Melany Heger Author and Psychologist, Manila (2026)

24/02/2026

📚 Books and Being 📚
✨ Book reflections from a psychologist & author
📖 Saving Fish from Drowning by Amy Tan

I read this book for the first time when I was a teen, in my college’s library. I did not finish it because I was distracted by one thing or another. I read it again recently. Sadly, I have either given my copy away or it was one of the casualties of the Philippine floods.

Anyway, this book is narrated by Bibi Chen, who is actually dead. She tells the story of her friends who went without her to the edge of China and what was called Burma in the days of yore. I was entertained by this book, but more importantly, now that I have read it as an author myself, I gained several valuable insights.

I’ve been taking a deep dive into Jungian Cognitive Typology theory as part of my clinical approach. If you’re not sure about your MBTI type, go check it. It can help you understand yourself and why you sometimes struggle with how you work versus how the world works.

For a long time, I thought something was wrong with how I wrote. I kept trying to get into literary workshops, but I either got rejected or became so discouraged that I didn’t submit in the first place.

I do not naturally write from raw emotion, but it turns out this is literary workshop fodder.

When I write, I play more thought-centric than feeling-centric. The longer I practiced both psychotherapy and writing, the more I realized that this is my core.
When I understood what an INTJ (Introverted, Intuitive, Thinking, Judging) writer is, a lot of things became clearer.

INTJs lead with Introverted Intuition (Ni) and support it with Extraverted Thinking (Te). As a writer, that means I tend to:
• Write to make sense of things
• Look for patterns
• Create frameworks
• Clarify ambiguity

In contrast, many writers who thrive in workshops and literary institutions tend to cluster around Feeling-dominant types. If you are a feeling-dominant type, you’re usually a/an INFP, ISFP, ENFJ, or ESFJ. Here is a more detailed explanation:

INFP – Introverted, Intuitive, Feeling, Perceiving (The Dreamer)
INFPs write from their inner emotional truth. I married an INFP. He is not a writer, but I am a firsthand witness to how they value sincerity over structure. They get into literary workshops and perform well because their drafts are seen as vulnerable, authentic, and values-driven. INFPs are very okay with feedback, so they don’t mind being corrected for the service of the craft.

ISFP – Introverted, Sensing, Feeling, Perceiving (The Artist)
ISFPs are especially attuned to sensory experience. They are drawn to aesthetics like bees to honey. It’s no surprise people of this type are literally called “The Artist” because of their exquisite tastes. Your girl who just has an eye for beauty? That’s an ISFP right there.

ENFJ – Extraverted, Intuitive, Feeling, Judging (The Teacher)
ENFJs write with an audience in mind from the very beginning. I was surprised “The Teacher” popped up in my research, but actually, it makes sense. These are the journalist-academicians—remember the likes of Krip Yuson of the Philippine Inquirer? The Teacher takes up noble causes and virtues; naturally, they align with institutions that are supposed to champion their advocacies.

ESFJ – Extraverted, Sensing, Feeling, Judging (The Caregiver)
ESFJs write as the social justice warriors that they are. Their stories come from lived social reality. They have an ear out for injustice, and they will fight with valor for it. Practitioners of the ethics of care in literary spaces, they write about community, humanity, and peace. Their literary pieces usually get awards because of their relevance to world events.

Writers in these feeling-dominant MBTI molds love first drafts, authenticity, social justice, and love to say, “Show, don’t tell,” as well as “Make me feel it.” The energy comes from showing the writer’s vulnerabilities in a manner that connects with the audience and stokes their feelings.

But if you’re a Thinking-dominant type like me—eek—you sort of crumble just trying to write the thing in a feely way.

Kung baga sa kotse, and primero ko ay Thinking. Feeling yung sa other writers.
I write from a point of vulnerability too, but by the time it hits the page, it has already been processed by my brain. The act of thinking buffers the pain, makes sense of it so it stings less. It’s my unique way to survive it. It’s a way to make sense of experience so it doesn’t overwhelm me or the reader.

If you are a thinker-oriented MBTI type writer like [help here to name other MBTI thinking writer types aside from INTJ]… your natural impulse is different.
If you are a thinker-oriented MBTI writer like me, your natural impulse is different. Aside from INTJs, thinking-type writers often include individuals classified as: INTP, ENTJ, ESTJ, and ISTJ.

These types don’t write primarily to express emotion. They write to create order, explain, and make things clear.

To illustrate: INTPs are called “The Logicians.” ENTJs are “The Strategists.” ISTJs are “The Historians.” With alt names like these, di ka magtataka why they’re not the darlings of literature.

A story, for me, is a means to an end. It’s like the car that will take you to the ultimate destination.

In Amy Tan’s Saving Fish from Drowning, the twelve adventurers get a misadventure instead of their ideal trip. The inherent message is that people are complicated, and when they go on trips, they discover disowned parts of themselves. Amy Tan takes you on a ride; the details of the tale take you to the lesson. But a thinking-type writer like me sees the story itself as décor.

Hence, thinker-writers tend to gravitate toward nonfiction, essays, criticism, psychology, philosophy, or hybrid forms. I am in form when I write academic essays and research papers, like I was born to do it (well, maybe I am!).

Carl Jung once said, “It is a privilege of a lifetime to become who you truly are.”

And so, I can embrace my thinking-type writer self instead of resisting it. I can accept that my cognitive style is in sync with my writing style. Hopefully, with this acceptance, I become calmer and stop swimming upstream. Instead, I can relax and go with the flow—my writing and creative flow.

So if you’ve ever felt like:
• You’re too analytical for creative writing
• You think in philosophies and theories, not just feelings
• You want meaning, not just mood or vibes
• And your writing centers on these things instead of the story itself, then

Then you might not be a bad writer—just as I am not a bad writer.

You might simply be a Thinker, not a Feeler, in Jungian Cognitive Typology (often referred to as MBTI).

Know thyself. Accept who you are.

Because it really is a privilege of a lifetime—to make art as the precious being you were born as.

21/02/2026

In my quest to find out what writer I want to be, moving forward with 2026, the year of the Fire Horse, I learned a lot about the way I think.
In this essay, I want to share with you how understanding the way you think can lead to self-acceptance and peace. Yeah, that means letting go of your self-assumptions.

I discovered that the way I think, when analyzed through Jungian cognitive typology, explains a great deal about where I am holistically, not just as a writer. This understanding also gave me some clues as to where I will be heading. Maybe my insights can help you realize something too.

It began with Jungian dreams. Perimenopause means my estrogen levels are all over the place, so perhaps that explains their recent occurrence. No matter—the dreams have been revealing.

One of them involved following a woman in a white lab coat named Lyra (the constellation where Vega, the North Star, resides). She led me along an unfamiliar path, skirting the edge of a place that felt known yet strange. I was lost there, grasping at whatever might dispel the dark, until I noticed an opening. A shaft of sunlight revealed a door that looked like a giant window. When I entered it, I was transformed.

The message that was transmitted was simple: do not resist. Almost immediately, wu wei (无為) came to mind—the Chinese philosophy that necessitates an attitude of surrender and receptivity. As in go with the flow. Don’t over-plan.
Wu wei reminded me of a quote from The Guardian, a UK newspaper I read while ago:

“Stop planning your career to the exact detail… The modern career is all about adaptability, information and making connections.”
Oh, Melany! Brilliant! Maybe the answer is to not have a plan.

As an INTJ (Introverted, Intuitive, Thinking, Judging, in the Myers-Briggs typology), I am big on plans. Plans helped me survive CPTSD, plans help run a household with two teens. But perhaps the plan I need to implement with my writing career is to let go and let be?

To understand this tension better, I did what I always do: I researched. I went back and forth between ChatGPT and my own Googling, consulted a published hard-copy book on the MBTI, and cross-checked everything. That process turned out to be the real gold. It didn’t hand me a career roadmap, but it answered a more essential question: how I am wired to create. (I won’t paste everything I learned here—you can look it up if you’re curious)

The vibe of the upcoming Fire Horse year is dramatic change. Imagine a wild horse galloping with furious momentum—eyes bright, charging toward its object of desire. The Fire Horse year is notorious. Known as the 丙午 year, it was once so feared that couples in ancient times avoided conceiving children during it. A Fire Horse Lady was believed to be too free-spirited, too unruly—ultimately unmarriageable.

But I like the sound of that runaway horse energy. I have been waiting too long for this kind of wild ride. Fiery Horse Power take me away! However, this year, I will not seek adventure on purpose. I will stay true to my path and allow the change-maker—person, event, or insight—to find me. May I recognize Lyra when she arrives.

The dream I described had Vega in it—If I stay true to my North Star, does that mean I will be more open to the powers of fate? Why not give this approach a try?

The biggest reason why I feel lost as a writer is my writing style.

I’m so happy I found Jungian cognitive typology, because it helped me explain why the way I write clashes with the “show, don’t tell” and “make me feel it” crowd. Artistically speaking, I am closer to a hammer than a chisel. Literary critiques often say my essays “explain too much” or that I do not “let the image breathe.”
I write to explain. To discuss. At worst, I sound like a preacher-teacher or an instruction manual. At best, like a copywriter convincing you to buy something—usually an idea.

But is that really so terrible?

I recently read about an artist, Tehching Hsieh, who labored for thirteen years before presenting his work publicly. He is now in his sixties. Imagine thinking that long-term. Imagine having the discipline not to chase visibility, immediate recognition, or followers. Imagine fidelity to your own psychological truth. Imagine that kind of patience.

Much literary critique assumes that feeling is the primary carrier of truth—that emotion is the highest proof of meaning.

I argue otherwise.

I believe coherence is a carrier of truth. Understanding is not inferior to feeling; it is simply a different mode of knowing. I write in order to figure things out, and then I try to connect what I’ve understood to my readers’ lives. When I arrive at an epiphany, it comes through my thinking mind, not through my five senses.

Pagod na ako sa drama. Ayoko nang magpanggap. I am losing interest in apologizing for this orientation or diluting it to fit someone else’s aesthetic. Perhaps I am just getting old.

If, like Tehching Hsieh, I remain unrecognized for quite some time, so be it.
Do you, like me, experience emotional catharsis only after you have processed the mess in your head? If so, we have something in common. Let’s meet and have a chat, because it can get lonely as a writer with this orientation.

Taking inspiration from the Fire Horse energy this coming Chinese New Year of 2026, I will not resist myself too much anymore. You shouldn’t either. Let’s prance unbridled into our passions and our true selves. Let’s see what happens—what an adventure to look forward to.

With more confidence than I have had before, I want to say this is who I am as a writer in 2026. This is where I am going. Whatever comes next, my cupped palms are open to catch the gifts.

Blog link: https://melanyheger.com/fire-horse-year-2026-writing-life/

19/02/2026

📚 Books and Being 📚
✨ Book reflections from a psychologist & author
📖 My Name is Anna by Lizzy Barber 🌟

This is a mindless, but joyful read. The story revolves around Anna, called Emily, before she was abducted at age three by Mary. Mary is a kinda complex character, referred to mostly as “Mamma” in this book. She is depicted as OCD and religiously zealous throughout. Because of the book’s large text, it was easy on my eyes. Thank goodness, as I have been having two classes per week for my PhD.

Anyway, Mamma kidnaps Anna-Emily because her first daughter was killed by a cult leader. This cult leader exploited her when she was a young eighteen-year-old and brainwashed her into submission, until her real daughter died in his hands. After that, Mamma fled, randomly drove past an amusement park, and snatched a child who resembled her dead daughter.

If I were handling the cases of Mamma and Anna-Emily, I would have my work cut out for me. At the end of the story, Anna-Emily meets her real family. She calls herself not by her real name, Emily, but by Anna—because that is all she has known her whole life. She is rescued at eighteen, already an adult, so Mamma and her religious upbringing are an indelible part of her identity. 💬

Who would have been the more challenging case? I’d hazard a guess—it’s Mamma. That one is CPTSD through and through. And then there is work to be done with the family who lost Anna-Emily and found her again. The other narrator in the book is Rosie, Anna-Emily’s biological sister. From her end, you can see the toll of all those years of being hounded by the press and the notoriety a child kidnapping case entails. 📝

Oh well. On to the next book.

Note: About the oat milk in the pic—I don’t really like non-dairy milk except soy milk, but I’ll make an exception for this one. Malasa yung pagka-kape niya. Recommended. 💖👉

17/02/2026

In my mind’s eye, a vision of the seventeen-year-old me arrived. Teenage Melany, dressed in goth garb, is seated at the back of the car, along with my seventeen-year-old son and my thirteen-year-old daughter. In this vision, I am driving, even if IRL, I do not know how to drive.

In this vision, she perfectly belonged with the rest of the kids under my care. For this is what the current essay is about how to take good care of your inner teen. I have neglected her for so long, saw her as a nuisance. But her time has come.
How about you? Where is your inner adventurous, unsophisticated teen? Do you let her flourish?

Methinks this vision came along as a deep unconscious reaction to my son turning seventeen a few weeks ago. Seventeen was the age I entered college, broke my mind open with Big Ideas like feminism and egalitarian values. Seeing my son blow out his birthday candles reminded me, a bit painfully, of the past I could have had if I had the parents I am now, as the present-day me, with my spouse. We would have encouraged Teenage Melany to go pursue her passion—just finish a college degree, whatever it is you wish, susuportahan kita anak, then do what you will with it as an adult.

Seventeen-year-old Melany wants to be a writer; she does not yet know what that fully means. If she were transported to the present time, she would be agog at all the writing opportunities a world (seemingly) without boundaries has to offer. She would be astounded by the number of creative writing opportunities available.

Teenage Melany is into poetry, so she would be fangirling Lang Leav, following the famous poet on Instagram. Maybe Teenage Melany would be drawn into the world of social media, share her content there too—creating videos and short-form content, becoming a rockstar in her own right.

At this point in my vision, I would also see Adult Melany, in the driver’s seat, turn around and talk to Teenage Melany. She would say to Teenage Melany, “Oh, poor girl. Recognize that our father, because of his crazy sh*t—he is narcissistic and bipolar—made us not so normal. The emotional torture made us feel like we had to justify our existence every day. And being born a girl in that misogynistic Chinoy environment (circa ’80s–’90s), where being a firstborn daughter is a crime, we slid into the easy arms of anorexia nervosa. Some emotionally damaged teens hurt themselves by cutting. Melany, you did it by extreme dieting. But you are already past that. I see that your weight is okay and you are okay. I just want you to heal more. And so, to do that, let’s explore what you like. So—what do you like?”

Teenage Melany would have probably rolled her eyes and pretended to ignore me, like all teens do. But I know that she listened. Acknowledging her pain is key, I think, to motivating her.

Teenage Melany, transported from the nascent technology of the aughts, would have been overjoyed to be given an opportunity to blog. Her jaw would drop if you told her that a person could take thousands of photos in one hour. She would surely think of ways to use those photos in service of her writing. Pexels! Unsplash! Pixabay! “Oh wow! You mean I don’t need to post pictures of my face?” she would say. Because Teenage Melany, same as Adult Melany, hates having her likeness taken just for exposure’s sake.

In addition, Teenage Melany would revel in opportunities for writing fellowships, writing contests, and online publications. I would urge her to keep submitting her pieces—not to please anyone, but to learn. To learn what kind of writer she wants to become. To test her theories about her creative writing in the real world.

Because reality is like a rock, and her intellect is a hammer. She has to chisel her art with effort. And like all art, sometimes the rock is unyielding, or the tool is not the right one. The artist can become dispirited and give up. In those moments, I would keep cheering Teenage Melany on. Because I am her mother, and that is what mothers do. I’ll keep on saying, “Melany, I believe in you!”

At this point in my vision, Adult Melany finishes the drive and drops Teenage Melany off at campus. Here, the vision merges with reality. In 2026, the merged Melanies enter a school where she is training for her doctorate in counseling. The integrated Melany is still sometimes taken aback, still asking: how did I end up here?

I tell my teenage self, reassuringly, “I did not betray you.” Because I didn’t. I evolved. I did the best I could after the opportunity to study literature was taken away from me as a teenager.

I continue speaking to her: “After I was forced into a degree in business, with psychology and human resources thrown into the mix, my life trajectory changed. And then—boom—before I knew it, I was in my forties, trying out being a writer for the first time. Overwhelmed. Outpaced. Wanting the slow tech of the ’90s and early 2000s while living in the 2020s.”

“I also learned that the way I write is not what the Literary Gods of the Philippines desire. Not artistic enough, in their sense. Not cinematic enough. ‘Describe the scene, make me feel it!’ they kept saying”. Hay nako. Ayoko ng ganyan, ang drama. We’ve had enough drama in our lives to last a lifetime. We’d rather be sober.
As we pass the guards with the ID checks and enter the classroom to meet the professor, I continue speaking—to her, and now to myself.

“Forget your disappointment about videos and photos. Your body dysmorphia, born from the eating disorder, guaranteed the queasiness you feel about images of your body and face in public. You can make peace with that. The (forced sorta) photos of yourself in your page, treat them as documentation! Think journalism, candid photos! I am not holding it against you that you almost never use a filter, and you do not put on makeup.”

Because Teenage Melany and Adult Melany love reassurances, I reiterate: “I did not betray you. I grew. I stopped wanting other people’s approval to exist—as a writer, as a mom, as a psychologist, as a woman. Nobody will think better of me than I do.”
Then—me, in my body, carrying both Adult Melany and Teenage Melany—we take notes in class. We finish the lecture. We book an Angkas ride home.

We go home to ourselves.

Full blog here: https://melanyheger.com/healing-integrating-inner-teen/

13/02/2026

Alaska, Alaska, Alaska. Forty percent of this novel, I think, describes sceneries and activities that happen in Alaska. The title The Great Alone is a phrase practically pegged to Alaska. I should have been warned. But okay naman. The storytelling that I seek in the middle of the night, with an addled brain, was there. I did get lulled to sleep, so target reached, well and good. It was not a mindless read—maraming drama—but I liked it enough to tolerate Alaska, Alaska, Alaska, and more Alaska ❄️.

The story is about Leni, her abusive, PTSD war veteran dad, and her mom Cora, a domestic abuse victim. It was also about the forgiveness of Cora’s parents toward their runaway daughter, who married and got pregnant early back in the flower-power heydays. I could only see this perspective now because I am a parent of teens. 💬

Yesterday, after grad school class, we were talking about problematic parents, and there were a few reveals from my teenagers about my parenting style. I was surprised that they have some fear of me, as I am the Law of the House—the so-called Bad Cop. But after the conversation ended and the fact sank in, I realized I do not want to apologize for being the firm parent. I am the authoritative parent I did not have, because I had a draconic one (dad) and a leave-her-be one (mom). I believe that with my spouse, who is the Good Cop, we are striking the right balance. 📝

The amount of good and damage parents can do to their kids 😌. But I heard the feedback straight from my “customers.” The kids might be a little bit scared of me, but it works. Somebody’s got to do it, and I am not afraid to sully my reputation for it. Sometimes you hate the person administering the medicine, but you need her. It is a role to play, but deep inside, I radiate love—just like all parents do, mom or dad. 💖👉.

11/02/2026

Below my left thumb, there is a minor burn mark. I got it while preparing cheese toast for my soon-to-be teenager; she’s turning thirteen in a few weeks. This essay is about friction in mother–daughter relationships during these tumultuous years. I’m in perimenopause and she’s in menarche—what a roller-coaster hormonal ride! This piece is also about feeling safe in your own family to exert boundaries. You see, I am still learning to get the balance right. Maybe you are learning just like me. If so, I hope what I’m sharing now can be helpful.

I was reminded of that burn mark yesterday when I went shopping with my family. With my cases piling up, it’s rare that I join my husband and kids—my aforementioned soon-to-be teenage daughter and my other child, a boy who is almost seventeen. I am not fond of malls. Sometimes I feel I ruin the fun. I am what you might call the strict, tough mom, the one who brings down the law when it comes to pagtitipid (saving money). No wonder, I’m the Intentional Shopper, a reformed grocery hoarder, but that’s—but that is another essay.

Between the two of us, my husband is the softer, more emotionally attuned parent. By softer, I mean He is the one the kids gravitate toward for comfort. Snuggling with me, Iron Lady that I am, isn’t particularly appealing to my children. I suppose part of why I’m writing this is also the need to making peace with that. (Yep. Dad’s more adorable than mom.)

While we were at the mall, my daughter asked if she could buy a birthday gift for her best friend. I set a limit: one gift, under three hundred pesos. I had reasons. First, I noticed she has begun equating love and value with material things—If I give X a gift, that means I value them. Second, this was the second time she had asked us to spend money on gifts for friends. I don’t like either tendency. Quite materialistic, don’t you think? But also very common place. However, I like nipping bad blooms in the bud.

In my book, as long as you are not earning your own money, you should not spend your provider’s money willy-nilly. You do not know the worth of money until you start working for it with sweat from your brow. What can I say—I am Chinoy this way. We’ve been breathing basic economics since birth. It’s something I feel responsible for passing on, especially since my Filipino spouse is far less inclined to do the financial education bit.

I guess the main issue here is that of entitlement. I would like to raise children that don’t end up like those influencers who think their parents own them the world. Because I am a Jungian psychotherapist, I noticed my thinking patterns. Jung posits that when something grips us strongly, there is always something in it for us to learn. So why would I pinpoint this issue about entitlement? What is this touching in me?

The answer, I guessed, would be uncomfortable. The keyword is entitlement, and behind that word: neediness. My neediness.

Previously I’ve written essays about learning to depend, at least partially, on my husband—financially and emotionally. (Medjo tanggap ko na. Pero minsan di pa din. It oscillates.)

While I am still making peace with this, I’m also trying to guide my daughter with the same issue. Teaching her to standing on her own does not negate the fact that I, too, am dependent, am needy. If I can’t make peace with how I ask for things and how much, what right do I have to model it, teach it?

I, too, feel somewhat entitled to be provided for by my husband. This is not a farce, and it is not hypocrisy, because I have sacrificed for this entitlement and I am still paying for it now.

There are levels to this. With my child, we are at the starting point of financial literacy. Whereas, I’ve already accrued years of experience. She still has a long way to go, and if I do not teach her, me the frugal Chinoy mother, I doubt my spendthrift side of the family will.

Sincerely, I don’t regret telling her no, giving her limits. I believe it will inoculate her against being overly lavish with friends later in life. Overall, the lesson I hoped to impart is not just about the value of money, but about how she values herself. To express healthy boundaries so she is not ripe for financial abuse later in life.
It will teach her the value of money, and by extension, her own value. Earning it, spending it, and being comfortable when others spend it on her.

The night after the outing, she was pouty, ate dinner, and went to bed unsmiling. It’s taken me some trial and error, but I know that when she gets this way, I should not force a dialogue. Maybe it is her introverted brain needing to decompress. Whatever it is, the antidote is usually a good night’s sleep.

The following morning, over breakfast and a cold mug of iced cocoa, I asked her how she felt about what happened at the mall. I told her I appreciated her desire to show her friends love and care. Because she is familiar with the concept, I brought up love languages. We discussed how people express affection differently, and in doing so, I asked about her love language and her friends’ love languages.

I told her that growing up, I didn’t feel safe opening dialogue with my parents because I was often shut down. That is not what I want for us. I asked her to speak candidly. She told me that what would have landed better was: “Three hundred is my limit, and please choose one meaningful gift.” She said she remembered me saying “below three hundred,” but not “one gift.” I realized I had assumed I said what I meant. Nope, apparently, I did not!

We also agreed it wasn’t good to have a full parental discussion in the mall. Some conversations are better held at home, not in the heat of the moment. I thanked her for encouraging me to do this, as this was a nasty habit I have now corrected thanks to her and her father. (Both are picky about discussions held in public places—good point.)

Overall, what struck me with this holiday shopping experience was how hard it was for me to tolerate signs of emotional upset from the ones I love (e.g. a frown, a careless phrase, etc.). I am particularly sensitive to emotional displays. I guess this is my CPTSD (Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) showing: an old wound still hurting like a phantom limb.

Growing up with a father whose mental health issues made me feel responsible for managing other people’s emotions conditioned me this way.

Because of this old wound, a part of me wanted to fix it—to give in and buy the damn gift. But I refuse the old conditioning. I stick with the conviction that no, maybe her face is not my problem to fix. It’s my trauma response that I need to tend to.

I got emotionally dysregulated by that look, and this is not my daughter’s business. I must be responsible (and kind enough to myself) to emotionally regulate. In short, fix my own face.

The breakfast conversation resulted in us agreeing on another gift she needed for a class event. We agreed on using things we already had lying around: small but meaningful things that helped us stay within the budget. I felt my point was communicated clearly and that I have done my duty as a mom. More importantly, I know she felt recognized.

A week later, with the burn mark properly formed, I was still unsettled. So I did what I always do when confused. I researched.

Texts on entitlement by Ivan Boszormenyi-Nagy, founder of Contextual Family Therapy, describe three forms of entitlement: excessive, normal, and restricted. As a clinician, I know people don’t fall neatly into types. Most people move along a spectrum across a lifetime.

If I were to place myself on that spectrum, I would veer toward restricted entitlement. My father, of course, embodied excessive narcissistic entitlement. Grandiose, volatile, boundary-invading entitlement. The loud, abusive declarations of “I deserve this”—those end with me.

But I also see now that “I don’t deserve anything” is not the answer either. “I don’t deserve anything” is an opposite reaction to my father’s motto.

My teenage daughter is actively building social bonds with other girls. This is an area of life I did not develop well myself. I am not there yet, but I am willing to meet her where she is.

I am still uncomfortable with nanglilibre culture. I still don’t fully understand the unspoken rules. But I believe I’ve raised a girl with healthy self-confidence. This quality goes a long way in establishing healthy boundaries, including healthy financial boundaries.

What disturbed me about my daughter’s moment at the mall was not her behavior alone, but how clearly it mirrored my own imbalance. Because the real work with entitlement is balance. Perhaps by witnessing and responding to my daughter as she learns, I will learn too.

In the years to come, my daughter will keep offering sad or ambiguous faces. My trauma response may still immediately throw me off, but I can get back to my senses with practice.

The thing with friction in relationships is that it burns. This first-degree burn I got from making her cheese toast is a small price to pay—it’s worth the privilege of learning from my kid.

If I am to stop an intergenerational problem with boundaries expressed through money, I will need to get comfortable with the heat. She will also feel the heat from me, and I might hurt her inadvertently too. But unlike my father, I will not scar her for life.

💭🔥

Melany Heger Author and Psychologist

24/02/2026

21/02/2026

19/02/2026

17/02/2026

13/02/2026

11/02/2026

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