Labels

When I present a diagnosis to a client, I do it with hesitation. Honestly, I often pause before I say the words out loud. I know how heavy they can land. Sometimes a client hears it and their shoulders drop in relief—“That… that’s what’s wrong with me.” Other times, it’s like watching a curtain fall over their face “Oh no… that’s what’s wrong with me.”

And something interesting happens. After hearing a diagnosis, many people start to act more like it. Like they’ve been told, “This is who you are now.” It can start to feel less like an explanation and more like an expectation.

I work to clarify with them: this isn’t who you are. A diagnosis is just shorthand—a snapshot of the patterns and symptoms showing up right now. It shifts as behavior shifts. It evolves as we get more pieces of the puzzle. Aaron Beck, who founded cognitive therapy, said that *“the meaning people attach to their experiences determines how they respond emotionally.”*¹ If the meaning they give to a diagnosis becomes “this is who I am,” it shapes their whole sense of worth.

The diagnosis becomes a label that is attached to us and the danger is when a label stops being a description and starts becoming an identity. If I let that label become the foundation of my worth, my confidence will always depend on how the world views that group.

We use labels like membership cards for more than just mental health; political party, religious affiliation, the generation we were born in, the sports team we root for, even our favorite music artists.

I grew up in the suburbs of Indianapolis, and for our family, church was everything. It was who we were. Faith shaped almost every part of my childhood. As any parent does mine worked feverishly to maintain my innocence and sanitize my view of the world.  

I never really was the odd kid out, but I often felt like I was, unless I could find a way to feel superior. If I could be “better” than someone, I wasn’t outside anymore, they were. I remember one Sunday at youth group, we sang a rewritten version of the Four Non Blondes song What’s Up? but with the words changed from “what’s going on” to “my guilt is gone.” I eventually heard the real version on the radio and thought someone had changed our worship song. I even argued with another kid about which version was correct. When I learned the truth, I felt embarrassed, and the bubble I existed in popped.

So much of my understanding of culture came through this sanitized lens. The intention of purity culture was to scrub secular music, movies, and art clean, or restrict them entirely. We were taught that liking those things made you “bad,” and avoiding them made you “good.”

Even who my heroes were had to be filtered through this. A persons religious affiliation was valued highly.  Naturally I would start to weigh those who believed the same thing as I did heavier, as they were acceptable.  It was “okay” to like them. I remember my parents talking about an athlete they disliked who became an Christian, and their frustration that now they “had to like him.” Years later, I made a comment about Kanye West’s mental health, and my father immediately replied, “You know he’s a Christian, right?”

It was subtle, but clear: if someone was “in the club,” you defended them. If they weren’t, you distrusted them.

Henri Tajfel and John Turner’s social identity theory explains why this runs so deep: we build part of our self-esteem from the groups we belong to.² Their success feels like our success, and their criticism feels like our rejection. Brené Brown writes in Braving the Wilderness that *“true belonging doesn’t require you to change who you are; it requires you to be who you are.”*³ But for a long time, belonging for me meant becoming whatever I needed to be to stay accepted or to feel I was accepted.  Many times this was found in who I disliked, who I avoided more than who I gravitated towards. 

We cling to groups that reflect us, and we fiercely defend them. Their reputation becomes tied to our worth. Any criticism of the group starts to feel like criticism of me. If they are wrong, then maybe I am too. My instinct is to defend them, overlook their mistakes, or compare their faults to their adversaries to protect the group. We stop questioning because questioning feels like betrayal.

That is where black-and-white thinking creeps in. David Burns calls this an “all-or-nothing” cognitive distortion, a mental filter that forces us to see things as either-or instead of both-and.⁴ Dialectical behavior therapy (DBT) pushes back against this. Marsha Linehan, DBT’s founder, described dialectics as holding two truths at once.⁵ I can be generous and selfish. I can question something and still be respectful. It is not contradiction; it is complexity.

When we lose that complexity, we start following the unspoken rules of the group to stay safe. It convinces us that we cannot care for ourselves and others at the same time. But we can.

There was a process of detachment that I needed to move through. Jay Shetty writes in Think Like a Monk that *“Detachment is not that you own nothing. Detachment is that nothing owns you.”*⁶ For me, this meant loosening my grip on the labels and roles that I thought would finally prove I was “good.” I kept thinking I would find an oasis, “I will feel whole when I get this job, this title, this approval” and every time it turned out to be a mirage.

I see now that this pattern was about control. I moved through life with hesitation, calculating every risk. I avoided anything where failure was possible. If I wasn’t sure I would succeed, I didn’t try. If no one saw me doing it, it didn’t feel like it counted. I hid, then resented others who tried boldly and succeeded. My worth was tethered to outcomes, and every outcome felt like a referendum on who I was.

The more I tried to avoid failure, the more it seemed to find me. Because when our intention is to avoid something, it stays at the center of our focus. The only way out was to question the stories I was telling myself.

Man was created “a little lower than the angels” (Psalm 8:5), suspended between instinct and divine purpose. We are sinners and saints at the same time. C.S. Lewis called this the “weight of glory” that each of us carries.⁷ Dallas Willard wrote that spiritual formation is moving from “external performance to internal transformation.”⁸ Richard Rohr describes the True Self as something not created or achieved, but unleashed when we release our false identities.⁹

It comes from questioning, identifying why we believe the things we do. After spending years in the church, working for the church, and being hurt by the church, I reached a point where listening to Sunday sermons felt more like entertainment than something that built my faith. More often than not, I found myself critiquing the message, thinking about what I would have done differently, poking holes in their presentation or theology. It got to the point where my wife would hesitate to ask if I liked the sermon that morning.

I genuinely wanted to connect with her about what we were learning in that space, and I wanted to move from a deeper motivation than simply appearing “good” on the outside while feeling disconnected inside. Around that time, I started journaling. One Sunday I paused to ask myself why something the pastor said didn’t sit well with me. I worked it out on paper, whether my discomfort was theological, cultural, ethical, political, or rooted in how I viewed faith or even myself. I would ask whether this difference actually went against the core of my faith.

What this gave me was space. Space to question, to clarify, and to affirm what I believe and why I believe it. I realized I didn’t have to agree with the pastor in order to receive something meaningful. In that way, I could be grateful for them and their message, trusting that this might be exactly what God intended for that moment and I felt connected to something bigger than me, even in disagreement with the “group” I was in at that time.

We are not our labels. We are not our diagnoses. Our worth cannot be conferred by a group. Labels can offer community and connection, but they are not where our value comes from. Like designer brands, their worth depends on how often they are worn and how many people find them desirable. That is not how human worth works.

We are more than our roles.
We are more than our labels.

References (APA)

¹ Beck, A. T. (1979). Cognitive therapy and the emotional disorders. New American Library.
² Tajfel, H., & Turner, J. C. (1979). An integrative theory of intergroup conflict. In W. G. Austin & S. Worchel (Eds.), The social psychology of intergroup relations (pp. 33–47). Brooks/Cole.
³ Brown, B. (2017). Braving the wilderness: The quest for true belonging and the courage to stand alone. Random House.
⁴ Burns, D. D. (1989). The feeling good handbook. William Morrow.
⁵ Linehan, M. M. (1993). Cognitive-behavioral treatment of borderline personality disorder. Guilford Press.
⁶ Shetty, J. (2020). Think like a monk: Train your mind for peace and purpose every day. Simon & Schuster.
⁷ Lewis, C. S. (1949). The weight of glory. HarperOne.
⁸ Willard, D. (2002). Renovation of the heart: Putting on the character of Christ. NavPress.
⁹ Rohr, R. (2013). Immortal diamond: The search for our true self. Jossey-Bass.

What brings people to therapy?

That is an excellent question, and one I work to answer each time I meet a new client.

The first thing I assess is how someone views therapy, as this often reveals how aligned or close they are to change. For many, there is a belief that something must be “wrong” with them, or that they are broken. To face this fear would be to validate every negative thought they have carried about themselves. As Phil Stutz describes, the shadow, the parts of ourselves we try hardest to hide, that we feel we would be judged harshest (or have been in the past) for, continue to confront us.¹ 

This, however, is not how I, or most mental health providers, view clients. Instead, we see the whole person as greater than the sum of their parts. You are not inherently broken, rather, strategies that once worked for you may no longer serve you, the support you need might be missing, or shifts in your life roles may leave you feeling lost in your sense of self.

Each of us carries a wide range of experiences that shape how we see ourselves. From those experiences, we take in messages and form behaviors, sometimes to protect, sometimes to soothe. These behaviors may help us find significance, maintain comfort, manage relationships, or, at times, simply survive. Yet, a behavior only works until it does not. That breaking point is often what brings people into therapy.

We develop behaviors in response to triggers, which activate physical reactions tied to past memories or events. Trauma responses are our body’s physical reaction to something that pulls us back into the past. The same instincts our ancestors used for survival are still with us, although the threats today are less physical and more emotional or psychological.

Dr. James Doty, a neurosurgeon and founder of Stanford’s Center for Compassion and Altruism Research and Education (CCARE), teaches that disconnection, threat, and isolation keep us in a constant state of fear.² These triggers often stem from past trauma and our brain’s built-in negativity bias, and we create behaviors and elaborate masks that we will utilize to fit in, to somehow feel connected, it is how we attempt to avoid the threat we perceive.  

Trauma expert Dr. Gabor Maté explains: *“Trauma is not what happened to you, but what happens inside of you as a result of what happened.”*³ Trauma does not need to be a “big T” event to qualify, it is any internal wound that lingers. What overwhelms one person may not overwhelm another. Our bodies adapt, forming protective behaviors, whether through hypervigilance, dissociation, emotional dysregulation, or even physical symptoms like chronic pain, fatigue, or digestive issues. These once-protective strategies can later pull us back into old wounds, making us respond as if the event is happening all over again. Dr. Doty calls this a “fear narrative,” an ingrained sense of threat that shapes our behaviors and beliefs about ourselves and the world.²

Our broader culture also impacts how we experience connection. For example, when my family and I moved into our home this past year, I realized after living here about 6 months I had not met either of my neighbors. As a child, I knew every kid on my street yet now have to move with greater intention in order to feel connected.  Historically, humans lived in tribes or villages with deep communal bonds. Today, we often live disconnected, interacting only through curated images or comparisons rather than authentic connection. This disconnection stirs envy, jealousy, despair, and inferiority. Surrounded by people, yet lacking depth in relationships, many feel insecure or inadequate, and try to fill that emptiness in unhelpful ways.

Isolation often takes root in guilt and shame. Guilt is the remorse for actions or inactions that have harmed another, and it points us toward accountability, it points us to behaviors we can adjust. Shame, on the other hand, tells us I am bad and corrodes our belief that we can change. Brené Brown defines shame as *“the intensely painful feeling or experience of believing we are flawed and therefore unworthy of love, belonging, and connection.”*⁴ Shame pushes us into isolation and convinces us we are a burden.

Brown’s research shows that while guilt can be resolved through accountability, shame cannot survive when it is met with empathy and vulnerability.⁴ Many clients fear that revealing their scars will confirm their unworthiness. Yet, when they share openly with someone trustworthy, they are often met with compassion instead of rejection. That moment of being seen, without the other person looking away, diminishes shame’s power. Sharing does not erase the wound, but it makes it lighter. The weight, it turns out, was not the shame itself but the loneliness of carrying it alone.

Every trigger is the anticipation of a threat. Our negativity bias keeps us scanning for danger, which is why fear-driven media, whether social, news and advertising, is designed holds our attention so tightly. When a trigger pulls us back into a wound, whether powerlessness, humiliation, or abandonment, we relive those feelings repeatedly. To avoid them, we create behaviors to bury or project them and are always taking in negative information to avoid them.

A trigger can be anything, a song, a smell, a phrase, a loud noise, or even silence. We cannot control when we are triggered, but we are responsible for how we respond. Avoidance keeps us stuck. Clinically, we call the process of healing extinction, gradually exposing ourselves to the stressor while using grounding and coping skills to move through it.

It is like entering a cold swimming pool. Being thrown suddenly into the deep end leaves us panicked and desperate never to return. But if we step in gradually, we allow our body to acclimate. At first the water is uncomfortable, but over time we can tolerate it. Eventually, we can swim freely in the same water that once overwhelmed us. The temperature never changes, just as the intensity of an emotion never truly changes. What changes is our capacity to remain present and functional within it. Extinction works the same way, our tolerance increases as we turn toward the emotion instead of avoiding it.

The work of moving through trauma is centered in the messages we internalize from the incident itself. The real question becomes: What does this wound say about me? 

In working through my own history, I confronted a phrase that surfaced after I was terminated from a position under deceptive pretenses: “I am not the guy.” That message replayed whenever I encountered similar stressors, carrying with it feelings of failure, humiliation, and powerlessness. To protect myself, I avoided situations that could expose me to the possibility of failure again, becoming stuck, and in many ways numbing the pain that arose whenever a trigger appeared.

Finding and reframing that message became a turning point. It wasn’t that I wasn’t the guy it was that I wasn’t his guy. That shift communicated more about him, his choices, and his character and the unsavory manner he went about removing me, than it did about me. If I could begin (which sounds simple, though it is profoundly difficult) to hold that perspective, his behavior became less a reflection of my worth and more about his his character, his insecurity.   

This is the heart of trauma work. We cannot change what has happened, but we can begin to affect the meaning those messages hold. By reframing, we move beyond roles, failures, and the negative narratives we’ve carried from painful experiences, toward a story that we author ourselves.

So, what brings people to therapy? Not because they are broken, but because the behaviors that once protected them now keep them stuck in cycles of isolation, threat, and disconnection. In therapy, we learn to ground ourselves, cope effectively, and build a team of supportive relationships that meet shame with empathy. Over time, we discover that while we cannot control the world around us, we can control how we respond to it.

Healing, then, is not about erasing the past or pretending it did not shape us. It is about reclaiming the meaning of our experiences and allowing ourselves to write a new narrative. The old wounds may remain a part of our story, but they no longer have to dictate the whole story.

Therapy provides the space to practice this new way of engaging with ourselves and others. Little by little, we learn to trust that our worth is not defined by failure or shame, and that connection and compassion can be stronger than fear. In this process, we are not trying to become someone else; we are learning to return to ourselves, with greater clarity and resilience.

That, to me, is the real work of therapy not fixing what is “broken,” but creating room for growth, connection, and the possibility of living more fully aligned with who we truly are.

Footnotes

1. Stutz, P., & Michels, B. (2012). The Tools: 5 Tools to Help You Find Courage, Creativity, and Willpower—and Inspire You to Live Life in Forward Motion. Random House.
   
   
   

2. Doty, J. R. (2016). Into the Magic Shop: A Neurosurgeon’s Quest to Discover the Mysteries of the Brain and the Secrets of the Heart. Avery.
   
   
   

3. Maté, G. (2022). The Myth of Normal: Trauma, Illness, and Healing in a Toxic Culture. Avery.
   
   
   

4. Brown, B. (2012). Daring Greatly: How the Courage to Be Vulnerable Transforms the Way We Live, Love, Parent, and Lead. Gotham Books.

I’m the problem it’s me…

A key survival behavior is culpability. Typically, it is damaging or difficult to run from accountability; however, it is equally harmful when we take on the blame for situations we are not responsible for. At our core, survival depends on having a support system that feels safe and secure. We see this first in children who become the “scapegoat” to hold their parents together. Through attachment theory, when the expression of emotional needs leads to instability or rejection, the child learns to internalize and take on blame to avoid conflict or abandonment—believing this will “ensure the safety” of the relationship, even at their own expense. This same response often shows up in trauma, where a person takes on blame as a way to make sense of the abuse they have endured. These are rarely conscious choices, but learned patterns the subconscious engages in for self-preservation. It can look like avoiding an argument with a partner or friend, staying quiet when hurt or offended, or neglecting boundaries that are vital to mental and even physical health. At its core, it is rooted in the belief: “I can be better, it’s me, I’m the problem.”

Whenever we try to make sense of the world, we begin by telling ourselves a story. Most of the time, we are unaware this process is even happening it is an automatic response to circumstances as we attempt to understand them. In essence, we latch onto a story that makes sense, and then we privilege the moments in time that prove it true, giving them greater weight. For example, if I struggle with math, I may tell myself, “I’m just not good at math.” From there, I recall every instance that validates this belief poor grades, struggles with assignments, moments of frustration and I resign myself to this as truth.  At the same time, experiences that contradict this story times I succeeded or made progress are dismissed because they don’t fit. It affects my motivation or interest for math class and I disconnect as I am confronted each time I enter class or attempt an assignment within inadequacy I perceive.  Recognizing that we are telling ourselves a story and choosing to engage with it is a vital process in moving away from false narratives.

The rationale we use to explain others’ negative behaviors often sounds like: “I must have done something wrong to deserve this.” We move toward negative self-regard because maintaining our support system feels paramount, or because we feel we are failing in one of our valued roles. The alternative that “someone valued me so little they would treat me this way” is much harder to face. That thought stirs shame, pushes us toward secrecy and silence, and forces us into self-blame, inadequacy, and isolation. The story tries to make sense of pain, but it usually deepens shame and disconnection. This is especially true when we feel we are failing at a role central to our value and identity, making the narrative even harder to disprove particularly when reinforced by contempt.

Contempt cuts deep because it attacks the core of who we are. It takes a behavior and equates it with character. “I’m lazy.” “I’m dumb.” “I can’t do anything right.” Each of these reflects a specific struggle, motivation, focus, initiative but contempt reframes them as identity. Too often, we accept these narratives and even reinforce them ourselves, privileging the evidence that validates them. In the context of close relationships, contempt’s impact intensifies, especially in abusive or toxic dynamics where our worth is tied to the very person projecting contempt. In these circumstances, our world may shrink until their narrative feels like the only one available. And yet, an essential truth remains: our behaviors are not our character. They are what we do not who we are.

Blaming ourselves in this way becomes a survival strategy to feel secure, to believe we have control, to convince ourselves, “I can change me, I can be better.” But over time, this bends us smaller, teaching us that our feelings cause conflict, and just like with math class when we enter conflict we are confronted with our inadequacy and deficiencies.  So we avoid it at all costs.  Meaning we have not expressed that thought or feeling, the offense, fear or vulnerable emotion we are seeking to express. 

This pushes us toward negative behavioral patterns that are an attempt to soothe. If I am the problem, if my feelings are the cause, then I won’t share them. I’ll avoid conflict.  Feelings don’t vanish though; the more we push them down, the louder they return. Maladaptive behaviors emerge not to change the outside world but to manage our shame about how we move within it. Eventually, these spiral into “evidence” that something is wrong with us. Addiction, affairs, dishonesty, overspending, negative relationship with food, gambling, abuse, or neglect of our most valued roles may follow. Outwardly, life may appear stable, but beneath the surface, the cost grows.

It is not sustainable to live by bending ourselves smaller for others. We all need space to be impossible not bound by others’ perceptions or the temporary validation their approval offers. Without intentional care for ourselves, resentment builds, damaging relationships and sometimes leading us to abandon the very roles we value most. Many of my clients walk with profound intention toward their roles, yet struggle to extend that same intention inward.  We each need space to be impossible, where I am not bent or twisted up for anyone but am moving with purpose towards myself as that is the person I am seeking to please with my actions. 

This is where the deeper work begins: discovering who we are and recognizing our value beyond our roles. If I avoid conflict, my body reacts to anything that feels like conflict. My nervous system has not learned how to regulate in the face of anxiety. For me, that often meant freezing or creating distance when I thought I had disappointed someone or caused tension.

Grounding ourselves in the true story of who we are is essential. If this conversation goes poorly what’s the worst that could happen? And what’s the best? Phil Stutz describes this in his tool “the reversal of desire.” Instead of avoiding pain, we accept it as the inevitable end of any negative outcome. Imagine a dark cloud it feels ominous, uncomfortable, and we fear what’s on the other side. So we avoid it. But to get where we want to go, we must move through it. The conversation, the confrontation, but the change we desire all lie beyond the cloud. If I can pause and visualize what the outcome will be, the end result if negative will be pain however the core of who I am will still be intact. 

Phil Stutz's concept of the Reversal of Desire describes how embracing pain rather than trying to escape it builds the inner strength to willingly move toward the very things we instinctively want to avoid.

For instance, in my three most important roles; husband, father, therapist if conflict led to losing my job, my marriage, or closeness with my children, the pain would be immense. But that’s all it would be: pain. I would still be CJ. I would still be good. My grounding truths would remain. I have survived 100% of the worst things I’ve faced with pain and discomfort being the worst outcome almost every time. Pain does not define me. Failure does not define me. In fact, pain means I am moving toward what matters.

When we accept that the worst-case scenario is only pain, we find freedom. “I will be okay, because I will still be me.” With this grounding, the body regulates, the mind clears, and we can respond. From that place, we can embrace the best-case scenario.

Similarly, Mel Robbins’ tool, “What if it all works out?” interrupts the spiral of fear and doubt. Her research shows that 94% of what we fear never happens. Asking, “What’s the worst that could happen?” is natural but dwelling there paralyzes us. Shifting to “What if it works out?” grounds us in possibility and puts our subconscious to work seeking opportunities. Even asking the question interrupts the negative cycle and opens space for hope.   To alter our goal around what I want to create or bring in is to ask what does it look like when I come out the other side.  If I have faith in the future of what I desire to create and am able to detach from the process of creation.  Asking “what if it works out” puts our subconscious on the hunt for the opportunities that will lead towards a favorable outcome.  Just asking the question interrupts the process of negativity and self-doubt.  

Both tools Stutz’s reversal of desire and Robbins’ what-if help regulate mood and the body’s response to anticipated threat (anxiety). They strip away the mystery and allow us to see both sides of the outcome. It’s like turning on the light in my son’s room when he’s convinced there’s a monster in the dark. Once revealed, the fear dissolves. When we are overwhelmed by the unknown, focusing on what we know helps carry us through.

The survival behaviors that once protected us eventually expire. They work until they no longer do. Something within us shifts, unwilling to accept the old narrative. We begin to privilege events that affirm our worth, ground us in identity, and remind us we can thrive, not just survive. We grow tired of tearing ourselves down and instead learn to build ourselves up through boundaries, self-awareness, and intention. Boundaries are the only way we can influence others’ behavior, but they always begin with our own. Not all behaviors are harmful, and our task is to strengthen those that bring life in, not those that push it away. Let us focus on what we want to create and not settle for the story that only makes sense in the moment.

Celebration vs Honor

Intention is everything.

It is the primal motivation behind why we engage in an action or a series of actions, the movement beneath what we are intending to happen. Every process of creation begins with a compass heading. What are we trying to accomplish through the choices we make? Are we completing a task that simply needs doing? Are we trying to avoid something unpleasant, a conflict, a confrontation, or discomfort? As Frankl observed, our deepest motivations are often tied to the pursuit of meaning, which guides our intentions even when we are not fully aware of them.¹

Often, we are not fully aware of the intention behind our movements. We find ourselves on autopilot, moving within the realm of expectation and obligation. Life becomes about what I have to do rather than what I get to do. Obligation carries weight, yet it also offers comfort. It can tether us to the norm and whisper the message that if we fulfill these duties, then we are good. In this mindset, our days become filled with “I don’t have time for that, I have to do this.” These obligations are often framed as the path to happiness, though they may leave us unfulfilled. Dyer described intention as a force that moves us beyond obligation into creativity and fulfillment.²

In my sessions, I often return to the theme of intention. It is the unseen force that can be difficult to discern. Much like in a restaurant, we only see the plated meal, not the chaos or care within the kitchen. The finest restaurants, however, are grounded in intention. You can taste the love, care, and attention to detail. A meal made with obligation alone cannot compare to one made with intention and honor.

From experience, I have seen that we find whatever we set our minds and intentions on whether it is something we desire or something we hope to avoid. If I long for connection with my partner, I naturally move toward openness and vulnerability. But if my focus is on avoiding conflict or upsetting them, I restrict the relationship, cutting off opportunities for growth. Avoidance creates invisible “demilitarized zones” in a relationship, topics and areas we carefully sidestep. Over time, this separation breeds greater conflict and distance.

Much of our motivation as humans comes from a desire to be celebrated rather than to live from honor. Celebration is external, it depends on being seen and recognized. The dopamine hit of validation, someone noticing, praising, or affirming us, keeps us coming back to that same source. But if celebration becomes our primary motivation, it can trap us in cycles of striving and dissatisfaction. Brown notes that when worth is dependent on external approval, we lose connection to authenticity and belonging.³

To be celebrated requires an audience, or at least the perception of one. For some, that audience is a social media following, colleagues at work, or parents’ approval. For me, it might be my wife’s feedback, whether she noticed I made dinner, did the laundry, or took care of the yard. If her recognition was not forthcoming, I felt anxious, insecure, and irritated. Thoughts like, “I am the only one,” or “I do everything,” would spiral. I would push harder for acknowledgment, and in hindsight, that must have been exhausting for her. When our sense of worth depends on another person’s validation, that well eventually runs dry. At best, we can expect encouragement from others but not a steady stream of validation.

When validation falters, the question emerges: If no one sees what I do, does it matter? This uncertainty can blur the line between positive and negative behaviors. Sometimes we shrink ourselves emotionally, contorting to fit expectations and becoming more palatable. But if we never have space to stretch and release, we will find maladaptive ways to cope through numbing, resentment, or self-sabotage. If we are unclear about our intentions, acting primarily for acclaim, approval, or recognition, we will ultimately feel disappointed.

Alfred Adler’s principle of individual psychology reminds us that humans are always striving for superiority or perfection, and when we fall short, we experience feelings of inferiority. This striving is not about being better than others, but rather about reconciling the gap between who we are and who we long to be. Adler explained that feelings of inferiority are universal experiences that drive much of human striving.⁴ Perfectionism, then, is less about flawless execution and more about being overwhelmed by our flaws.

This sense of inferiority is nearly universal. If asked to list ten failures and two successes, most people can instantly recall the failures, but would struggle to name the successes. That persistent feeling of “not enough” drives us to seek relief through external validation. Yet that well is shallow, and when it runs dry, feelings of inferiority deepen, and we may act in self-serving, destructive ways.

If our actions require an audience to have value, we will always be left wanting. But when actions are rooted in honor, the audience no longer matters. Honor means living in alignment with our principles, even when no one is watching. For example, if I cook dinner for my family, the value lies in the joy of cooking, in creating something nourishing, or simply in following an idea I wanted to try, not in chasing compliments afterward.

The Sabbath itself models this posture. God does not need rest, yet after creation He paused, looked at His work, and declared, “It is good.” The Sabbath is not merely a day of inactivity but a day of reflection, a chance to pause and look upon what has been done, to say, “It is good.” Heschel described Sabbath as a sanctuary in time, a rhythm of reflection and intention that reminds us to pause and declare that life is good.⁵ Reflection helps us acknowledge growth, recognize areas for adjustment, and remember that failure is not the end of the story, but a chapter along the way.

When working with couples, I emphasize the power of declaring intention. A simple phrase such as, “I am committed to you, to our future, and to our family,” is not just reassurance for a partner. It is grounding for the individual. It aligns the compass heading. Speaking intention aloud clarifies and anchors us, while also affirming commitment within the relationship. As Gottman and Silver highlight, intentional declarations of commitment strengthen trust and emotional security in couples.⁶

Shifting from a life of celebration to a life of honor requires unfamiliar muscles. It takes grounding, resilience, and skills to navigate the discomfort of inferiority. But when we anchor ourselves in who we truly are, not who we think we must be, we gain the ability to pause, reflect, and say with certainty: “It is good.”

Footnotes

1. Frankl, V. E. (2006). Man’s search for meaning. Beacon Press. (Original work published 1946)

2. Dyer, W. W. (2004). The power of intention: Learning to co-create your world your way. Hay House.

3. Brown, B. (2010). The gifts of imperfection: Let go of who you think you’re supposed to be and embrace who you are. Hazelden.

4. Adler, A. (1958). Understanding human nature. Hazelden.

5. Heschel, A. J. (2005). The Sabbath. Farrar, Straus and Giroux. (Original work published 1951)

6. Gottman, J. M., & Silver, N. (2015). The seven principles for making marriage work. Harmony Books.

Identity and Roles

“CJ, you are a husband, you are a father, you are a therapist. Those roles are very important to you. But is that all you are—or maybe that’s all you think you are?”

A therapist once challenged me with this. I was caught off guard, irritated. I tried to prove them wrong, but when it came time to finish the sentence, I had nothing. I can still remember pointing my finger, insisting, “I know who I am, I am…” and then silence.

Roles matter. I wanted to be a husband, a father, a therapist. They are blessings I chose and value deeply. They describe what I do and how I live my life. But somewhere along the way I let them become the finish line of the sentence: “I am good because…” Without them, I felt like nothing unfinished, incomplete, a failure. My confidence lived and died on how others saw me in those roles. If I felt I was failing in one, I overcompensated in another. It was like constantly trying to balance an equation built on recognition, acceptance, and approval.

When that’s the case, every perceived failure becomes personal. My mistakes became declarations about who I was: “I always mess this up. I never get that right.” When the applause wasn’t there, I’d slip into resentment: “I’m the only one doing this.” My worth became measured in performance, and when I wasn’t noticed, irritation, sadness, and insecurity filled the space.

When our roles define our identity, our self-worth becomes dependent on our performance. Our confidence is no longer rooted in who we are, but in how well we do something. This can lead us to a flawed perception of our own worth, and ultimately, a distorted view of our identity.

Roles are what we want others to see. They’re neat, understandable, acceptable. The danger is when we confuse them with identity when the point of the role becomes about being celebrated instead of being rooted in who we already are.

It’s a lot like a diagnosis. A diagnosis is descriptive, not definitive. Yet people often mistake it for identity: “I am bipolar” instead of “I have bipolar.” The diagnosis doesn’t declare who you are it’s just a shorthand, a snapshot. Roles work the same way. They are adjectives, not nouns. They point to us, but they aren’t us.

Confidence doesn’t come from nailing the role. It comes from grounding ourselves in who we are. Watch a basketball player at the free-throw line. Make it or miss it, they reset, same routine, same focus. Their identity isn’t hanging on that one shot. They trust the process, not the outcome. When we confuse failure with identity, we choke on the very thing we’re desperate to get right.

When I was a teenager, I spent a few spring breaks backpacking the Appalachian Trail. We’d hike for days, sleeping in tents at night. The tent only stayed secure if it was staked down. Without those stakes, a gust of wind or even a middle of the night bathroom run meant coming back to find it blown away.

That’s identity. If we don’t stake our worth into the ground of who we are, the winds of failure, rejection, or recognition will move us anywhere.

When we ground ourselves in the true story of who we are, we create a solid foundation for our actions and decisions. We declare our own value, and our confidence is no longer dependent on the outcome of our performance. This provides us with a clear lens through which we can interact within our roles.

This is the work I do with clients: reclaiming the ability to finish the sentence “I am good because…” from within as we engage with affirming thoughts of self. And yes, affirmations can feel unbearably cringey. They sound too positive, too simple. But when we lean into the cringe, something shifts.  We rediscover what has been true all along.   

Roles point us back to what’s already there. As a therapist, spouse, father, I see in myself: compassion, persistence, creativity, kindness, determination, reliability. These are identity traits. The roles only reveal them.  When I remember them, I drive the stakes deeper. That way, when storms hit a fight with my wife, losing a job, letting my kids down I might feel pain, yes, but I’m not undone. Pain doesn’t equal the end. Failure doesn’t equal finality. Pain reminds me I’m still alive, still here, still fighting.

For me, faith is where I anchor deepest. It’s where I return when I need to remember who I am.

• I am created with intent.

• I am designed with purpose.

• I am formed in God’s image.

• I am loved beyond measure.

• My strength and confidence are rooted in Jesus.

These are truths that don’t shift, even when life does.

But if affirmations feel too much, gratitude is another path. Gratitude isn’t submission. It isn’t false positivity. It’s noticing how we’ve shown up—and letting it point us back to who we are.

For example: I’m grateful for electricity. I have electricity because I paid the bill. I paid the bill because I have a job. I have a job because I’m skilled and qualified. From that one line of gratitude, I can see: I am responsible, determined, capable. Gratitude leads back to affirmation, and affirmation leads back to gratitude.

Rediscover, Don’t Reinvent

Finding identity doesn’t require reinventing yourself. It’s not about becoming someone new. It’s about slowing down, reflecting, and rediscovering what’s already true.

We set intention (what we’re committed to growing toward).
We affirm (finishing the sentence, “I am good because…”).
We practice gratitude (noticing how we’ve shown up and will again).

When we do this, we anchor identity. We declare our own value. We set boundaries we never thought possible. And we grow confidence that isn’t dependent on how well we perform our roles.

Roles matter but they don’t get to define us.

I am good because…

I am good because…

This is the question that will drive us, will move us, and push us to conquer, to go above and beyond, to make every person around us happy. We are conditioned to look to external factors to assist us in answering this question. This is most likely because the first place we look in the process of developing a sense of self are our parents.

Parents, however, are human and don’t always notice the moments when their children are seeking self-building validation. If they are lucky, they get the chance to guide these moments. When we do something well, we hear “good boy” or “there’s my good girl.” When they leave us with someone, they tell us “be good,” or “make good choices.” When we fail, we are told to “do better.” So being good can mean pleasing our parents, complying when they don’t reciprocate, or when their actions don’t communicate “you are good,” a split can form.

A split is a mental or emotional division within how we experience ourselves. An example would be if a child asks, “Can I please have a snack?” and the parent replies, “Well, you asked so nicely, of course you can have a snack!” That child learns, if I ask for things, I will receive them. However, if the child approaches their parents differently and says, “I want a snack,” and the parent reacts negatively, stating, “You want a snack? We are about to eat dinner. Who do you think you are wanting a snack? You think these things grow on trees?” the child learns, if I ask for things, I’m not good.

As a parent, I have experienced both positive and negative reactions in similar situations. We are all flawed human beings, trying our best, yet to our children we are superheroes, the most valuable people in their world. Splits will happen, and if we are lucky, we get the opportunity to manage them.

As we grow older, that form of external validation shifts from our parents toward our friends. The question “Am I good? Am I acceptable?” emerges. It can feel like standing on a stage where everything we do, and do not do, is judged harshly, leaving us either basking in the adulation of acceptance or fearing being an outsider. Adolescence is a perpetual period of threading the needle: trying to be seen yet invisible at the same time. This process, called egocentrism, is natural within development. Our attention starts focused almost entirely on ourselves as we begin to notice and stake a claim in the outside world.

In this process of self-regard, as we seek to answer the question “I am good because,” we start to tell ourselves stories about others, about ourselves, and about our perceived shortcomings. We try on different looks and personas, experimenting with who we think we might be, hoping it will make us more acceptable, make us “good.”

This inevitably leads to comparison with those we believe “are good” and searching for ways to be held in the same regard. Cultural touchstones define what success looks like: romantic relationships, the car we drive, the college we attended, our careers. Milestones—getting married, having a good job, buying a house, having children—become shorthand for worth. We insulate ourselves with external factors that we believe provide value and recognition.

There is a story of a woman making Easter dinner for the first time. She and her husband had married that year and were hosting his entire family: his mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother. Amid the stress of preparation, her husband made an urgent request: “When you make the ham, we have to cut off the edges. My mom always does it that way, and it is always so good.” She complied to please him, though she didn’t quite understand why. Later, she asked her mother-in-law why the edges mattered. The reply: “That’s how my mother always did it, and it is the best.” She asked the grandmother, who gave the same answer, and finally the great-grandmother: “I couldn’t fit it in my oven any other way.”

Like the ham, the roles we take on—spouse, parent, provider—can dominate our view of self and become defining traits. From a young age, when asked about a career, we are often asked, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” Rarely are we asked, “What do you want to do?” The focus on being, on fitting in, on pleasing others, can pull us away from the core of who we are. Steve Jobs once said, “Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life”¹. Unless we pause to examine the roles and traditions handed to us, we risk living from someone else’s definition of “good.”

Many of the individuals I meet appear very successful “on paper.” They seem externally “good,” yet they feel empty, fraudulent, or imposter-like. The weight of their roles can lead to anxious, depressive, or codependent behaviors. Who we are outside these roles often feels lost, and the foundation we have built becomes a house of cards, vulnerable to the slightest breeze. Our roles bring value, but the weight of them can crush us when we are unsure who we are without them. We end up in a trap, relying on external validators to tell us, “I am good.”

I was once asked, “CJ, you are a husband, father, and a therapist. Those are your roles. I am not sure there is much beyond that.” Offended, I replied, “I am more than those things. I am.” The silence that followed made my heart sink. My entire value had been wrapped up in how well I performed these roles. Seeking validation from others created feelings of insecurity, irritation, and sadness when I did not feel seen, heard, or noticed.

The work I do with clients is to approach this central concept: being able to answer for themselves, “I am good because.” The process of affirmation can feel awkward, even cliché. However, clichés exist for a reason—they are often true. Brené Brown writes, “Owning our story and loving ourselves through that process is the bravest thing that we will ever do”². Affirmation and self-recognition can feel uncomfortable at first, but they are central to grounding ourselves.

Our roles provide clues to our core essence. For example, as a therapist, husband, and father, I am insightful, creative, compassionate, driven, confident, kind, persistent, determined, reliable, loving, encouraging, and validating. I cannot depend on anyone else to communicate that to me; it would be exhausting and unfair. External sources should only provide encouragement, not validation.

Gratitude is a critical practice in answering “I am good because.” Gratitude is not fealty or submission but recognition of how we have shown up. For instance, I am grateful I have electricity. Florida summers without AC would be unbearable. How did I get electricity? I earned it. I work to receive income and provide for myself and my family. From this, I can recognize that I am skilled, responsible, determined, and persistent. Gratitude leads to affirmation, and affirmation leads back to gratitude—they are inseparably linked.

Clarifying intention is essential. Actions motivated by honor emerge from alignment with who we are, not from the desire for external praise. As David Schnarch explains, differentiation means being able to “hold onto yourself in the face of pressure, but also being able to stay close to the people you love without losing your sense of self”³. And Viktor Frankl reminds us, “When we are no longer able to change a situation, we are challenged to change ourselves”⁴. If I do something kind, it is because I am kind. If I show compassion, it is because it is the right thing to do. External recognition is welcomed but not required. Brené Brown captures this tension well: “Fitting in is about assessing a situation and becoming who you need to be to be accepted. Belonging doesn’t require us to change who we are; it requires us to be who we are”⁵.

When our actions are rooted in honor, not external validation, we can confidently answer: I am good because…

Footnotes / References

1. Jobs, S. (2005, June 12). Stanford commencement address. Stanford University.

2. Brown, B. (2017). Braving the wilderness: The quest for true belonging and the courage to stand alone. Random House.

3. Schnarch, D. (1997). Passionate marriage: Keeping love and intimacy alive in committed relationships. Henry Holt and Company.

4. Frankl, V. E. (1946). Man’s search for meaning. Beacon Press.

5. Brown, B. (2017). Braving the wilderness: The quest for true belonging and the courage to stand alone. Random House.