One Sunday Morning

Wilco’s “One Sunday Morning” is a quiet, meandering song about family, deficiency, and the complexity of love. It doesn’t move quickly, but invites us to slow down and turn inward.

Tweedy sings:

“And your father’s last words,
Were ‘I can’t believe
What I’ve done…’”

These lines reflect the weight of regret that many of us carry, even when it isn’t our own. Therapy often becomes a space to explore how the echoes of time, the memory of words behind us, or words never said continue to shape us.

Later, he admits, “I said it’s your God I don’t believe in.” This line captivates the tender pain of stepping away from someone else’s beliefs. When we do that it can feel both freeing and lonely. It’s a reminder that growth sometimes asks us to create distance without rejecting those we love.

Tweedy also sings, “I was told the world would never end.” That lyric carries both innocence and disillusionment. It’s like those moments when we’re confronted with the limitations of our childhood certainties and they slip away from us to adult realities, sort of like an annihilation of a worldview. In therapy, many of us return to moments of reckoning, reinvestigating what something was and learning how to grieve what we once believed while opening space up for a new kind of hope.

And then, the refrain: “One Sunday morning, the end of it all.” It returns again and again, just as a memory returns in waves. The song holds a quiet wisdom, that healing isn’t about closure, but about learning to carry both love and hurt side by side. Like this song, we can practice simply being with the tension: listening, breathing, remembering, and trusting that meaning can grow even in what we don’t fully understand.

You Must Change Your Life

The last line of Rilke’s poem, Archaic Torso of Apollo, “You must change your life.” feels like a gentle nudge to wake up. The poem starts by describing an old broken statue that’s incomplete but is still full of life. And as we consider it, we’re reminded that life itself is often unfinished and messy. Deep down we know the brokenness mirrors the thing within us that is uncomfortable to acknowledge. Then there’s a call to face reality, to face our own life today. It’s a cliche, but a heavy reminder to live more intentionally, to pay attention, and to be willing to change.

This line doesn’t give easy answers or echo the excuses we give ourselves. Instead, it points to the fact that each of us has the freedom and the responsibility to choose how we live. The broken statue is a metaphor for the issues of the real world. That beauty and truth aren’t distant ideas but part of everyday life, even when things are messy or hard. Rilke’s words ask us to take part in our lives fully. To change our life means to accept who we are right now and to be brave enough to transform. It’s an invitation and a quest, if we choose.

Parenting Through Big Emotions

One of the biggest parenting myths is that if you show empathy, you’re giving in. But here’s the truth: empathy is not agreeing. You can make room to understand why your child is upset without changing your decision. When your kid yells, “You’re the worst!” because you won’t buy them candy, you don’t have to argue or give in. You can calmly say, “You’re really feeling upset about this. I get it.” That’s empathy. You’re not agreeing with the behavior—you’re just showing them you see how they feel.

This shift is huge. It means you can stay connected even during meltdowns, backtalk, or teen eye rolls. Instead of trying to fix the emotion or shut it down, you just hold space for it. And at the same time, you still hold your boundary. “I know you're feeling angry, and we're still leaving the park.” This type of balance, being kind but firm maintains structure, is value driven, and builds trust over time.

Most of us weren’t raised like this. We were told to “stop crying” or “be grateful”, so sitting with a child’s big feelings can be uncomfortable. When we stop viewing feelings as something to control and start seeing them as something to connect through, everything softens. You don’t have to agree with your child to show up for them. You just have to stay present and remind them that even when it’s hard, you’re still on their side.

The Sweet Sadness of Life

There is a kind of sadness that isn’t a problem to be solved or a wound to be healed. It’s like a sunset over the desert horizon. Arriving quietly.  It’s soft and reminds us that life is fragile, and that love and loss are always intertwined.

In therapy, people often come looking for ways to avoid sadness. But sometimes we’re summoned to learn how to sit with it, and to notice the sweetness hidden within it. Sadness shows us what matters. It reveals where our love lives, where our hopes have been planted, and what stories have shaped us.

The sweet sadness of life is the recognition that beauty moves on, the song ends, the child grows, the season turns.  That impermanence is what makes life meaningful.  Instead of rejecting this kind of sadness, we can let it soften us. We can accept the invitation to slow us down, to savor the laugh, to hug a little longer, and to express our love while there’s still time.

Perhaps the goal isn’t to erase sadness but to let it deepen our well, and our capacity for joy, gratitude, and tenderness. The sweet sadness of life is not only a burden, it’s a reminder that we are alive, and that to love fully is to sometimes ache.

What Freedom Really Is: A Therapeutic Reflection

Freedom is one of the most misunderstood ideas in modern life. We often picture it as the ability to do whatever we want, whenever we want—no rules, no restrictions, no expectations. But that version of freedom, while seductive, is shallow. It leads not to fulfillment, but often to chaos, anxiety, and emptiness. Real freedom is not the absence of structure. It is the ability to live meaningfully within it.

True freedom comes when you voluntarily accept responsibility—when you choose your values, commit to them, and align your actions with something greater than immediate pleasure. It’s not about escaping obligation; it’s about stepping into it with open eyes and an open heart.

If you try to live without responsibility, you may avoid short-term discomfort, but you invite long-term suffering through disconnection, purposelessness, drifting through life. Paradoxically, the act of embracing responsibility, such as caring for yourself, others, your work, your community—builds the strength and stability required to live with real agency.

Freedom, then, is not the liberty to ignore life’s burdens. It is the power to carry them with intention. To wake up each morning, choose your direction, and walk toward it regardless of how steep the grade becomes. When we commit to what matters, even when it's hard, we begin to feel a sense of meaning that no external freedom can provide. We are no longer prisoners to impulse, fear, or avoidance. We become authors of our own lives.

So ask yourself: What is one thing I can take responsibility for today? One small act of order in the face of disarray. Begin there. Because real freedom isn’t found in running away—it’s found in stepping forward, with courage, into what life demands of you.

Adolescents and Therapy: Why It Matters

Adolescence is a time of major change: emotionally, physically, and socially. Teens are figuring out who they are, where they belong, what to aim at and how to cope with an overwhelming world.  Therapy gives them a safe space to do that.

Therapy isn’t just for crisis. It helps teens understand themselves, manage emotions, and build confidence.  It supports with incorporating healthy boundaries as way to cope with stress, anxiety, peer pressure, and most importantly, a place to talk openly without fear of judgment.

Therapy for teens isn’t about fixing them. It’s about listening, building trust, and offering practical tools to navigate their life. Sometimes it’s talking; but sometimes it can look differently. What matters is connection through trust.

Teens don’t need to have everything figured out. Therapy helps them process, heal, and move forward, one honest conversation at a time.

What Do We Do When There Are No Answers? (Exploring Uncertainty)

Why did this happen?  What’s the point of all this pain?  Will I ever feel whole again?  Often we search for clarity with desperation, with hopefulness, and sometimes, without success.  In therapy, these are the questions that echo. They don’t arrive from a place of logic. They arrive with grief, confusion, and longing.  In existential psychotherapy the goal is not always to find the answer.  But to sit honestly with the question.

Many people come to therapy hoping that understanding will ease the pain, that figuring it out will bring about betterment.  Sometimes that’s true.  But often, insight doesn’t erase grief, or explain injustice, or untangle the complexity of being human.  Existential therapy doesn’t offer false comfort. It simply offers a space to tell the truth.

When answers don’t come, we still have choice to feel, and to act.  We can choose to connect. And we can choose to create a meaning.  After all, meaning is not accidental. It is discovered and forged piece by piece.  Rollo May said, “Freedom is man's capacity to take a hand in his own development. It is our capacity to mold ourselves."  In a world that demands clarity, productivity, and certainty surrender is often inevitable.  So what do we do when there are no answers? We keep showing up with courage.  We grieve what needs grieving.  We love what can be loved.  And we walk forward regardless.

Existential psychotherapy won’t hand you a solution, but it will walk beside you as you live the question.  Whether you're facing a life transition, grief, burnout, or meaninglessness, therapy can offer a space to pause, reflect, and move forward intentionally.

Songwriting for Self Knowledge

Songwriting is more than a creative outlet, it’s a mirror. For many, the process of writing lyrics and melodies becomes a powerful way to uncover emotions that are difficult to name. Unlike journaling, which tends to focus on direct narration, songwriting allows us to layer thoughts with metaphor, rhythm, and sound, offering a different language for what lives beneath the surface.

When we write songs, we’re often surprised by what comes out. A single line can reveal an old belief, a hidden fear, or a longing we didn’t know we carried. The act of crafting verses pushes us to ask deeper questions: What am I really trying to say? Why does this line feel true? Through this process, songwriting becomes an internal dialogue, a space where we slow down enough to hear ourselves.

It also invites flexibility. A verse that once felt raw can evolve into something hopeful. A chorus might carry anger one day, and clarity the next. This fluidity mirrors personal growth. Our understanding of ourselves is always shifting, and songwriting gives us a way to track that evolution over time.

Whether you’re a trained musician or someone humming into a phone recorder, songwriting can be a deeply therapeutic tool. It doesn't demand perfection. It just asks that you listen, stay curious, and let the song lead you a little closer to who you are.

Men and Depression: It Doesn't Always Look Like Sadness

When we think of depression, typically we picture someone who’s sad or with low energy. But for a lot of men, it shows up differently: irritability, pulling away from people, drinking more, or throwing themselves into work. It’s not always easy to spot, even for the person going through it.

In truth , many men are taught to push feelings aside, to “man up” and keep moving. So instead of saying, “I’m struggling,” it comes out as anger, stress, or silence.

Here’s the thing: therapy isn’t just for when things hit rock bottom. It’s like a tune-up for your mental health. It helps you get ahead of stress, sort out tough emotions, and feel more like yourself again.

There’s no shame in getting support. In fact, it’s one of the strongest moves you can make.

If something feels off, trust that. You don’t have to figure it out alone. Let’s talk.

The Unspoken Life of Men

In a world that often encourages strength over vulnerability, the inner lives of men are frequently left unspoken. Beneath the surface of daily routines and responsibilities lies a complex emotional landscape, one of silent battles, unshared burdens, and unacknowledged needs.

From the pressure to provide and protect, to quiet insecurities, men often navigate life carrying expectations that rarely leave room for open expression. The phrase "man up" still echoes too loudly, which discourages vulnerability and creates a culture where silence is mistaken for strength.

I find that behind closed doors, many men are simply looking for permission to feel, to speak from their perspective, and to be understood. Bringing those hidden struggles out is a necessary step toward healing, authenticity, and connection.