A-ll Done
4 of 4
This project started three months ago. It’s a labor of love and a letter to my kids, my clients, and to those looking to open doors in their own lives. It’s a story told sideways through a glossary of words we think we already understand.
Authenticity
There is arguably no other term more bullshitty than this one in all of psychology. And… there’s arguably no other term more important either.
It feels bullshitty when we treat authenticity like there’s one true self we’re supposed to find and then present perfectly forever. One costume. One voice. One “real me.” And, if we’re not living from that place 24/7, we call ourselves or others fakes.
It starts to matter again when we talk about authenticities in the plural. Different versions of us that are all real, all ours, and all shaped by the moment.
We all have roles to play. For me, it’s husband, father, son, therapist, minister, entrepreneur, author, pickleball player, friend, and so on. Each of those roles asks for something a little different from me. Each one needs some kind of honesty if I’m going to feel present and connected in it.
Inauthenticity happens when we confuse our roles. Playing therapist with a parent. Performing “leader” with a friend who mostly needs us to be human. Being the pickleball player when what’s really needed is a spouse. Those roles aren’t fake; they just don’t match the situation. So we wind up feeling disconnected from ourselves and from the people in front of us.
Here’s the thing: people, systems, cultures, families all want something from us. Often that something is far from the self we need to bring into the room. It’s more about their comfort than our integrity. I’d love to say, “Share who you are anyway,” but that’s not always the safest thing to do. For some of us, hiding parts of ourselves is a survival skill, not a failure of courage.
Authenticity isn’t about hunting for a mythical one true self. That’s garbage.
It’s about slowly learning which parts of me belong where, and noticing when my inner life, my outer role, and the moment I’m in line up enough that I feel alive and seen.
See: identity, stories, roles, boundaries, belonging, safety.
Autonomic Nervous System (ANS)
Stay alive.
That’s it. That’s the message in the background that plays on repeat.
Fleeing, fighting, freezing, appeasing, resting, breathing, heart beating, and muscles tensing…
These are all things we don’t generally do consciously, but they happen nonetheless.
It’s not a moral thing, it’s just a life thing. There’s no good or bad when it comes to the autonomic nervous system (ANS), there’s just data and our reaction to it.
That said, sometimes we feel it swing wildly, in hyperdrive at some moments and numb in others. It feels sensitive to everything and everyone. In those moments we often describe our work as regulating the ANS. This simply means being more aware of its reactions, giving it a little more data, some kindness, or a few more options.
Over time, the ANS learns. Its automatic reactions can be tempered by experience. That doesn’t mean it won’t react.
It just means that along with the surge of feelings we experience, there’s a little more room for choice instead of only danger or abandonment.
See: embodiment, safety, emotional regulation, trauma, fear, rest.
Autonomy
If agency is the ability to make choices, no matter how big or small, autonomy is the sense that our voice matters in the choices that shape our lives.
A lot of things limit our autonomy: cultures, families, workplaces, systems. Sometimes we’re told what to say, think, or do. Sometimes the rules are unspoken, and we feel the pressure to fall in line. Autonomy is the small itch in the back of our minds that wants to push back. It’s the tiny voice that says, “I don’t agree,” or “That’s not me,” even if we don’t say it out loud.
At its best, autonomy can stretch us and help us grow into people who can choose, ask, say no, and still stay connected.
At its worst, it turns into a kind of rugged individualism that pretends we don’t need anyone and ends up in isolation.
Autonomy isn’t about going it alone. It’s about having a say in our stories, and remaining connected to our families, communities, and systems.
See: agency, boundaries, power, dependence, interdependence, identity.
Avoidance
Avoidance is what I do with certain terms in this glossary. I realize the emotional lift I have to make, so I skip a word or put off writing that entry.
It’s not that I won’t come back to it, it’s just that the energy, effort, and emotionality exceed what I’m able to do in that moment. I think there’s a protective aspect to it. I’m trying to keep myself from becoming overwhelmed, but often I’m just scared. It’s not just projects I avoid, it’s feelings, conversations, or memories I don’t feel ready to touch yet.
If I put my effort into something and no one notices, or it gets lost, a part of me wonders what I’ve gained. The longer I avoid something, the louder my anxiety gets about it. The thing that was originally small and contained becomes larger than life.
At times, I can see that stepping back for a while kept me from tipping over. Avoidance isn’t always the enemy; it’s just a rough draft of protection that doesn’t always fit the size of what’s in front of us.
Sometimes avoidance takes more energy and effort than just doing the thing. And when I’m done, I wonder what the fuss was about in the first place.
See: fear, anxiety, shame, protection, numbing, experiment.
Awe
Awe is the feeling when reality explodes beyond our usual frames. It’s not always a warm and fuzzy feeling, and it’s not not a warm and fuzzy feeling either. It’s a catch in the throat, a swirl of terror, unexpected goosebumps, or just a stupid blank stare.
Awe doesn’t take orders from us. It doesn’t show up on command or avoid us when we feel busy or numb. We can stand in a crowd gushing at something awe-inspiring and feel nothing, then turn around and cry at a moment we never saw coming.
Awe, like a lot of nebulous things, can be both terrible and terrific. It points out our smallness and the limited ways we sometimes move through the world, overwhelming and grounding us at the same time.
Moments of awe often surprise us. They circumnavigate our usual explanations and defenses. We get caught off guard, we may even try and protect ourselves by pulling back, making a joke, or reaching for our phone. We get anxious and then miss the moment.
Whether the realization feels beautiful or brutal, awe changes something in us. It makes the world expand, putting us in context rather than in the center.
See: beauty, fear, finitude, humility, mystery, wonder.