How much does individual health insurance cost in 2025? https://www.venteur.com/blog/how-much-does-individual-health-insurance-cost

Vermont Health Care Value Hub. (2024). Vermont health care affordability policy snapshot. https://healthcarevaluehub.org/wp-content/uploads/Vermont_Snapshot.pdf