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Over the weekend, I found myself wandering through a bookstore, trying to gently ease into my “new year resolution” of building reading into my routine. I was doing my best not to judge books by their covers (a habit I absolutely have when it comes to books), when a familiar sound cut through the quiet hum of the store. A couple was arguing. Not loudly. Not dramatically. But in that very specific way that immediately makes you realize: they’re not actually talking to each oth

I remember being in grad school, clinging to the feelings wheel for dear life. Everyone around me seemed fluent in the language of emotions—naming, sorting, articulating them with ease. I wasn’t. I worried that something was wrong with me. Worse, I worried that this gap meant I was failing my clients. I studied the wheel. I tried—really tried—to feel something click. But the words didn’t land. They felt distant. Flat. Like labels applied to experiences I couldn’t quite touch.

One of the most common things I hear in my therapy room—often within the first few sessions—is this: “I don’t really know what my voice is.” It’s usually said quietly. Sometimes with a shrug. Often with a sense of frustration or shame, as if this is something they should have figured out by now. Many of the people I work with are immigrants, or first- and second-generation individuals who grew up navigating two worlds at once: the world inside the home, and the world outside

For a long time, I thought the tension I carried through my workday was just part of being capable. I showed up. I did my job well. I stayed composed and professional — even when my body felt tight, my mind was racing, and I ended most days feeling depleted in ways I couldn’t fully explain. From the outside, everything looked fine. On paper, it was working. What I didn’t have language for at the time was that I was functioning while dysregulated. When I talk about dysregulati