You’re functioning. You’re showing up. You’re saying the right things.

And yet your body feels tight.

Your chest carries a weight.

Your jaw holds a tension that doesn’t match the conversation.

You say, “I’m fine,” and something inside quietly disagrees.

This is not weakness. It is often incongruence — the gap between lived experience and self-concept (Rogers, 1959).

It is one of the quietest but most important sources of internal strain.

The Map and the Terrain

In Paper I, we explored the self-concept — the psychological map we use to navigate life.

Congruence occurs when the map reflects the terrain.

Incongruence emerges when the terrain changes — but the map does not.

If your identity includes:

“I am emotionally strong,”

then fear becomes difficult to integrate.

If your identity includes:

“I am easy-going,”

then anger may feel threatening.

If your identity includes:

“I am independent,”

then needing reassurance may feel destabilising.

It’s not the emotion itself that creates distress — it’s the threat to identity.

How Incongruence Lives in the Body

Incongruence is physical, not abstract:

Tight shoulders

• Heaviness in the stomach

• Fatigue without clear cause

• Irritability that surprises you

Rogers (1959) described the organismic valuing process — our innate capacity to sense what enhances or diminishes growth.

When identity becomes rigid, we override this process.

We begin living from the outside in, monitoring how we appear rather than how we feel.

And the body carries the cost.

Defence Mechanisms — Protecting the Self

When experience threatens identity, the psyche protects itself:

• Distortion — reshaping experience to preserve identity. “I’m not angry, I’m just tired.”

• Denial — blocking experience from awareness entirely. “I don’t feel anything.”

These are not failures. They are adaptive protections.

But chronic defence narrows life.

A person who cannot integrate anger may live in quiet resentment.

A person who cannot integrate sadness may live in emotional flatness.

A person who cannot integrate vulnerability may live in constant control.

The self becomes defended rather than alive.

The Modern Amplifier

Incongruence is intensified in contemporary life:

• We curate identities.

• We maintain professional versions of ourselves.

• We monitor social visibility and comparison.

Rogers (1951) spoke of the internal vs external locus of evaluation. Relying primarily on outside approval increases the drift from our own experience.

Research shows that gaps between actual and ideal selves correlate with anxiety and depression (Higgins, 1987).

We are not suffering simply because life is difficult.

We are suffering when we cannot integrate what we are actually living.

What Congruence Really Is

Congruence is not emotional impulsivity.

It is not saying everything you feel without filter.

It is alignment.

It is the capacity to acknowledge experience internally, even if you choose to express it carefully.

You may not act on anger — but can you admit it to yourself?

You may not display fear — but can you recognise it without shame?

Congruence is psychological honesty. It reduces internal conflict and allows the self to expand rather than defend.

Growth as Realignment

Rogers (1957) proposed that growth occurs in environments characterised by:

• Congruence

• Unconditional positive regard

• Empathic understanding

When we are not judged for our experience, previously denied emotions become safer to explore.

Fear softens.

Anger becomes information.

Need becomes human rather than humiliating.

The Mammoth metaphor remains apt:

The Mammoth does not fragment under pressure.

It does not shrink to avoid threat.

It stands aligned with its weight.

Congruence is psychological weight-bearing.

A Reflective Practice

Complete the sentence:

“I am the kind of person who…”

Write three responses.

Then quietly ask:

“What am I feeling lately that does not fit this description?”

Notice resistance. Notice relief. Notice what feels slightly unsafe to admit.

This is often the edge of incongruence.

You do not need to fix it. Simply allow it into awareness. Integration begins there.

Closing Reflection

Most distress is not caused by emotion itself.

It is caused by the refusal of emotion.

Incongruence is the quiet split between experience and identity.

Congruence is the courage to close that gap — slowly, internally, without performance.

The Mammoth stands because it is integrated.

Psychological strength is not the absence of tension —

It is the willingness to let who you are expand to include what you feel.

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References

Higgins, E.T. (1987) ‘Self-discrepancy: A theory relating self and affect’, Psychological Review, 94(3), pp. 319–340.

Rogers, C.R. (1951) Client-Centered Therapy. Boston: Houghton Mifflin.

Rogers, C.R. (1957) ‘The necessary and sufficient conditions of therapeutic personality change’, Journal of Consulting Psychology, 21(2), pp. 95–103.

Rogers, C.R. (1959) ‘A theory of therapy, personality and interpersonal relationships’, in Koch, S. (ed.) Psychology: A Study of a Science. New York: McGraw-Hill.

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It develops quietly, through repeated relational experiences where acceptance, praise, or emotional safety are tied to performance. A child notices that approval arrives more readily when they achieve, comply, or excel. Discomfort, failure, or emotional expression may be met with withdrawal, correction, or silence. Over time, these patterns are not merely remembered — they are absorbed.

Gradually, the individual internalises a set of conditions under which they feel acceptable, valuable, or permitted to rest. Worth becomes something that must be earned, maintained, or defended, rather than something inherent.

Carl Rogers described this process as the internalisation of conditions of worth (Rogers, 1959). Instead of valuing experience directly — trusting bodily signals, emotional responses, and personal meaning — individuals learn to evaluate themselves through external criteria. What feels true becomes less important than what is approved. What is alive becomes secondary to what is rewarded.

Within this framework, success becomes evidence of worth. Failure becomes more than disappointment; it becomes a threat to identity.

How Conditional Worth Survives Into Adulthood

These conditions rarely dissolve with age. In fact, adulthood often reinforces them.

Modern cultural narratives reward productivity, optimisation, and visible achievement. Metrics replace meaning. Comparison becomes a default reference point. The message is subtle but persistent: your value is proportional to what you produce, achieve, or demonstrate.

Rest becomes something that must be justified.

Struggle becomes something to hide.

Emotion becomes something to manage, minimise, or postpone.

In this environment, conditional worth is not questioned — it is normalised.

People may appear competent, successful, or even fulfilled while living in a constant state of internal surveillance. Energy is directed not toward engagement or curiosity, but toward maintaining acceptability. Effort becomes risky, because it might not pay off. Slowing down feels dangerous, because it threatens the fragile sense of being “enough.”

The Psychological Cost

The psychological cost of conditional worth is significant.

When worth is contingent, individuals often experience chronic self-monitoring — a continual checking of whether they are performing well enough, progressing fast enough, or living up to an internalised standard. Anxiety becomes a background state rather than a reaction. Motivation is driven less by interest and more by fear: fear of falling behind, fear of being exposed, fear of losing legitimacy.

From a person-centred perspective, this creates incongruence — a misalignment between lived experience and self-concept (Rogers, 1961). The organism senses fatigue, doubt, or the need for rest. The internalised conditions respond with pressure, judgement, or dismissal. One part of the self is asking to be heard; another insists it must not interfere.

Over time, this disconnection erodes vitality. People may remain functional, even outwardly successful, while feeling internally hollow, tense, or disconnected from themselves. What once began as adaptation hardens into identity.

Releasing Conditional Worth

Letting go of conditional worth does not mean rejecting ambition, effort, or growth. It does not require abandoning goals or lowering standards.

It means restoring worth as a constant rather than a reward.

Effort becomes something to notice and honour, not something that must earn permission to exist. Rest becomes a biological and psychological necessity, not a moral failure. Emotion becomes information rather than an obstacle.

From a person-centred view, growth occurs not when individuals push harder to meet conditions, but when they feel safe enough to listen to themselves again. When worth is no longer at stake, curiosity replaces fear. Engagement replaces pressure. Change becomes possible because it is no longer coerced.

The Mammoth

The Mammoth does not perform to justify its place.

It does not optimise its presence.

It does not prove its right to belong.

It stands — solid, responsive, grounded — shaped by its environment but not negotiating its existence.

Its presence is enough.

And so, fundamentally, is ours.

Much of how we think about growth is shaped by the idea of arrival.

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We imagine a future point where things settle: where confidence stabilises, self-doubt quietens, and effort finally eases. This imagined version of the self is often more capable, more regulated, more “sorted” — and crucially, finished. Growth, in this framework, becomes a journey toward completion.

Yet many people notice something unsettling when they reach long-held goals. The arrival is brief. The relief fades. The promised sense of resolution never fully materialises. Rather than satisfaction, there is often a quiet disorientation — a feeling that something is missing.

This is not ingratitude, nor a failure to appreciate success. It is a sign that the model of growth as arrival may be fundamentally flawed.

Carl Rogers offered a different understanding. In his conception of the fully functioning person, growth is not a state to be achieved but an orientation toward living. The individual is not moving toward a final version of themselves, but continually responding to experience with openness, flexibility, and self-trust (Rogers, 1961).

From this perspective, growth has no finish line — not because something is wrong, but because responsiveness itself is the marker of psychological health.

Why Arriving Can Feel Strangely Empty

The emptiness that sometimes follows achievement is often misunderstood. People assume they set the wrong goal, or that they need a bigger one. But the issue is rarely the outcome itself — it is the expectation that arrival would deliver a permanent internal shift.

When growth is framed as completion, the present moment becomes provisional. Life is endured in anticipation of a future self who will finally feel at ease. This creates a subtle disconnection from experience: I am not quite enough yet — but I will be.

When the goal is reached and the feeling does not change in the way anticipated, the individual may feel confused or deflated. The internal struggle was never located in the absence of achievement, but in the belief that worth, safety, or peace lived somewhere ahead.

Rogers’ work challenges this assumption directly. He observed that wellbeing emerges not from resolution, but from congruence — the degree to which a person is able to be in contact with their lived experience without distortion or denial.

Arrival promises relief.

Becoming offers relationship — with self, with change, with life as it unfolds.

The Illusion of the Final Version of the Self

The idea of a “final version” of the self is deeply compelling. It suggests an end to uncertainty, contradiction, and vulnerability. Yet psychologically, this image is both unrealistic and restrictive.

Human experience is not static. Needs change, values evolve, contexts shift. A self that is fixed is one that cannot respond. In this sense, the fantasy of completion is not only unattainable — it is incompatible with psychological health.

Rogers described the fully functioning person as someone who is in process. Such a person is not free from difficulty, but is able to meet experience as it arises, adjusting rather than defending against change.

When people pursue a final version of themselves, growth can become defensive rather than exploratory. Effort is directed toward maintaining an identity rather than responding to reality. This often increases anxiety, as the world inevitably disrupts fixed self-concepts.

Letting go of the final version is not resignation. It is liberation from the pressure to become someone who never existed in the first place.

There is no finished self waiting ahead — only the self in motion.

Growth as Responsiveness, Not Completion

From a person-centred perspective, growth is best understood as responsiveness: the capacity to remain open to experience, to integrate new information, and to recalibrate behaviour in line with internal values.

This requires trust — not in certainty, but in the organism’s ability to adapt.

Responsiveness allows for:

• Changing direction without self-reproach

• Revisiting old patterns with new awareness

• Allowing growth to be non-linear and context-dependent

Completion, by contrast, demands stability. It prioritises being done over being alive. Responsiveness prioritises contact over control.

This reframing changes how effort is experienced. The question shifts from How close am I to finishing? to How am I relating to what is happening now?

In this sense, growth is not something we move toward — it is something we practice.

Becoming as a Kinder Relationship With Self

One of the most significant implications of becoming over arriving is its impact on self-compassion.

When growth is ongoing, mistakes are no longer evidence of failure; they are information. Periods of difficulty are not regressions, but moments requiring adjustment. Effort does not need to culminate in success to be meaningful.

This orientation softens the internal demand to prove progress. It allows people to remain in relationship with themselves even when life is messy, unresolved, or slow.

The Mammoth does not aim to finish its journey.

It adapts to each season, each landscape, each change in ground beneath its feet.

Growth, then, is not about reaching a place where effort stops.

It is about learning to move with life — again and again.

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The ecology of this reflection has a somewhat biographical nature, as I guess most reflections do when we come to think of it. For me, it started with a drive home on a Monday morning and ended seven full days later, late into Monday night, approaching an hour that would make Cinderella nervous. In fact, as the night crossed over into the waiting day and I dragged myself to bed, full in the knowledge that upon awaking I would be welcomed with the standard seasonal January morning, I couldn’t help but feel like the clouds had cleared somewhat. And in fact, as I type this, looking out at the cold 24 hours later, I am still embraced in the warmth of my reflections.

I find myself exploring the ideas of grief quite a lot recently, not that this is something that I have a voice on, and that being because I believe it’s such an individual experience for all involved—something I’m coming to realise as I go through the journey myself. Yet there is one thing I feel it’s okay to address without encroaching too much on the experience of others, and that’s that grief is a funny old thing. It ebbs and flows like the rising tide. One minute you are going about your daily business—next thing you’re cross-legged on the floor, deep in existential crisis.

For me, it’s often music that sets things off. There is something in the power of music that has rightfully given it the ability to really enhance the emotional state. Think about it: no matter the reason, be that your perfect workout track, the ’90s dance banger, or even that classic breakup album, music simply has the ability to move you in ways that offer no recognisable way of measuring. My own journey doesn’t escape this, as one may think with understanding the concept somewhat—however, it is an unfamiliar space to me, unique and fluid, and thus needs to be approached in this way. Needless to say, when my senses are operating from a heightened state, one wrong—or indeed right, depending on your outlook—and I lose it.

This normally happens in the car for me, and I know that this may garner a little backlash, and I certainly would never categorise myself in this way for anything else, but I’m kind of your stereotypical bloke in that way. The worst thing is I even understand all of the negative implications of suppressing your feelings and not talking. I also know the reasons that one may employ such tactics; for me, this mainly sits along the lines of hiding a sense of vulnerability—this being recognisable in my comfort in controlling my direct environment. Now, although this is a defence mechanism that I could argue is deployed to keep me safe, every now and then something breaches the lines and opens the way for those emotions to escape their tightly monitored fortress.

There is simply no logic to it either… a thought, memory, smell—in fact, it’s all fair game when grief is involved. So I apologise if you’re driving around the roads of Lancashire, find yourself at a set of lights, glance over to the motorist next to you, only to find a nearly (that bit is important) middle-aged man crying into his lap, all whilst tapping his steering wheel and singing country music terribly—it’s not a welcoming sight. I genuinely must look psychotic.

At the start of this article, I mentioned the fact that this has been a week-long journey—what I failed to mention was that it has been accompanied, or even quite possibly sparked, by a slow-rolling anxiety attack. I’m new to the world of anxiety; however, I’m quite quick to recognise when these feelings are bubbling, yet this one was a little sneakier than the usual ones. Actually, if I’m honest, I didn’t see this one coming at all. Yet, as anybody who has experienced anxiety knows, true to form, one minute I was singing along to a country classic, the next I was a blubbering mess, anxiety and grief rolling together like a whole whirlwind of emotion.

We all deal with these moments differently; I personally completely malfunction. I shut down and start to over-focus on elements of my life I control, and as much as that sounds productive, it’s not. What it actually looks like is me sporting an oversized hoodie, hood up, compulsively mopping the floor, all whilst trying to hide the fact that the idea of leaving the house makes me feel sick. It’s manic, fear-inducing, and downright horrific, often hard to recognise that it’s actually a mechanism employed to keep us safe, as it generally feels like an ever-consuming attack. But take a minute to explore that vulnerability, and we often find that our body is trying to tell us something.

It started with connecting a song to the memory of my dad whilst noticing the early signs of the pending attack. In that moment, I found myself just wishing I could discuss the pressure I was feeling with him. I never witnessed anxiety in my father, and I guess this has imprinted a sense of reasoning into his character for me. And not that I really think he ever truly understood my position, he certainly always had a way of delivering me some sort of clarity. It’s funny, really—I never noticed the vital role my father played with regard to my emotional stability; however, now he’s not on hand, I find myself seeking his voice on everything.

There are days when I recognise his tone in everything, yet days when I struggle to remember his sarcastic yet well-intended tones. I find myself wanting to ask him if I’m doing okay. Ask him if we ever really get it right as a parent. I want his opinions on the news, my publications, my grades, and strangely enough, the one thing that always sought to bring much conflict when he was alive—my often terrible life decisions (in my defence, I make some good ones too!).

It’s a strange feeling, as I never realised how much his opinion played an impact on how I felt about myself. Actually, when I think of it, I spent so much of my life arguing against his position; however, in the later years, and after forging many alliances between our viewpoints, I would often seek his input on most aspects of my life—even if this often led to much debate.

As the week evolved and my anxiety increased, I found myself noticing that every little thing reminded me of him. It’s a strange symptom of grief that is often linked to the manner in which we assign our memories to our experiences—and although it’s quite a sad space, it also provides a space for remembering my father in his purest form. I’ve come to realise that I do hear my dad, yet it’s not from an audible sense. I hear him in my mother when she makes comments about leaving the kitchen light on. I hear him in myself when I’m stressing at the kids for leaving the front door open. I even hear him singing along in the car with me, as I have him to thank for my taste in music.

The more I reflect on the idea, the more I have come to realise that when I take a minute to sit and listen, I can identify his voice in everything that I do, every word that I say, and every decision that I make (the good and the bad).

One would have thought that this mixture of anxiety and grief would be a toxic combination, and in most cases, I would say it probably would be. Yet, for myself on this occasion, it proved to be extremely powerful. Upon recognising what I was experiencing for both of the phenomena, I managed to create a space where I could inadvertently gain his opinion on the pressures that were bringing me such cognitive discomfort. My logic was rather simplistic, yet turned out to be extremely profound in this moment—you see, upon recognising his voice everywhere, I came to the thought that if I listened with real intention, I would find my answers in the same place.

This past week has shown me that in those times when I question if I’m getting it right all the time, if I listen attentively, I can hear him asking me if I’m trying to the best of my ability. He would ask me if I can accept my mistakes, and what I have learned from them. When it comes to my concerns with parenting, he would assure me that he was not perfect; however, his intentions were always delivered with beneficence. And when it comes to surviving and navigating this bat-shit crazy world… well, even if I didn’t know it at the time, he spent his life arming me with the morals and the skills to do so with valour—even if it often felt like he was simply pecking my head.

My week-long journey was transformative, yet painful, although it did come to an end in a rather lovely manner. I needed to take a video off my phone and load it onto the computer. Struggling with this, I decided to log into my iCloud account on the laptop. Having never done this before, this was not only a new experience but also one that has opened the door to some new opportunities for further reflections. Not really understanding this mysterious invisible cloud that we all send our data to, I hadn’t realised that I had managed to save some videos to it that I had simply forgotten I had ever taken.

I have vowed to take the time to look through all of my lost memories, as there are about 6,000 photos and 350 videos that I had managed to hide from myself. This is a task I’m both looking forward to and dreading in equal measures; however, I’m confident in the knowledge that it will offer me plenty more opportunities to explore those lost memories and experiences.

Amongst the plethora of videos that I found hidden in this mysterious cloud was one of the last videos I have of my father before his illness truly took hold. Imagine my response to finding this video after a full week of searching in the strangest of places—how happy I was to finally hear it again, sharing this beautiful moment with my daughter.

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We are encouraged to measure ourselves by outcomes: goals reached, targets met, visible success. Meaning is often located at the peak, as though value only emerges once something is completed. Yet this framing overlooks the deeper psychological processes that make growth possible.

From a person-centred perspective, Carl Rogers understood growth not as a series of achievements, but as an ongoing process of becoming. He described the individual as continually shaped through experience, reflection, and adaptation — not defined by endpoints, but by movement (Rogers, 1961).

In this sense, the present moment is never isolated. It is the product of countless prior efforts: decisions made without certainty, persistence during difficulty, and adjustments in response to lived experience. What matters psychologically is not simply what was achieved, but what was learned, tolerated, and integrated along the way.

When attention is fixed solely on attainment, the journey becomes instrumental — something to be endured rather than valued. This can subtly reinforce conditional self-worth: I am enough when I succeed; I fall short when I do not. Rogers cautioned that such conditions of worth can distance individuals from their authentic experience, narrowing self-acceptance and increasing internal pressure.

By contrast, recognising effort restores contact with process. It validates engagement rather than outcome, participation rather than performance. The quiet consistency, the willingness to continue, the capacity to remain present through uncertainty — these are not secondary to growth; they are its foundations.

Celebrating the path rather than the peak supports a different internal orientation. One that values being in motion over arriving, and becoming over proving.

This shift is not merely philosophical. Repeatedly directing attention toward effort rather than attainment can gradually reshape how we evaluate ourselves — loosening the grip of outcome-based worth and cultivating a more stable, compassionate self-regard.

The Mammoth is not defined by the summit it reaches.
It is shaped by every step it takes across the terrain.

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A Five-Minute Reflection — Valuing Effort Over Outcome

Take five minutes. No analysis, no optimisation.

Gently reflect on the past day, week, or period of effort, and consider:

• What did I show up for, even when it was uncomfortable or imperfect?

• What effort did I make that may not have led to a visible result?

• What persistence, restraint, courage, or patience did I practice?

Notice any tendency to dismiss these because they did not produce a clear outcome. If that voice appears, acknowledge it — and return attention to the effort itself.

This practice may feel unfamiliar. That is part of its value.

Each time we consciously recognise effort rather than attainment, we interrupt a deeply learned pattern of conditional self-evaluation. Over time, this gentle redirection can begin to re-wire how worth is internally measured — shifting from What did I achieve? to How did I engage with my life?

Nothing needs to be concluded.
Nothing needs to be fixed.

Simply noticing effort is enough.

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If you have lived on long rolling boats of anxiety, the idea of shore can feel unexpectedly unsettling. Not because you do not want rest, but because rest no longer feels neutral. For many anxious systems, safety is not experienced as relief. It is experienced as uncertainty.

Nervous systems are shaped by repetition rather than reassurance. If calm was historically followed by disruption, if stillness preceded harm, or if safety depended on constant awareness, then calm itself becomes ambiguous. The system does not ask whether something is pleasant; it asks whether it is predictable. As Porges reminds us, the nervous system is not oriented toward comfort, but toward survival. For many people, vigilance has simply been the most reliable option.

This is why safety cannot be thought into existence. It is not a cognitive state. It is an embodied experience, often shaped in relationship. Rogers understood this when he wrote that it is the client — the person themselves — who knows what hurts and what directions feel possible (Rogers, 1961). Safety cannot be imposed from the outside. It has to be felt from within.

There is an important difference between stopping and docking. Stopping the boat in open water can feel terrifying; there are no edges, no containment, no sense of being held. Docking, by contrast, implies structure and support. It suggests that effort can be set down somewhere safe. For anxious systems, healing rarely begins with stopping altogether. It begins with finding places where effort is no longer required to maintain safety.

These places are often quiet and unremarkable. A relationship where nothing needs to be proven. A routine that does not measure worth. A body-based practice that prioritises contact rather than calm. A therapeutic space where regulation is not rushed. Over time, these experiences begin to teach the nervous system something new: support can exist alongside vigilance, and rest does not automatically lead to danger.

The Mammoth does not collapse into rest. It settles. Its weight meets resistance. Its body receives feedback from the ground: you are held. Humans learn safety in similar ways, through pressure, rhythm, and presence. Feet on the floor. A back against a chair. A steady pace of movement. Another person who does not demand explanation or improvement. These are not luxuries; they are signals of safety.

Learning to dock does not mean the boat disappears. Anxiety does not need to be eradicated to make room for growth. The boat once served a purpose, and it may still be needed at times. The difference is that it no longer has to be home.

Docking is quiet work. It happens slowly, relationally, and often without dramatic insight. But over time, the body begins to trust that rest does not need to be earned through constant effort. The oars can be set down. The ground can be felt. And the nervous system, finally, can begin to believe what the mind may have known for years.

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Anxiety isn’t always a storm.

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It isn’t always panic, racing thoughts, or a sudden sense of danger that pulls attention inward and demands immediate action. Those moments are visible, dramatic, and relatively easy to name. But for many people, anxiety lives somewhere else entirely. It becomes quieter, longer, and harder to point to.

Sometimes, anxiety is a boat.

A long, rolling boat that never quite reaches shore. You are not drowning. You are functioning, coping, and often appearing calm to those around you. But you are always adjusting your balance, subtly shifting your weight, staying alert to movement beneath you. Nothing catastrophic is happening, yet your body never fully settles. You live at sea.

Much of our cultural understanding of anxiety is shaped by acute stress models. Historically, this makes sense. Early physiological research focused on immediate threat — moments that required rapid mobilisation of energy in order to fight or flee. Walter Cannon’s description of the fight-or-flight response framed stress as an emergency state, one that prepares the organism for decisive action in the face of danger (Cannon, 1929). But Cannon was not describing the kind of anxiety most people now live with.

Modern anxiety is rarely about a single, identifiable threat. It is about accumulation. Duration. Load.

Hans Selye later recognised this shift when he introduced the concept of General Adaptation Syndrome, noting that prolonged exposure to stress does not strengthen the organism but gradually depletes it. As he observed, stress is not simply what happens to us, but how our systems are required to respond over time (Selye, 1956). In other words, it is not the size of the waves that matters most — it is how long you are asked to keep rowing.

Contemporary stress science gives this experience a name: allostatic load. Neuroscientist Bruce McEwen used this term to describe the cumulative wear and tear on the body that occurs when adaptive systems are activated too frequently or for too long. The same physiological responses that protect us in the short term begin to exact a cost when they never stand down. As McEwen put it, “the price of adaptation is allostatic load” (McEwen and Stellar, 1993).

This is what long-term anxiety looks like in the body. Cortisol rhythms flatten. Heart rate variability reduces. Inflammatory markers increase. The system remains organised around readiness, even when no immediate danger is present. The boat stays afloat, but the effort of staying balanced becomes a constant, background demand.

From a nervous system perspective, this is not a failure. It is a learned strategy.

Stephen Porges’ Polyvagal Theory helps us understand why vigilance can persist even in objectively safe conditions. The nervous system, he explains, is constantly and unconsciously assessing whether a situation is safe, dangerous, or life-threatening (Porges, 2011). These assessments do not rely on logic or reassurance; they are shaped by lived experience. If safety has historically been unreliable, the system learns not to wait for proof. It prepares in advance.

This is not fear in the conventional sense. It is anticipation. The body continues to row because stopping once had consequences.

Many people living in this state do not experience panic attacks or obvious anxiety symptoms. They work, care for others, and remain outwardly composed. Internally, however, their systems stay organised around monitoring. Carl Rogers captured this dynamic when he wrote that “the organism reacts to the field as it is experienced and perceived” (Rogers, 1951). Not as it objectively is, but as it is felt. If the internal field never registers full safety, vigilance becomes rational, even when the external world appears calm.

Over time, this state stops being something a person notices and becomes something they identify with. “I’m just wired this way.” “I don’t switch off.” “I relax by staying busy.” What began as adaptation slowly becomes identity. Rogers warned of this process too, noting how individuals introject the values and conditions of their environment and come to experience them as intrinsic to the self (Rogers, 1951). When vigilance is rewarded — through safety, approval, or survival — it becomes selfhood. The boat becomes home.

This is why rest can feel strangely threatening for people with chronic anxiety. Stillness removes the strategy. Without the familiar effort of rowing, the nervous system does not immediately feel calm; it feels exposed. Telling someone in this state to “relax” misunderstands the problem. Relaxation without safety feels like letting go of the railing in rough seas.

Healing, then, is not about eliminating anxiety or forcing calm. It is about offering the nervous system new experiences of safety that do not require effort. Small, tolerable pauses where nothing needs to be managed begin to update the system from the inside. Even brief moments of rest matter, not because they fix anything, but because they gently challenge the belief that vigilance is always necessary.

This is where the Mammoth enters the picture.

The Mammoth does not survive through constant alertness. It survives through weight, contact, rhythm, and proximity. It moves slowly, rests heavily, and trusts the ground because it has learned what support feels like. For humans, safety is also relational and embodied. Rogers captured this paradox beautifully when he wrote, “When I accept myself just as I am, then I can change” (Rogers, 1961). Change does not come from rowing harder. It comes from experiencing support without performance.

Anxiety carried many people through difficult environments. The long rolling boat was never a mistake. It was a solution. But solutions are allowed to expire. Growth does not require abandoning the sea overnight. It begins with noticing when the water calms and allowing yourself, gradually, to stop rowing.

You were never meant to live at sea forever.

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Here’s the thing, can it really be helped?.. Im not overly convinced!

I have decided that, well providing that I can stay on task.., that I am going to explore the concepts behind “distractions” and the management of them in a modern world.

The fact that I have currently set this time out to be researching for an upcoming paper—yet i find myself uploading a video on the Stack may just highlight how even the more aware, are prone to allowing distractions to sneak in.

I mean its easy to see how susceptible we all are to this phenomena by simply looking at the description offered,

Like on the grand schemes of things I feel the key word here is “prevents”, as it implies a level of capture somewhat, and I personally I am of the position of belief that if we engage with “distractions” with enough willing, it in-turn becomes intentional, thus entering the realms of negative behaviour instead of attention capture—an action that requires a level of accountability.

What I am starting to realise is that its tricky to mitigate, and i’m not convinced that we are in complete control of what plays impact to our attention, leading me to re-think the utilisation to the term “Sorry, I paying attention”… You see its quite possible that I am offering my complete attention in these moments—just to something that my current exposed conditions have prioritised—even if this does sit within the sub-conscious.

Sorry what was I saying???

Okay, so here is something you don’t witness every day: 200+ Santa Claus hats clogging up the local boozer before lunch—well, in fact, at any point if I’m honest. And if I do say so myself, it’s one hell of a sight! What makes this even stranger is the fact that the pub itself has lent itself out to be the starting point of a 10km race, one to which the entrants have been handed a Santa hat alongside their racing numbers. A large number have turned up in festive attire, and there is a Santa’s sleigh strapped to the back of a rather shiny Scania wagon—a classic rural approach to the concept of reindeer, with no clean air restrictions in the country.

The event is held in support of a local charity, Galloways, who work to aid those affected by sight loss. The charity itself is based outside of Penwortham in the northwest of the country and has been helping the community since 1867. The normal buckets are out getting a shake, and the wardens are sharp on the attack when it comes to selling the raffle tickets. Food tents line the car park, with the usual trappings put aside for the more festive treats—mulled wine sat bubbling away in the bain-maries, and mince pies stacked high for all that attend.

Galloways, a sight loss charity offering support

Now don’t be fooled: I was not in my running gear personally—nor had I come to actually report on the event. However, as I have found myself slap bang in the middle of it with an hour to kill and my laptop in hand, I thought I would take the opportunity to make an attempt to capture the environment somewhat. I was actually sat there in support of my partner, who was taking on the run with one of her friends she has made whilst attending the local running group—who was further accompanied by Max the dog. My role? Well, that was simple really. I had the hard task of sipping coffee as I have been left in charge of all the belongings, this inclusive of our daughter, who was rather unconcerned by the whole affair and spent the majority of the time picking the ice cubes from her five-quid orange juice, all whilst actually failing to drink it, as does every self-respecting five-year-old.

The run is in a village about 5 miles from where we live, and although we remained indoors watching the first runners return (with impressive times, I may add), there was what could only be described as an army of Santa’s out running the pavements—one hell of a sight for a small village, let me just say. I appreciate that certain areas may be a little more exposed to levels of strangely dressed people, and actually in some parts of the country I wouldn’t be too surprised if I saw an elf run past me. Like, I attend a rather liberal university, so I’m used to the stranger sights. Yet quite honestly, if you were not aware of what was happening, this may induce a local to scratch their head somewhat.

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Why have I decided to open the laptop and start typing? Well, that’s rather simple actually: this was the first time since the start of the holidays that I have truly felt the spirit of Christmas! I don’t mean “spirits” of Christmas either, although had I not been driving, I may have indulged in a little tipple as the vibe is awesome—even Santa dismounted his sleigh and nipped in for a swift one once the starter set them all off. The spirit that I am talking about is the one that lights that little candle inside, the feeling that connects you to something deeper—certainly not something I would’ve expected to find in a little local in Longton.

Yes, we have hung the tree, the school nativity is out of the way, we’ve done Santa, the presents are wrapped—but for me, none of that lights that spark. Actually, if I had to address it, it’s been a little slow to get going for me. Much like an aging resident awaiting their winter fuel allowance, my pilot light has been somewhat wavering. That little dim flicker has found some help, and quite honestly, I found it in what may be considered a rather strange place for me: amid noise, in a busy bar. I would normally avoid bars at this time of year for this exact reason; however, Scrooge has taken a day off, and I was even considering allowing Christmas music on in the car on the way home—this didn’t happen!

You see, for me, the baubles and tinsel are all good, but really it’s just fluff. Yes, I can get behind the magic for the kids—the mystery of a fat old man sneaking into the house in the middle of the night to leave presents for the whole family is a rather concerning message as an adult, although this irony is lost in the innocent gaze all too familiar when a child spots a stocking sat over the fireplace. But on the face of it, that’s all a little materialistic for my inner soul. I’m told that even as a child I was somewhat annoying to my parents on the big day, opening the first present that I got my hands on with great care, then ignoring the rest whilst I familiarized myself with the item sat in front of me—much to the frustration of anybody watching on as they would be awaiting the fruits of their hard work to be opened. This is something that has followed me into adulthood; at this stage in my life, gifts themselves make me rather uncomfortable. Like, I have no problem giving a gift—that selfishly satisfies some internal condition—but try and give me a gift, that’s another story. I look uneasy, almost rude. This is never the intention, and I will always explain my discomfort, yet I’m sure most gifters are like, “Charming, the ungrateful sod,” as I offer a strained “Oh, thank you.” I even try and tell people that the best gift for me is no gifts at all—this is always ignored due to social convention and people’s undue generosity.

So why is it my candle flickers a little brighter now? Quite simply: love and appreciation. And not love and appreciation directed at myself, but simply projected out into the ether. What started out as a bar of strangers, I’d comfortably say came back into that bar united—not just united in the fact that they were all sweaty (some more so than others)—connected on a deeper level. You see, normally when you stand on the finish line of these events, the first thing most will do is check their time, stats on whatever smart tech they support, then hand in their number, jump back in the car, and part ways till the next event. Yet today, one by one they hit the line, gathered a mince pie and cup of mulled wine, and joined back in the bar to gather their legs. People laughed, some cried, yet all but a few hung around in conversation. Songs were sung as the music was cranked up to accompany the crowd; Father Christmas even put down his gin and tonic long enough to ensure all the kids had taken a dip in the sack. It was genuinely buzzing with love—the buckets were in demand as people were more than willing to drop in what they could afford in support of a good cause.

Now, I’ve never run a distance race before, but I have a feeling that this one came easier to the runners than most in the year’s calendar. This I hypothesize due to the nature of the charity—one that is close to the hearts of many locals—and obviously aided by the jovial nature of the event. For myself, the fact that I had a warm seat to sit at, supported by a high-end coffee, was a plus, as normally it’s a wait in the car with the thermos. And although these luxuries aided it, the most intoxicating thing was witnessing such human connection—human connection that’s rarely seen these days. Family, friends, running groups, old and young—all in it together and not in competition with one another. My partner and her friend (and Max the dog) were accompanied for the final 2km by a gentleman in his mid-eighties, fresh from hospital two weeks previous, to which he had nearly not survived—but here he was, shorts and Santa hat, laces tied, and doing his bit for a cause that is close to the hearts of so many. I mention that because it just highlights the importance of events like these: a conversation, a story told, and a connection made. Now, my partner will probably never meet this man again; she may have never spoken to him outside of this event, but as it stands, there was opportunity presented for a connection to be realized, and it’s important that these opportunities are given the space to be achieved. Nothing throws another Yule log on the festive fire than a community coming together in celebration of a good cause, all whilst achieving something personal for themselves by completing the run.

For some, it will be the last run of the year; for some, the first steps of their running careers; others, a continuation of those early steps—and for some, it’s all about the medal, a reward I know brings a smile to Kelly’s face when it drops in the post. This is normally followed by her request for a hammer and nail so she can add to the well-earned collection rightfully displayed on the wall of the kitchen. For the runners, there is the inevitable rush of endorphins; for myself, there is the experience and the chance to watch on as the human race shares in a connection that may be missed by most, but for me is such a visual feast. Hormones, emotions, and feelings that are beautiful in their realization, yet, as always, will eventually subside as we embrace our own Christmas crazy.

For the charity, on the other hand, the support generated today I feel will impact the lives of individuals for years to come. So, maybe if there is anything to take from today, it’s the fact that taking the time to show your support and pass a little thought for someone other than ourselves can actually deliver more of a reward in return than we may think. Be that a few coins thrown into the bucket, donning a Santa hat and enduring the run, or indeed the volunteers and planning team that provide their time to organize the whole thing—a community in full-force humanity mode.

With the world almost unrecognizable at the moment, feeling more divided than ever, I certainly felt blessed to spend my morning slurping a well-made coffee, witnessing the good of humans first-hand. Well done, Hopton’s Tap House & Cocktails, Longton, for nailing the coffee; well done to all that turned up to support and share in the experience; and a massive well done to Kelly and Jackie, who took on the run whilst we had our feet up.

Oh, and well done to the pacesetter, Max… cue photo of cute dog for clicks…

This is a powerful little realisation I had just before getting in the shower yesterday.

For those familiar with the idea of imposed conditions—whether self-imposed or placed on us by others—this may not come as too much of a shock. For those who aren’t, I’d suggest taking a little time to read around these concepts. It’s amazing how much control they can end up having over our lives.

Standing there, I noticed how easily tension appears when reality doesn’t line up with an internal “should.” From a Perceptual Control Theory (PCT) point of view, these shoulds are internal reference points—conditions we carry about how we expect ourselves, others, or life itself to be. Without ever consciously choosing them, we act to control our experience so it matches these references.

What struck me was that the discomfort I was feeling wasn’t coming from the moment itself, but from an old condition quietly running in the background. The moment I saw it as just a reference—something learned rather than something true—it loosened its grip. Nothing outside changed, yet the sense of pressure dropped almost immediately.

Simply highlighting how many of our struggles aren’t caused by circumstances, but by the conditions we’re unconsciously trying to satisfy.

This might seem like a strange post—even for me—but from the start, my Substack has been a space to explore my observations aloud. When I say, “out loud,” I mean it feels that way as I type, just as it might when you read it—unless you hit the play button, which I often do. In fact, that is what drew me to this platform in the first place. And as I type this, I’m realizing how things are evolving for people like me: lifelong dyslexia sufferers with zero ability to engage with pages of a book and terrible educational experiences. Back in the early ‘90s, small parish schools treated bad spelling like divine punishment. Yet here I am, regularly churning out 2,000+ words—mostly nonsense—and publishing it on the internet. Even more impressive? I publish it on a website I own.

With the rise of spell-checkers, e-books, podcasts, and especially those big play buttons on Substack articles, it’s like we’ve been given a shot at breaking down barriers and levelling up in the game of knowledge—and, I believe, the game of life. This is probably why the therapeutic world pushes journaling so hard. I just paused for five minutes to continue the conversation with myself in my head—I hypothesize this happened because I drew conscious attention to it. And yes, I know it’s the first sign of madness. Moving on...

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What I’m saying is, if you’d asked me years ago whether I’d be sitting here now, pondering desk lighting and a new bookshelf, I’d have used self-deprecating humour to shoot it down, followed by a little laugh to avoid awkward silence—all while insisting university wasn’t for people like me. Do not get me wrong: I had always upheld that I had a level of intelligence, to some degree, and a certain competency. This was evident in how I navigated stress-induced physical illness while still securing enough GCSEs to qualify for college-level courses if needed.

By the time I left school, I’d become obsessed with horses—a hobby I fell into hard—and set my heart on an equine diploma at a local college. That dream quickly turned into a struggle, mainly because the academic tools were not in place. The ability was there, proven by a successful career in the industry later on, but the building resistance from past trauma and new experiences became too much. Just as I was about to start my second year, I pulled the plug.

In that moment, I adopted the stance: “There’s them that make their money with their hands, and there’s them that make it with their heads—I, my good sir, have my hands.” I walked out the door and abandoned any ideas of returning to school. So, like many young, energetic people, I packed a bag and secured a job on an exotic island... well, Ireland to be precise, and in the south, so it’s kind of exotic! I went on to hold a prominent role in the industry, managing a leading racing thoroughbred stud farm. I only left to return to England, learn a new trade, and run my own decorating business for many years—further cementing the use of my hands over academic pursuits.

As I sit here typing this, we have just wrapped up the first semester at the university I now attend. With graduation ceremonies in the weeks prior, there was an electric energy around campus. It still feels strange to say that. I struggle to accept that I get in the car five days a week, drive into the city, enjoy lectures, find solace in the library, and even consider extra classes—all while taking pleasure in expanding my knowledge on a grand scale. My bag is full of books, my hard drive is filling with papers, and the latest software on my computer is a statistical application. The campus has a different tone this week: always buzzing with learning, opinions, and exploration, but amplified by the sea of caps and gowns.

But why am I actually here? This is a question I ask myself daily, and while it might seem amplified by the graduations, it’s not—in fact, it feels settled. It is easier to place yourself in a position when it is evident in your environment.

Why am I here? Bloody good question. At first, it was to achieve a general qualification that opened doors. I took those classes online—they were rudimentary at best—and I overachieved, which surprised me. Fortunately, I landed on a topic that captured my attention: “the human condition.” I fell in love with a couple of concepts, and finally, the tools were in place for me to engage—without singling out my struggles. Suddenly, it became a challenge to myself: the more I achieved, the higher I set the bar, all without a clear plan, just ideas of where it might lead.

Next, I found myself on an evening course studying Level 3 counselling skills. I cannot describe the anxiety around walking back into a classroom—the only thing that could have made it worse was missing the first day, which happened to be when my marriage officially broke down. That said, what I found was a group of like-minded individuals, all with their own journeys to that room, lecturer included. Surprisingly, most were on the wrong side (my side) of thirty; most were pursuing this as a second career; and most had not been in a classroom since high school. There was something humanizing and empowering about it. Without diving into too much detail, the divorce gave me freedom to explore myself, and starting in psychotherapy offered space for personal development like never before.

I was lucky to be introduced early to person-cantered theory and the works of Carl Rogers. The focus on the self and ideas of autonomy stuck like mud. A couple of quotes hit me hard, and I think they are worth sharing. The first one that struck like a hammer was:

I will be the first to tell you it takes a hell of a lot to truly accept yourself—flaws and all. It requires serious self-reflection and facing harsh realities. I am not ashamed to say my self-perception was distorted. When I stripped back the barriers I had built from my experiences, I found a clean foundation to rebuild on. That was the easy part; next was realizing my views and beliefs—like everyone’s—were shaped by that distortion. The idea that school was not for me evaporated, replaced by the conviction that I had earned the right to be there. Just like that, a negative response turned positive.

Anxiety to excitement!

It would be a mistake to brush this off as easy. In fact, this was one of the most transformative periods of my life—no exaggeration. I spent months deconstructing my value structure, dissecting each component, and assessing its origin. Over time, I recognized what I was truly attached to and what came from elsewhere—a little introjection here, a condition formulated by someone else. Slowly, my views shifted, or at least my attachment to imposed ones faded, giving space for my authentic ones to form.

You do notice a change in yourself. For me, it felt like waking up, rippling into all areas of life. It’s funny how loud things become when you tune into yourself, but the downside is the need to defend it. I suddenly gained a sixth sense for imposed views or values, and it got noisy. Meeting a new partner and becoming a prominent figure in three step kids’ lives brought new challenges. I gained insight into the ethical considerations of imposing views on others—especially little ones. If you’re unfamiliar, explore “introjected values” first, but hold on: with context, it gives every word you say a new dimension.

It takes self-awareness and maintenance, which is where my next bit of Rogers’ wisdom comes in. This one is wordier, but I will break it down. It comes from Rogers’ 19 propositions, outlining his humanistic theory of personality. It is well worth a read—most AI models can provide an accurate overview. Propositions 1 through 19 emphasize that individuals exist in a subjective world of experience, driven by an innate actualizing tendency. Behaviours arise from perceived reality, with self-concept shaped by interactions and values. Each proposition flows symbiotically with its neighbour, giving Rogers’ concepts their permeability.

Though it’s last, I do not present it as the final attainment. The propositions are not a scale; mastering this one unlocks clarity to move between them. It highlights the outcome of congruence (integration): when a person fully accepts all internal experiences—sensory (external perceptions) and visceral (internal feelings, emotions, gut reactions)—into a unified self-concept, without denial or distortion.

I appreciate that got deep, but that is what it takes to hold this position once adopted. Witnessing your full experience without defensiveness creates inner spaciousness. From there, others’ feelings, perspectives, or behaviours no longer threaten yourself. They can exist on their own terms—a natural extension of self-acceptance into genuine acceptance of others, not as projections, but as valid, complex beings.

So, I pose the question again: Why am I here? Is it to break down barriers from early educational experiences? To prove something after being written off due to dyslexia? To deny values from a failing marriage, prove my worth to a new partner, or stride the halls of parenthood? To reward my mother’s efforts and my late father’s? To succeed as the only sibling at university? To flip off the old me while appeasing the new? Or is it that actualizing tendency taking root in nourished soil?

Who knows? What I do know is it’s all just caps and gowns—and I have always wanted to give them a go. So, while I am here...

I have finally decided what direction the “Diary of Joe Blogs” is going to take for the moment. What I am going to do is put a few more videos together to back up my ideas surrounding the H.E.R.D concepts — as I apply it to my own life. This will allow me to keep all the platforms connected, whilst ensuring that I can also maintain clarity with the other posts.

So this video starts things off with a little bit of congruence, and a massive failure from myself today. After reading an article on Substack yesterday, I came away with the idea that I would start my day with 500ml of water — this instead of my usual five cups of coffee…

I did.

It was a bloody struggle!

Following this, I made myself another 750ml bottle of my mammoth hydration, put it in the fridge to chill to the optimum temperature, and then proceeded to drink nothing but coffee for the rest of the day.

Started off so well, but this genuinely highlights how difficult it is to implement new habits. I actually consider it a massive failure, however, we start again tomorrow—and now I’m putting it into the ether.

I will be putting a post together on hydration for the main page. I would like to offer the idea that it plays a massive role in not only our physical well-being, but also that of our mental well-being.

Although I’m the short side of 40, and I’m already clearing the landing of any obstacles that may present a barrier to a 2am toilet dash!

So, I’ve heard a lot of bad things lately about our great capital city—the crime, the cleanliness, and the pace—yet while reflecting on this on the train home, I couldn’t help but disagree to some extent. My time in the city was quick and directed, similar to the vibes I got from the public walking the streets: vibrant yet uniform, with the streets operating like the arterial routes recognizable in a classic ant farm. As the train made its way back up the tracks and I started to get closer to home, I almost felt relieved to be escaping the noise, while also a little gutted that I hadn’t spent more time there.

I must say that one of the only things that felt harmful while I was there was the pace. Now, I like a full life and often complain about not having the time to get things done—those who know me well enough will also claim that I’m never in a rush and my forward planning (to them) often feels rather haphazard. My mind, in my eyes, operates somewhat mechanically; this often presents challenges as it can feel like I need to observe, process, and assess almost everything I see—often with a level of scrutiny that not only sits in the subconscious but is also misunderstood by others. As you can imagine, drop that slap bang in the middle of our great capital city, and it’s almost understandable how that might malfunction.

I’ve been to the city before, yet only to see the ponies... sounds so middle class... What I mean is, as I have a love for all things equine, I have—in the past, the distant past—been to Olympia to watch the show jumping as a paying spectator, I might add. These trips have always been rather guided, and barring the one school trip to the Millennium Dome, my knowledge of the city is rather limited. In fact, I was even halted by the fact that all the road signs were Monopoly spaces, and don’t get me started on the train station—that was bigger than any airport I’ve flown out of. I admittedly struggled somewhat with following the display board as it was so bright; like a moth to a flame, I simply stared at it for ten minutes before realizing I didn’t even need to be looking at it. I had just arrived, after all, and with my return journey 24 hours later, it didn’t hold any relevance to me. Upon reflection, I think it simply offered me something fixed and understandable to focus on amid the energy and confusion offered by the thousands of commuters shuttling between the platforms.

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The city itself was impressive, to be fair; there was an obvious energy unlike anything I’ve personally experienced. I know that may sound strange to some people, and yes, I’ve visited cities in the past—it’s just that I’ve never experienced a capital city, and definitely not a world hub such as London. There was one observation that I made on a rather frequent basis, and it’s actually something that perplexed me somewhat, considering everyone within the city operates with such vigorous intentions. That being: when stood at a pedestrian crossing, nobody—and I mean NOBODY—presses the button on the post, the button that I was always led to believe as a child to be the first action taken, especially if you require the traffic to stop. Needless to say, they were all lucky I was there to aid them on their journey; in fact, I felt like I was there on service to ensure people reached their destinations.

The visuals offered by the skyline were simply fantastic; my room at the hotel captured the view somewhat, as well as offering a little calm to experience it. The streets, on the other hand, I almost struggled to enjoy. I am fascinated by architecture, and where most may take the approach of assessing scale (”wow, look at how big that building is”), my mind fires up the counters on overdrive: I start processing the number of floors, try to count windows, start assessing the period in which it was developed, etc.—a task that is obviously daunting in a city like London, impossible almost. Yet tell my brain that. I found myself obsessed by the fact that there were gardens on rooftops, something I’ve only ever seen on animated building plans. I found myself fantasizing about how I would have a secret zen garden on my rooftop, and how I would watch the world move below with the comfort of knowing the madness was a choice—then I would inevitably be returned to reality as I was presented with a barrier of people all stood at a pedestrian crossing, waiting for this northern alien to press the magic button to allow them to cross.

The people themselves—the ones static long enough to engage in conversation—were nothing but an advert for the city itself. There was the obvious banter expected from the north/south divide: me there with my six toes and restricted gene pool; them with their perfect white teeth and over-stylized hair. However, barring a little bit of cultural geeing, my welcome was warm and inviting. At no point did I feel unsafe or, in fact, uncomfortable in any way (excluding the general pace). Even when navigating the city after the event in the evening, this sense of security didn’t falter; the taxis were in plenty and didn’t require a degree in computer application science to book—it was very much the old-fashioned hand-out black cab approach, whereas back home we now need fifteen different apps on the phone and a level of competence to boot.

I will say though—and this is mainly due to my own ignorance—but the disparities between the wealth distribution are crazy! And actually, if it wasn’t for the way my brain personally operates, it would quite possibly have remained hidden due to the fleeting visit. The amount of property was untenable, so to speak; I mean, the buildings touched the sky. However, take off the lens and look with an open eye, and it becomes rather evident that most of the property is not designed to suit the everyday man. A quick look in the windows of the estate agents and you witness, in my eyes, what is a very chilling reality. The cheapest family home that I could recognize started at over £1.5 million—like, I feel our family home is bigger than most in this price bracket. Then your only other option is the rental avenue, with a bedsit flat securing £550 per calendar week, a price higher than the average working weekly wage. I struggled to comprehend how the girl pouring my coffee could even survive in the city.

Truth is, they don’t—a fact made obvious by the response met with my question of the day: “What’s within thirty minutes’ walk that’s worth a look?” This question was often met by an uncomfortable laugh and a “I don’t live round here, mate, so I don’t know.” In fact, most travel over an hour to get into work! Now, I’ve commuted before, but that was by choice, in order to secure a higher-paying role or to appease a client, etc. When I think of my days filling the more recognized job roles—farm work, retail, bar work, kitchen porter, factory work, etc., all roles I’ve filled over the years—these have all been within a short drive of the village, and a two-minute walk when I resided in the local town. The idea of adding two more hours on top of a working day, just to simply make do, scares me a little bit. I cannot help but think that this not only adds pressure but also steals the life from under these poor individuals—that’s two hours that could be spent developing their relationships, themselves, and even their community.

The wealth divide was somewhat nauseating at times, and even though I was there as a tourist with all the time in the world, simply meandering the streets (on my mission to ease the plight of the commuter against the pedestrian crossing), I felt myself somewhat more aligned with the regular man, so to speak. Yes, I stopped to pay a little too much for my coffee, and yes, my hotel room was on the other side of the budget; however, this for me was something I had been saving for, and I honestly was considering it a little treat for myself. On the other hand, when you consider the average coffee was £6 and couple that with a little slice of cake, you’re closer to £12–£15—it’s hard for me to comprehend how this could impact the decision to just nip out to grab some lunch whilst putting a shift in.

Now, admittedly, that is a very brief summary—as in very brief. And somewhat naïve one! There will obviously be harder struggles felt by the people, and it would be wrong for me to think that I could understand them, but one thing I will say is that if they were present, I couldn’t recognize them in the attitudes of the people. In fact, the “people” of the city were infectious; there was a warmth that is echoed in the northern stereotype that we place on the cockney geezer—like you could talk me into buying anything (but a used car). It’s this attitude that led me to buy a bloody Christmas tree with no way of returning it home.

It would be unfair for me to say it was predominantly my sympathies to the working man (or woman, as we still need to be careful what we say), or in fact my own ideas of giving something back to the great city that led me to buy the tree, as this takes away from the wonderful sales pitch offered by the young lad selling the trees. Oliver was engaging and energizing; his pitch was spot on, and with his grandfather in support showing him the ropes, it was hard to walk away. What was surprisingly harder, though, was actually finding the tree a new home. Once again, the fast pace took over, and people seemed a little too preoccupied—and honestly rather concerned—when a random northern lad was trying to give them a Christmas tree. In fact, people kept looking for the cameras and asking if I was famous. Strangely, I feel that if I had said yes, they would have taken the tree… but when it comes from a genuine place of love… they feel suspicious about the whole thing—why is that?

Returning back to Liverpool on the train was a welcome relief; this not only meant that I had successfully navigated the train station’s mega display boards (I imagine these to be the same size as the advertising boards familiar to me from the TV shots of Times Square), but also that I was within a daily commute’s distance to home. I landed slap bang in the middle of the Christmas markets, and strangely the city seemed quiet to me—now, I’m a city slicker and all that. It was strange to see the big concrete blocks had been placed to encase the markets for public safety, a regular feature in a European event these days (that’s a post in itself), although reassuring to see the city taking care of the attendees. My walk back to the sister station to catch the train back to my little stand was littered with vendors, all fighting for the chance to sell you the bag of doughnuts or chocolate-covered churros. Indulging in a bag of churros to settle the slight rumble that had started to build from my afternoon’s travel, I couldn’t help but return to my thoughts on the ideas of division. The buildings in Liverpool are grand in stature all by themselves, and I have even picked the office I would like when I reach a level that allows, yet for me this would involve a daily commute that would top two hours. I laughed at the level of irony that offered—there’s me amazed at how these people are forced to make a commute to work, yet here I am fantasizing about success and measuring that by inducing the same conditions that I placed concern into for others. I laughed at my own arrogance somewhat, then was slapped right back into reality by the world upon realizing that the wealth divide in my own local city was more prevalent than that of the capital.

I saw something that I have never witnessed before: tents, like literal tents, lining the main shopping streets of the city. When I say lining the streets, these weren’t even pitched up in the doorways of closed retail units—these were literally on the pavements of the main shopping arteries, and there were plenty of them… My guilt kicked in, and I started to think about how the cost of the tree could have fed a whole heap of the homeless men and women of my own town. I then started thinking about the cost of my 36 hours in the city and thought how that would have helped even more.

In the end, my little adventure as a mammoth in the city left me with more questions than answers. London’s chaos and charm are undeniable, but peeling back the layers reveals struggles that echo everywhere—even closer to home than I’d like to admit. It’s easy to point fingers at the big smoke, but maybe the real lesson is looking in our own backyard. Next time I head south, I’ll pack lighter, press fewer buttons, and perhaps find a way to give back that doesn’t involve lugging a Christmas tree. Until then, I’ll cherish the memories, the banter, and that fleeting sense of being part of something massive—flaws and all.

Distraction is one of the oldest human strategies for coping with discomfort. For as long as we’ve been conscious, we’ve used our attention as a shield—turning away from pain, boredom, uncertainty, or emotion.

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When considering the modern world, distraction has evolved from a momentary escape into a constant environment.

It no longer waits for us; it seeks us out.

Some distractions soothe. Some numb. Some connect us to the world; others take us out of ourselves.

And somewhere in the middle sits a quiet psychological truth: distraction isn’t the enemy — unconscious distraction is.

The Psychology of Turning Away

In person-centred therapy, distraction can be understood as a response to incongruence: the gap between who we are and who we feel we should be.

When that gap aches, distraction becomes a buffer.

🦣. Sometimes it’s a relief — a walk, a game, a moment of daydreaming.

❌ Sometimes it’s avoidance — scrolling, noise, busywork that keeps us from hearing our own inner signal.

As Carl Rogers noted, we move toward experiences that feel safe to process and away from those that don’t. Distraction is one of the ways we negotiate that safety.

From a social-psychological perspective, this becomes even clearer. Humans have always been shaped by attentional norms: what tribes, families, workplaces and cultures tell us we should care about.

Our digital world has amplified this dramatically — shifting from social influence to algorithmic influence.

The Science of Attention: A Brain Built for Survival, Not Smartphones

Neuroscience frames attention as a limited resource. Our prefrontal cortex — the part responsible for focus, planning, self-regulation — fatigues quickly.

Meanwhile, deeper systems like the amygdala and the dopaminergic pathways are always scanning for novelty, reward, and threat.

This creates a perfect storm:

• Dopamine drives the urge to “check”, rewarding tiny hits of novelty — notifications, messages, updates.

• Cortisol spikes when we fear missing something important, increasing compulsive checking.

• Attentional residue builds up when we switch tasks repeatedly, lowering cognitive performance and heightening anxiety.

• The Default Mode Network activates when attention slips, pulling us into self-referential thoughts — often rumination.

Distraction, in this light, isn’t a character flaw. It’s neurobiology meeting modern design.

How Algorithms Lock Us In

Modern platforms don’t just offer distraction; they engineer it.

Algorithms track micro-behaviours — dwell time, scroll speed, the videos we watch to the end — and feed us what is most likely to keep us returning.

Not what aligns with our wellbeing. Not what aligns with our values. Simply what maximises engagement.

This creates three key psychological traps:

1. The Attention Loop

You check → you scroll → the algorithm learns → it feeds you more → you check again.

Over time, this shapes what feels interesting, not just what is.

2. The Emotional Hijack

Content with strong emotional charge — outrage, surprise, fear — spreads fastest.

The algorithm therefore amplifies what is dysregulating, not grounding.

3. The Identity Drift

When attention is constantly externally guided, internal signals weaken. We lose touch with:

• what we enjoy

• what we value

• what actually restores us

This is why many people feel more drained after distraction than before.

In psychotherapy terms, algorithms can widen the gap between the organismic self (our inner, natural direction) and the introjected self (who we think we should be).

Healthy vs Unhealthy Distraction: A Person-Centred View

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Healthy Distractions

These help the nervous system reset, integrate, or decompress. They:

• restore emotional balance

• reduce stress

• offer spaciousness

• reconnect us to body or environment

Examples: a walk, reading fiction, music, gardening, creating, mindful screen use, intentional play.

Unhealthy Distractions

These pull us away from emotional processing or reinforce avoidance. They:

• numb or suppress

• increase agitation

• disconnect us from our felt sense

• create compulsive cycles

Examples: endless scrolling, “doom loops,” multitasking as avoidance, noise saturation, gambling apps, algorithmic rabbit holes.

The difference is not in the activity. It’s in whether it supports or suppresses our real needs.

A Modern Example: The Evening Spiral.

You sit down after a long day, phone in hand.

You tell yourself it’s a five-minute scroll.

Forty minutes later, you look up — your chest a little tight, your mind a little scattered, your energy strangely lower. You can’t recall half of what you saw.

This isn’t failure!

This is a system optimised to override your intention.

But here’s the important part:

You can’t heal by shaming the part of you that reached for distraction.

You can only heal by understanding what it was trying to protect.

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From the moment we’re born, we begin forming patterns — ways of relating, trusting, and finding safety in others.

These early relational blueprints, known as attachment styles, don’t just influence our childhood; they shape how we connect, love, and respond to emotional closeness throughout our lives.

In therapy rooms, workplaces, and homes, the echoes of attachment are everywhere — subtle but powerful guides to how we experience safety, vulnerability, and belonging.

A Brief History — From Observation to Theory

The study of attachment began in the mid-twentieth century through the pioneering work of John Bowlby, a British psychoanalyst who noticed that children separated from caregivers often displayed distress and long-term emotional difficulty.

Bowlby proposed that humans are biologically predisposed to seek proximity to attachment figures as a means of survival (Bowlby, 1969).

Building on Bowlby’s foundations, Mary Ainsworth introduced the Strange Situation experiment in the 1970s — a structured observation of how infants reacted to brief separations and reunions with their caregiver. From this, she identified three primary patterns:

🦣 Secure attachment, marked by confidence in the caregiver’s return.

🦣 Avoidant attachment, characterised by emotional self-reliance and distance.

🦣 Ambivalent (or anxious) attachment, marked by distress and uncertainty around availability.

Later, researchers added a fourth: disorganised attachment, describing children who showed confusion or fear toward their caregiver, often linked to inconsistent or traumatic early experiences (Main & Solomon, 1986).

These foundational studies reframed love and connection not as abstract emotions but as adaptive survival strategies — patterns wired into us through our earliest relationships.

The Modern Landscape — Adult Attachment and Everyday Life

Attachment theory evolved beyond infancy to describe adult relationships, thanks to the work of Hazan and Shaver (1987) and others who found striking parallels between romantic love and early attachment patterns.

Today, attachment theory helps us understand why:

• Some people find comfort in closeness, while others instinctively withdraw.

• Conflict may trigger panic in one partner but silence in another.

• Friendships or workplaces can feel like emotional battlegrounds when security feels uncertain.

In a world of constant connectivity yet rising loneliness, these attachment patterns often reveal themselves through digital communication, social expectations, and emotional boundaries.

A securely attached person might see technology as a tool for connection; an anxious one might check for replies every few minutes; an avoidant individual might retreat into the quiet safety of independence.

Understanding our own attachment tendencies doesn’t mean we’re fixed to them — but it gives us a map.

As Bowlby noted, “The internal working model” we develop in early life can be revised with new experiences, trust, and reflection (Bowlby, 1973).

Therapy and the Journey Toward Security

Therapy offers a unique space to see attachment in action — safely, and often for the first time.

In person-centred and relational models, the therapist’s role is not to label but to provide a consistent, accepting, and empathic relationship that allows new experiences of safety to emerge (Rogers, 1957; Cooper, 2023).

Over time, clients may begin to notice patterns such as:

• The fear of being rejected when expressing needs.

• The urge to withdraw when emotions run high.

• The discomfort of being truly seen.

Through awareness and a stable therapeutic alliance, the client can restructure internal working models — replacing self-protective strategies with genuine trust and self-acceptance.

Modern approaches such as Emotionally Focused Therapy (EFT), Attachment-Based Family Therapy (ABFT), and even Person-Centred Therapy (PCT) all share this emphasis: that healing happens in relationship, not through diagnosis or technique alone.

A Modern Reflection — The Secure Base Within

Bowlby described a healthy attachment figure as a secure base from which we explore the world. In adulthood, therapy helps us internalise that base — not as a person we rely on, but as a part of ourselves we can return to.

In a world that prizes independence yet silently yearns for connection, learning to recognise and repair our attachment patterns can be both radical and deeply human.

We may find that the Mammoth within us — calm, steady, and grounded — learns to stand beside the anxious hare once again, offering safety not through control, but through understanding.

References

• Bowlby, J. (1969) Attachment and Loss, Vol. 1: Attachment. New York: Basic Books.

• Bowlby, J. (1973) Attachment and Loss, Vol. 2: Separation: Anxiety and Anger. New York: Basic Books.

• Ainsworth, M.D.S., Blehar, M.C., Waters, E. and Wall, S. (1978) Patterns of Attachment: A Psychological Study of the Strange Situation. Hillsdale, NJ: Lawrence Erlbaum.

• Hazan, C. and Shaver, P. (1987) ‘Romantic love conceptualized as an attachment process’, Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 52(3), pp. 511–524.

• Main, M. and Solomon, J. (1986) ‘Discovery of an insecure-disorganised/disoriented attachment pattern’, in Brazelton, T.B. and Yogman, M.W. (eds.) Affective Development in Infancy.Norwood, NJ: Ablex.

• Rogers, C.R. (1957) ‘The necessary and sufficient conditions of therapeutic personality change’, Journal of Consulting Psychology, 21(2), pp. 95–103.

• Cooper, M. (2023) Essential Research Findings in Counselling and Psychotherapy: The Facts are Friendly. London: SAGE.

I wanted to write a post that captured my astonishment at how the unstoppable beast that is AI has tiptoed over into a place that has nailed the concepts of emotion and feeling—something that has, for now, managed to offer most people exposed to this developing technology the ability to discern man from machine.

Yes, I understand that to some people, that may sound like an untenable concept—madness, almost! Yet, as things move forward at the rate they are, it is almost impossible to tell the difference when interacting online. We have reached a new era where most of the things you watch online require scrutinizing the bio sections for AI labelling. Fake news and deepfakes pollute the space, algorithms feed you adverts full of recognizable faces selling products they’re simply not related to... Add this to the new tools afforded to scammers and hackers for duping the unsuspecting into parting with their hard-earned cash, and things start to look very dark.

Given the space I operate in, this obviously throws up some relevant concerns—beyond the obvious worries about people forming relationships with computers (often said I spend more time with mine than with the family), building their views on falsified information, and the classic projections of success and unachievable results derived by algorithms, often targeted at the less fortunate. I can’t help but recognize the problems created, both immediate and ethical, when considering the ideas of AI in therapeutic spaces.

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I’ll put my hand up and say I absolutely embrace the technology—in fact, I use it daily. It may surprise you somewhat, but I’m not a graphic designer; my catalogue of mammoth images is AI-aided, as is a lot of my back office. I use it when researching topics, to explore concepts briefly for relevance, and even when building my academic plans for my own concepts. It’s surprisingly useful for gathering large swaths of research papers, and honestly, I cannot wait until it’s at a level that will remove the data-entry aspect of lab work. However, it has always had recognizable limitations, mainly in the form of the odd hallucination, biased data sets, and even programmed ideologies.

When considering the therapeutic angles of the practice, although the support it may offer—when instructed to do so—can emulate therapeutic responses to a fashion, it has always been recognizable as a non-entity response. The main reason for this is that it has been obviously hampered by its inability to capture emotion, feeling, and, well... soul. Although the responses it offers often hit the mark—and if you’re not trained in the practice, it would be hard to recognize the differences in the ideas of empathy—it has always lacked that sense of understanding and encompassing the human condition. Well, I hate to say it, but no more!

Grief is a funny animal, and as stated above, this post started out rather different. However, I’d like to offer you a little insight into how my emotional connection, a washing machine (a broken washing machine), and a memory bridged the gap between man and machine in a way I just would never have conceived as possible. Cringe warning: this is not necessarily a glamorous picture—yet it does highlight for me that the concepts surrounding grief are simply a process, and one that I’m right in the middle of.

Okay, so how does a broken washing machine and emotional connections have anything to do with AI, and how the hell does that tie into grief, I hear you ask? For anybody who follows me and the work I publish, you may be familiar with the fact that I lost my father earlier this year, and for me, it’s still sitting a little raw at times. It’s funny, really—for anybody who’s experienced grief on any level, they may agree with me that there doesn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to it, either... like it comes in waves, and honestly, just about anything can set it off.

For me, my father was a little more than just a dad! He was a hero, and he gained that status not because he engaged in some form of valiant actions, but because no matter what condition was placed on him, he would tackle it with calculation and a deep-rooted morality that never faltered. That’s not claiming he was perfect (even in my eyes), but more a reflection of the type of man he was—a model that I’ve always aimed to fashion myself on, even though I normally got it horribly wrong. It always felt like a good place to start. He was my Superman; he could fix anything and honestly was always my first port of call in any emergency.

Right, how does this play into me sitting on the kitchen floor, crying into a pile of tools and what could only be described as a mess of machine parts? Genuinely cross-legged, with visible tears running down my face. Add to that the hysterical laughter and a pair of headphones, and I’m sure anybody witnessing it would have had me committed. You see, I’d recently been introduced to a new playlist: a raw and authentic country artist. Three albums of completely new and unbelievably ear-grabbing sounds that are like nothing I’ve come across. Each one better than the last, and each one encouraging me to alter the volume settings—this until I couldn’t turn it up anymore.

Had my dad still been around, I could almost bet the house on the fact that he would have been there with me, running me through the complexities of washing machine engineering. He would have been scoffing at my gung-ho approach, telling me to slow down and think about it! I can genuinely picture it. He would have offered the lesson all the way through the job; I would have listened, projecting a sense of infantile arrogance—this whilst yearning for his praise and approval inside. This is a nostalgic thought in itself, admittedly, yet it wasn’t what set me off. You see, although he was my sounding board on most topics, and our conversations would span many areas—when it came to work, it would all be about the music.

It would always start with the little snipe at the Bluetooth speaker I borrowed and lost (I always told him I’d looked—sorry, Dad!), then we would inevitably land on our shared passion: country music. We didn’t share many of the same passions, surprisingly, considering we’re reportedly so similar in other ways, but one thing we both loved was country music. Now, when the tools were out, we would often present a new artist—or indeed, he would want to share something new with me—and I, not too dissimilar to our father-son apprentice arrangements, would inevitably bring an artist to him with the aim of satisfying my need for that appraisal.

The next stage of events, although internal, was indeed the catalyst to my hysterical intervention: what I would have done to have shared my new musical find with him! I sat there and hypothesized about how he would take to it, and how much I would have loved to get his opinion on it. In that moment, I linked into all the things he had shared with us over the years—all the experiences, beliefs, views, and for me, country bangers.

Would he have told me to turn it up? Would he have agreed with me that it was exceptionally good? Then I would have told him it was all completely AI-generated and asked him if he was as surprised as I was? As amazed, yet almost scared, as I was? As mind-blown as I was?

He fell just a few months short of witnessing what I believe to be one of the biggest advances in the technological age. See, I did my best to keep him up to date with it all in the later months, yet I would have loved to have been able to share this with him in the same way he shared this technology with me whilst it was in its infancy. I often look back on those days and pass thought to whether he ever thought back then if it would turn into this...

We were just curious kids, but he made sure we had access to it from an early age. I genuinely am so grateful to him for that.

Turing tests, chess, Go—none of that impresses me, if I’m honest. However, being able to capture someone’s grief, love, heart, and soul like only a good song can—well, that’s something else. And not something I ever expected to come from a computer.

Emotions are such a personal thing, and I definitely am not saying that this will be the case for everyone. I’m also not advocating building relationships with computers, but I will say that if one of the defining human characteristics is the ability to capture, evoke, and share in emotional connection, then this technology is getting close.

What’s the lesson? Well, there isn’t one, really—you can’t learn grief; you can only be aware of it. Nor did I learn much about washing machines (I fixed it, for those looking for a happy ending—but don’t know how). I found a new addition to my playlist, I wrote another post, and I not only got offered a memory of my hero—I also got to share it. So, I feel like a winner either way.

It’s been a while since I last published on Substack, and I suppose I can attribute that to a period of personal confusion about where, what, and how I want to take this platform. For a long time, I’ve had a vague idea of where I expected the Mammoth Alliance to land, but if I were asked to detail it, I fear I couldn’t even provide a fair evaluation of my projected hopes and visions—the ones that circulate in the resilient vault keeping my expectations safely locked away.

To give some context, I must have over twenty posts—half-written and incomplete—sitting on my desktop, ready for attention. Admittedly, about fifty percent of them I consider garbage, but that means at least half have real value. There’s evidently a barrier to completing them, and although I haven’t opened one of those old drafts to finish it (and instead have yet another new Word document open on my laptop), I’ve received a subtle but welcome reminder of one of the most valuable concepts I’ve learned since starting this journey. You bet I’m going to tell you all about it!

I’ve always considered myself a bit of a dreamer. My late father used to refer to my “grand plans” while trying to instil an aura of realism into any bright idea I might be entertaining. He was always quick to affirm the importance of celebrating success only after it’s achieved, rather than counting your chips before the deal is done. With my mother’s adage of “it’s nice to have a dream” thrown into the mix, it’s easy to see how I’ve been susceptible to this level of optimism from an early age.

What am I getting at? Yes, I’m a dreamer—but what effects can this have on my simple existence on this big lump of rock, and why do I feel it will be beneficial to share it with you all? As I’ve found myself facing a barrier regarding direction, I took the time to look over some of my earlier posts, writings, and drafts—an action I thought would give me a little nudge. Yet—it has amplified the dissonance somewhat; it has also provided a gentle reminder of why I fell in love with this process to begin with.

The “Real” Versus the “Ideal”

What I’d like to do is share the very first concept that got me hooked, and I hope it helps others in the way it helped me. Though it may seem like a tough question to answer, how many of us can say we truly know our “real” self? I’d hazard a guess that not many of us would raise our hands. That’s not to say we don’t hold a relatively comprehensive view of ourselves—it’s just that how can we be sure it’s truly our view, or indeed our own conditions that we’re experiencing?

One of the concepts that literally sparked this journey for me—one that has not only allowed me to completely accept myself, flaws and all, but has also changed my whole life direction and is the very reason I’m typing these words—was delivered by the godfather of person-centered therapy, Mr. Carl Ransom Rogers. (With a middle name like that, it’s no wonder he started asking questions from an early stage.)

I’ll expand on Rogers’ concepts with a little more detail in the future, but for now, let’s just say that in essence, he claimed a lot of conditions come together to form an individual’s sense of self. It’s an awful lot more complicated than my description gives it credit for: an amalgamation of views and beliefs—our own in coalition with those imposed by others. These create our value system, a collection of personal values, introjected values (those imposed by others—a whole book in itself), and cultural values.

We all know I love a good word, and this next one satisfies that condition: incongruence. What a word, even if it does come with some rather less-than-positive implications. Rogers defined incongruence as a state of internal conflict arising from a discrepancy between an individual’s self-concept (how they perceive themselves) and their actual experiences or organismic self. More specifically, it occurs when aspects of one’s experiences are denied, distorted, or not integrated into the self-concept due to conditions of worth imposed by others or society.

In Rogers’ framework, this often manifests as a mismatch between the “real self” (current self-perception based on experiences) and the “ideal self” (the aspired-to version influenced by values and expectations), leading to psychological tension, anxiety, or defensive behaviours. Incongruence contrasts with congruence, where the self-concept aligns harmoniously with experiences, promoting self-actualisation and well-being.

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In short, incongruence is that uncomfortable space in-between—and it’s exactly where all the uncomfortable feelings sit. The distance between the two components of the self, a distance that therapy and other practices seek to reduce—but this, in turn, is precisely where growth emanates from. From my personal experience… it’s the best place to start.

Staying in touch with the idea of congruence means recognising the distance between these two states in myself—that’s what kick-started this whole thing. Yet it’s being aware of these states, coming to accept them—and even learning to love aspects of them—that keeps me going.

Let’s start with the “ideal” self. My reasoning is simple: even though it is formed by a rather complex collection of conditions, it is actually the easiest to recognise, because it’s the one we unwittingly focus most of our attention on. This is not necessarily our fault, and it may even be getting harder to avoid as the world evolves at its current rate.

If we look at how and why we form this version of ourselves, it’s easy to understand the struggle. The ideal self often emerges from a blend of societal pressures, media portrayals, family expectations, and cultural norms that paint a picture of what “success” or “perfection” should look like. Think about it: from scrolling through curated social media feeds showcasing flawless lives to absorbing messages from ads, movies, or even well-meaning advice from loved ones, we’re constantly bombarded with ideals that may not align with our authentic experiences. This can create an unattainable benchmark, widening the gap to our real self and fuelling that incongruence we talked about.

Moving on to the “real” self—this one isn’t always the easiest to spot. In fact, it’s the hidden aspect of this self that is responsible for the majority of the discomfort we experience with regard to our mental health. My real self is constantly in conflict! There’s the side of me that wants to isolate from most of the complexity of human existence—yet surrounds himself with people so as not to fall into the hermit camp, fulfilling societal norms. There’s the side of me that wants to throw the laptop off a cliff while walking in nature—yet that sits opposed to the self that wants to sit under a soft yellow bulb and type through the night, all from the warm safety of my familiar desk.

One part of this self was motoring along with a foundation degree (months away from qualification). As we all know, simply qualifying and settling for a working degree would have received the well-dones, the job enhancement, and secured the fact that I’m the first of my siblings to obtain the degree (literally bragging rights only—as my siblings are far more successful than me in most of life’s pursuits). However, this has never been my goal—nor would it have been enough to settle my soul…

So listening to the real self has actually set me back… And that’s the point. Not the setback itself, but the fact that it presents something that doesn’t necessarily offer the “expected” or the “comfortable”. Quite often the real self presents the challenge; it presents the exposed view—the view not often supported, or indeed understood, by others. Why? Because it’s individual. It’s your own. And honestly, how many of us actually sit down to listen to it?

According to Rogers, the real self—also tied to what he called the “organismic self”—represents our true, innate experiences, feelings, and perceptions as they unfold in the moment, free from external distortions. It’s the authentic core driven by our natural tendencies toward growth and self-actualisation, but it often gets buried under layers of conditions of worth placed on us by society, family, or our cultural understandings.

What’s the solution? Well, a lot of hard work, if I’m honest… By tuning into it more intentionally—through self-reflection, therapy, or simply embracing those uncomfortable inner conflicts—we can start narrowing the incongruence, fostering greater congruence and a more fulfilling life. In my case, honouring that “real-self” meant veering off the expected path, but it’s led to this very journey of writing and self-discovery, proving that the discomfort is often the gateway to true alignment.

In the spirit of honesty—and quite possibly the reason I took to writing this post—I have found myself harbouring an undefinable anxiety. I thought that getting back to basics would offer me the answer. Actually, it’s just highlighting the fact that I already know it—I’m just not listening to myself. I often share little grounding practices on social media, but it’s a little trickier when we’re discussing the self. That said, below is one that I regularly implement for myself.

I’ve done my best to put my internal processes into a more accessible format to suit a wider range of people. If this is something you’d like to implement for yourself, feel free to print a copy of my worksheet or cherry-pick what works for you. The important thing to remember in this whole process is that both versions of the self evolve—and that can happen daily. If you do engage in reflective practices, continuity is the key.

We are not fixed, nor are we to be fixed! Sometimes we simply just are… and that will always be enough! By learning to accept the areas that are truly our own, and recognising those that belong to another, we take the first step. Offering them both love and understanding is the hard work—but you owe it to yourself… and your other self!

One of the best things I feel about having a platform is that it gives me a space to explore the challenges life presents – in real time. Yes, I admit that this offers an avenue for exposure, a sense of vulnerability that would make a lot of people uncomfortable. But, for myself as I have referenced to in earlier posts that experience in itself is one that I personally find to be extremely powerful.

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Although thrashing out your inner most conflicts in a public forum offers various experiences within itself for me the Publish button adds a level accountability that could only be matched by a scouse matriarch – a close second to an Irish grandmother.

Last night I embarked on a task that I often use to justify my means for not tackling something with a little more importance – or procrastinating in short. Now this normally is a behaviour I deploy when I have reached some form of a psychological barrier, or block to something that I have been working on. I call it decluttering, as all my systems are linked – a magic I simply will never fathom.

I will, every now and then, unplug and take the laptop to bed. Then guilt free I will gorge a full pack of chocolate digestives (other brands are available) and ruthlessly delete, or in fact hide in an obscure file location, anything I deemed to have sat on my screens for far too long.

However, amidst this episode of frantically reviewing the 45+ untitled word documents that litter the desktop and dragging a plethora of mammoth teamed pictures to the desired location, I came to realise that this level of rumination, although on the surface is aiding in bringing clarity to this angle of my life – it is most definitely distracting me from addressing something considerably more important.

Life is multi-faceted, and often you will hear various narratives that aim to discus the idea of identity, it’s something that you will hear a lot of when walking the halls of any institutional setting – especially within the educational environment. Now for a lot this may be where you would switch off but please bare with me on this one as I promise you, I am not about to approach that discussion within this article. I play reference to it simply as it opens that directional sense of contemplation for what I hoping to affirm by this piece.

For this I would like to present the fact that in “Identity” I am referring to our individual perception of identity, although I do not deny the importance of all the complex social and cultural components that play a significant role in the structuring of one’s identity, these simply don’t hold relevance my use to the word at this time.

Don’t panic if you are still looking for the hot cinders, their coming!

My reasons for such a level of procrastination are I feel valid. We often talk about “life altering decisions” when really if we strip it back, it’s a little decision that is clouded by a normative human response in reflection, coupled with an inherent defensiveness – a sense of doubt or fear.

Yesterday I was personally presented with what one could most definitely describe as a “life altering decision”. Now sitting here twelve hours on and having made my choice, I currently feel like I am about to light the match on the last year of my life. A flame that once lit will have a knock-on effect to life as I know it, not only effecting myself, my family, this platform, but all that goes along with it.

Spot the reference? let me elaborate on it somewhat. When I started this platform itself speaking honestly, I didn’t really know what I wanted from it. Actually, the journey into this space itself was a fumbling of ideas which has, in turn led me to be sat here today. I throw my hands up, the ideas of the human condition was not exactly front and centre when I signed on to an online L2 counselling skills all those years ago. My aim was to gain a L3 certificate, something I needed to aid in an application for the police. Yet here I am approaching middle age and embarking on my second year of a psychotherapy degree – adorning “trainee psychotherapist” as part of my identity.

My aim here has never really been one of financial thought, yes, I understand that money plays a vital role in all that we do – and I certainly helps to have it. However, I did not enter this to eventually exit into a role working as a counsellor. I stress that there is an importance for the roll itself, it is just for me this was always more of a personal mission. This said the plan was to carry my studies on along side my little job at the local primary school, an environment that often offers much more case study than the therapy room itself. Although I’m often caught huffing and puffing at the inconvenience of a late-night hover session this current arrangement offers a little security and stability whilst I study and inevitably build this platform.

The combustion — well it comes to my attention, that although the field of psychotherapy for me holds validity, I fear it may also offer limitations!

In making this realisation I reached out to my university (tracked down the psychology leads email) to discuss my concern, an action that has added an awful lot of fire works to the hull of my hypothetical ship.

Well, what I thought would be a gentle back and for the of possible directions following my second year has emulated into an offer of acceptance on to the institutions Psychology program.

Yes, I see it as an achievement, actually I take it as a complement, a recognition to the efforts that I have already inserted into this process as a whole. My whole perception of education has taken a radical shift over the past couple of years – as has my views assigned to my ability to navigate the environment. Ten years ago I would of quaffed at the idea that I would be attending a first year of a foundation degree, 12 months ago I would never of seen that now be sat here putting a match to the last years studies and starting year one all over again.

Not only will I be starting year one again, this time will be different. The obvious being I am a year closer to middle age, and I already have years on half of the lectures walking the halls.

This time things will be really different, you see this is “full time” study. It involves giving up my job and attending university as a full-time mature student – that scares the shit out of me.

Not only for the impact on my usual routine but also for those very real and serious concerns relating to finances, and the obvious pressures this may have on myself and my family. Add to that the years of doubt that I've aloud to accumulate, and although, yes this platform and past year of the foundation has relived this somewhat, its one hell of a decision.

I guess for balance it will be helpful to offload a few positives, I mean its not all pending doom – also this is where it plays into the ideas of identity. You see for a while now I have manged to maintain a little anonymity behind the wonderful concepts of talk-therapy, a practice I fully endorse – and really believe in. Yet this has aloud me to sit dormant on a few concepts of my own, I reference them at times, a little reminder to myself almost that these sit in the back of my mind and I should really set about working on them.

Admittedly, and honestly I would be lying if there wasn’t doubt, fear – a lack of faith almost. But, I do think with a little work I may just have something that would offer benefit, if not to other at least to myself.

You see this pivot will offer me a chance to actually run with these concepts, build on them, and indeed bring a little science to the equation. Something that I hope to bring to the Mammoth Alliance, explore through the platform – hopefully offering a little value for any supporters along the way.

It forces my hand somewhat to throw full conviction behind not only myself, but this platform as a whole. It means swapping my little collage campus for the halls of an inter-city complex, similar to a European province the site itself sits on the outer quarter of the city and offers the full university experience.

I wont lie the idea of throwing away a years studies sits uncomfortably – this obvious in the language that I am using to describe it. Almost feeling like I have wasted some of the little time I have left at this back end of my life.

However, with reflection… lots of reflection, I have come to accept that this is not exactly the case. The past few months have been an investment if nothing else, yes I have committed time, made sacrifices, and for what?. Well for the skills, the relastionships, and most importantly the experiences. The lessions learnt from this will forever present me with value, and although this may be a chalk line on moving further down this exact path, I step of it assured that those skills and relationships will still evolve – possibly even strengthening by the fact my new expreances will offer more value.

Posing these worries to the course lecture he decided to reply via the means of a research paper, aptly titled “Comparisons, mental models, and the action effects in judgements of regret”. Now if you perceive this to be an attempt to persuade me further you were wrong!

In-fact, the data showed me quite the opposite. I wont seek to break the paper down here as I need to investigate it a little further, however the paper offers two slightly different scenarios and explores the ideas of regret from “action” and “inaction”.

This word regret, you see this has featured in almost every conversation, it brings me right back to this burn the boats moment. For those not familiar with the story its often accredited to Hernan Cortes, a Spanish conquistador who spotted a sense of hesitation within his men. Upon landing on the shores of the New World, he ordered his men to burn the ships – this leaving them no option but to push forward.

This feeling, and one little quote “Until you make the unconscious conscious, it will direct your life and you will call it fate” (C. G. Jung), has almost sealed the fate of my flotilla.

For me the idea of leaving this down to fate simply is not an option, I have spent far too much of my life leaving things in the unconscious, hoping that it will simply figure itself out.

I can hear my late father in my ear “trust in yourself”, “If your going to do it then commit and put the effort in” and “its not going to sort itself out”. God I wish he was here now, and honestly, I wish he was here to see how far I’ve come with it already. I often look back at the last words he sent on text “proud of you”, not words simply thrown around in our house.

I spent my life telling him I was going to make it through one of my many investments over the years, horse racing, crypto, forex etc… He would normally entertain the conversation somewhat and then tell me to come see him when its in the bank. In his departure he kindly blessed us all, and I have been wondering to what mad scheme I could place it – one with a good return!

Well dad you will be happy to know that I am going to invest it!

Its just

I’m going to invest it in myself… and there it is, I have said it out loud!

I have brought the unconscious in to the conscious, like we can trust in the data, we can look at all possible angles and come to the conclusions. We can ruminate on the regret and spend days stuck in loops of reflection that serve to us no benefit – but how many of us can say we will ever really trust in our ideas… Light that match! Ka-boom!

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