blog

Sometimes I gaslight myself. I think something’s really wrong, but then I spiral—‘Doctors say I’m fine, so maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m the problem.’ And then you’re in this Spoonie loop: physical health, mental health, anxiety, self-blame. It’s relentless. And when your symptoms are invisible, it’s even harder to trust yourself…

“It sucks here, but sometimes it’s kind of nice.” That’s how we describe the Spooniverse. This group—of therapists who also live with chronic illness—wasn’t built to fix anything. It was built so we could stop doing it alone. We talk about grief, weird symptoms, feeling like a burden, and yes, peeing our pants. But we also laugh—a lot. Because even when bodies fail us, connection doesn’t.

For those of us who have grown up as siblings of individuals with disabilities with high support needs, it can feel strange (or even wrong) to acknowledge the complexity of that experience. Many of us carry deep care and fierce loyalty toward our siblings, but also feelings of confusion, frustration, sadness, or loss. These emotions can be hard to name, especially in an ableist world that continually devalues disabled lives.

One of the ways I know therapy is going well is when it starts to feel like we’re freestyling together. Not because we’re rapping (though I wouldn’t be mad about that), but because there’s a shared flow—a mutual presence and rhythm to our interaction. We’re co-creating something in real time, improvising with whatever is happening in the moment, not from a rehearsed script, polished character, or careful performance.

What happens when men are encouraged to cut off parts of themselves to fit into a narrow definition of masculinity? In this honest, nuanced conversation, three male therapists unpack how traditional gender norms shape emotional isolation—and how therapy offers a space to reconnect with tenderness, vulnerability, and real relational strength.

For the next four years or so I became stiffened and afraid to do things that might compromise my body’s integrity. My mind fixated on the faintest of sensations rising in my gut, my throat, my chest… It only took a few moments of poking and examining myself to succumb to yet another panic attack. I began to feel sore in the places I’d continually examined and this only further contributed to the notion that my body was a time bomb ticking its way toward disintegration. It was utterly exhausting, but it bled into the interpersonal realm as well.

I’ve written up until now about how this impacted my mental health on an individual level but that doesn’t tell the full story and it isn’t the whole story when it comes to health anxiety. You see, after months of doctors visits and emergency room trips in the hopes of gaining clarity on what was so wrong with me, I had to face the realization that, physically at least, I wasn’t in such a dire state as I’d come to believe.

Over the last few months I’ve struggled to decide whether I wanted to add anything to the very public and politicized discourse on transness, our existence, and our rights. Even now, I have doubts – what could I even say that hasn’t already been said? Is it right to take up space when people are being ruthlessly abducted and deported, when hospitals are being bombed in an ongoing genocide, when the climate crisis threatens the sustainability of any life here? 

If anyone is reading this, then clearly I’ve decided to go ahead and write this. Because silence and withdrawal don’t do anything for anyone. Because making myself small while having the privileges I have would make me complicit with the anti-trans agenda that denies our existence. And, because if this reaches even one person in a meaningful way, then it’s worth it.

Our therapists come to Kindman & Co. because they want to work in an unsevered space. They seek a culture where authenticity, vulnerability, community, and connection aren’t just buzzwords—they’re practiced daily.

They understand that healing doesn’t stop at the therapy door—it’s shaped by the systems we work within, the relationships we hold, and the spaces we co-create. At Kindman & Co., we believe that when therapists are supported in being fully human, they’re better able to show up in powerful, connected ways for the people they serve.

We worked together on and off for the next three years. Though I’m not sure she would have identified as a relational therapist, I never had to guess what she was thinking. Linda didn’t beat around the bush. If she had a question, she asked it. If she had an opinion, she shared it. She openly identified as a feminist, a supporter of creative Judaism, and progressive politics. That gave me permission to bring those parts of myself into the room, too.

Without saying the words, she made it clear I could feel everything, on no timeline but my own. A typical session often included some tears and a bellyache from laughing. With Linda, I learned to drop the script—what I thought others expected of me, what I expected of myself. And in return, I let myself feel the full impact of her care. She told me she was proud of how much I’d grown and that she believed I was a true addition to the field of social work. Because of our work, I was able to believe her.

In today’s turbulent world, where injustice, suffering, and uncertainty seem ever-present, being a highly sensitive person (HSP) or empath can feel incredibly overwhelming!. The emotional weight of witnessing systemic oppression, environmental destruction, and societal upheaval can be exhausting, often leaving empaths drained, disillusioned, or burned out. 

As an empath, you possess a profound gift of understanding and connecting with others on a deeper level. However, this can feel excruciating in a time marked by social injustices, political turmoil, and global crises. Learning to manage emotional boundaries, prioritize self-care, and take meaningful action without burning out is crucial! This guide offers valuable insights and strategies to help you thrive while staying engaged with the world in a way that aligns with your values and well-being.