01/18/2026
A good read from Dr Gabriel Barsawme LSW~
The house is never as loud as it is the moment after the door clicks shut.
I had just finished the morning ritual—dropping the kids at school, my wife at work—and returned to the silence. But as the car cooled in the driveway, a familiar guest arrived. Anxiety didn’t just knock; it pressed a cold palm against my chest.
I didn’t try to outrun it. I sat on my cushion on the floor, closed my eyes, and turned my attention toward the ache. I asked it a question I usually reserve for friends: “What do you need me to know?”
The answer came as a demand:
“I am exhausted,” the voice said, “but you cannot stop. You are not enough yet. You haven’t gone further because you aren’t smart enough, fast enough, or loud enough. Unless you produce, you are nothing. Unless you win, you will starve.”
I recognized that voice. It is the architect of my career and the warden of my joy. I realized, with a sudden, sickening clarity, how much of my life I have spent enmeshed in its grip.
I asked where it came from and who it was trying to protect.
The words stopped, replaced by a flickering memories. I saw a child realizing that love was a currency, not a gift. I saw the moments where praise was only offered as a reward for performance: the high grades, the “good” behavior, the quiet compliance. I learned early that to be seen was to be successful, and to fail was to be invisible.
This is the “taint” on my creativity. I spend my days preaching curiosity and gentle awareness, yet beneath the surface, I am often still that child, terrified that if I stop running, the world will stop loving me.
I know I am not alone in this. We live in a culture of “hustle sanctification,” where we are told that harshness is the only tool that works. We treat ourselves like beasts of burden, convinced that if we drop the whip, we will never move again. We ask ourselves: Who am I without my productivity?
The answer feels like a void. And the void is terrifying.
We often hear the advice: “Don’t condemn the dark; light a candle instead.”
I used to think that meant using the light to banish the shadows, to drive the “bad” parts of me into the corners until they disappeared. But I’ve come to realize that lighting a candle doesn’t make the darkness go away: it simply allows us to see what’s standing there.
If the work I love is done only to prove my worth, the work becomes a cage. If I write to be “enough,” the ink feels like lead.
The path forward isn’t a “solution” or a “fix.” It is a radical, quiet invitation. When I sit with that heavy sense of worthlessness, I don’t try to “fix” it anymore. I meet it with the curiosity I value so much. I invite the anxiety to sit down. I listen to its rationale.
By becoming a witness rather than a victim, the grip loosens. The “dark” parts: the split-off fragments of ourselves that carry our shame, anger, and grief, are not villains. They are simply the parts of us that have been left out in the cold for too long.
They don’t need to be conquered. They need to be brought inside.
The act of gazing at the darkest corners of your soul with love is the only thing that actually transforms the room. We don’t light the candle to scare the dark; we light it so we can finally see who we are sharing the room with, and realize we are finally safe.
