A More Human Life: Why I’m Choosing a Slower Conversation
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A Thursday Morning in May
On a Thursday morning in May, I had a small breakdown.
7:35am.
Still in my pajamas.
Slurping down cold brew that had hastily spilled down my front.
Hunched at my desk.
Hyper-focus on my laptop screen.
Eyes glazed.
Tunnel vision.
Looking as though I hadn’t slept the night before.
But actually, I had just awakened in a slight panic, because I had remembered:
Thursdays.
LinkedIn.
9-11am.
According to "the data," it was the ideal posting window for maximum reach and search-engine optimization.
An hour later, I had made the post.
I slumped in my chair.
And I thought: what the hell am I doing?
I had willingly–without outside provocation–scrambled my way through a completely gorgeous Thursday morning, in order to satisfy a mostly made-up, human-constructed machine for clicks in the name of “marketing.”
For what?
And at what cost?
What in the actual world are we doing to ourselves?
(I must note: this entire situation would sound completely absurd and confounding to our great-grandparents.)
When Marketing Stopped Feeling Human
Back in January of this year, when I decided to more actively market my private practice online, I learned about how to maximize search-engine optimization (SEO). This matters because, if someone Googles: “trauma therapist near me,” I want my business to show up on the first page.
I want to help people.
And in order to help people, I need them to be able to find me.
So I’ve learned a lot lately about:
Search engine rankings
Short and long-tail keywords
Metadescriptions
Keyword density ratios
Backlinks
Alt image text
Internal and external linking
Slugs
Hashtags
Keywords being searched in my area code
And how to target specific zip codes where I want to find specific clients
All of this education was interesting for, like, a minute; but honestly,
it became pretty arduous, pretty quickly.
This isn’t how I’m wired.
This back-end website work isn’t enjoyable for me.
And thank goodness for the people who build careers on these valuable marketing skills and find fulfillment as content creators.
The last 6 months have taught me, I am not those people.
It’s not how I want to spend my time.
But it felt like this was the only way. Fellow entrepreneurs were telling me that social media marketing was the “necessary evil” but the only reliable path. So for the past 6 months, I’ve kind of held my breath, clenched my jaw, muscled my way through a posting cycle, and then immediately deleted Instagram for a month…until next time.
But something felt off.
Deeply incongruent.
And I’m slowly beginning to sort out why.
The Cost of Constant Attention
Modern marketing seems to whisper the same message: You should be doing more.
More posts.
More platforms.
More consistency.
More visibility.
More optimization.
More.
But in Johann Hari's book–Stolen Focus: Why You Can’t Pay Attention and How to Think Deeply Again (2022)--he argues that more has a cost. Our brains weren’t built for this level of pace and constant input. Our struggles with attention aren't simply a matter of weak willpower. They're shaped by larger cultural and technological forces that reward speed, interruption, novelty, and constant stimulation. He points to research showing that our attention is increasingly fragmented, making it more difficult to sustain deep thought, read long-form writing, or simply remain with one thing for very long.
I mean, are you kind of struggling to focus reading this essay?
Are you reading it at all?
(The back-end data suggests that only about 5% of clicks I gather on social media ever make it to the actual blog page on my website. And I’m guessing fewer folks read or listen all the way to the end. Bonus points if you made it this far! In fact, if you did: text, email, or comment “holiday armadillo” and I’ll mail you a candy bar. Seriously.)
One statistic from Hari’s book particularly stayed with me:
surveys suggest that nearly half of American adults report not reading a single book in a given year.
Whether or not books themselves are the point, the trend raises a larger question.
What happens to us when we lose the capacity to sit with long-form, complex ideas?
What happens when ninety-second clips are the standard and thoughtful essays become obsolete? “
TL;DR” as the hashtags say: “too long, didn’t read.”
We bristle at the effort.
It’s like we only want information if it’s hyper-fast.
Reading books doesn’t make someone morally superior.
But that survey stopped me in my tracks, because I recognize it in myself and in my clients.
Healing Requires Our Attention
Healing itself asks for our sustained attention.
It asks us to stay.
To linger.
To remain with a difficult feeling a little longer.
To be patient.
To notice patterns instead of immediately reacting.
To tolerate ambiguity.
To listen beneath the first thought, emotion, body sensation.
These are forms of attention.
And attention–I'm beginning to believe–is one of the most precious things we have.
It’s so vital in the therapy room to be able to tolerate the slow work of healing
instead of pivoting to instant gratification(which largely doesn’t exist in mental health work).
Therapy Is More Than Information
As a trauma therapist, I think about this a lot.
I spend hours of my week sitting with people whose nervous systems have been carrying too much for too long.
Burnout.
Anxiety.
Perfectionism.
Over-functioning.
The quiet exhaustion that comes from trying to keep up with expectations that no human nervous system was designed to sustain.
Increasingly, I've realized that the systems my clients are trying to recover from are often the same systems I use to maintain my marketing.
It began to feel disingenuous.
How could I encourage people to slow down while constantly trying to outpace an algorithm?
How could I invite people to reconnect with themselves while measuring my own work by engagement metrics and made-up posting schedules?
The contradiction became impossible to ignore.
I also believe that if healing simply involved fixing a “knowledge-deficit,” therapists would already be obsolete because anyone can Google: how to feel less anxious. (I’ll save “AI-therapy” for another essay…)
One of the extraordinary things about this moment in history is that we have access to more knowledge than any generation before us. We can Google questions about mental health, we can listen to podcasts featuring the latest research, watch TED Talks from psychologists, and learn from brilliant people all over the world.
I'm grateful for that.
But therapy has never been only about information.
Therapy is–first and foremost–a relationship.
It's another human nervous system sitting with yours.
It's someone noticing your face fall before you find words for your sadness.
It's someone remembering what you said six months ago and gently asking whether it's still true.
Therapeutic healing is about being witnessed by another human.
Why I Write
This is why I write.
We heal in community. We make meaning through connection: in therapy, around campfires, in religious communities, through shared meals, and–yes, even conversations online.
I once heard the memoirist, Glennon Doyle, describe writing as akin to shooting a flare into the night sky. A way of saying, “This is what it’s like for me.” So that someone else might see it and realize they are not alone.
Every now and then–with the gift of a small private practice caseload–I notice something that all of my clients seem to be saying.
Themes. Patterns. Lessons. Hurts. Meaning.
And I want to send up a flare.
I want to pass it on.
I want to add to the canon of knowledge that we are gaining about what it’s like to be a human being right now.
And maybe you'll see it.
Maybe you'll recognize something in yourself.
Maybe it will help you in your own journey.
Maybe it will help you feel a little less alone.
So I’m inclined to write. But the sharing and posting schedules and maximization of search engine optimization is no good for me.
I don’t think that “technology” is the problem.
For me, the problem is the pace.
My nervous system doesn’t like it.
So, I am finding another way.
Another Way
Don’t misunderstand me. This isn’t an “I’m-leaving-social-media” essay.
I use social media.
I value how Instagram connects me to larger conversations happening in the world.
I use ChatGPT.
I watch Netflix.
But recently, I’m more acutely asking myself what kind of relationship I want to have with technology
(both personally and professionally).
I’m slowly figuring out how to reach people online and stay human.
So I'm making a small change.
On the front-end, you'll probably see fewer social media posts in all of the places.
On the back-end, I'll be practicing what I so often encourage my clients to do: respecting my nervous system, honoring my limits, and building a life that's actually congruent with my values.
Instead of trying to keep up with every platform, I'm going to write one thoughtful letter on my website each month about recent observations related to my clinical practice.
Some will be about trauma.
Some about burnout.
Some about grief.
Some about attention.
Some about books.
Some about meaningful work.
Some about the strange experience of being human in a rapidly changing technological world.
All of them will be attempts to send another flare into the night sky.
How I Want to Spend My Finite Life
The older I get, the more aware I become that every one of us is here for such a short time.
I don't want to spend that time optimizing myself for machines or chasing algorithms.
I want to spend it paying attention to people.
Listening deeply.
Sitting with people in their unique and vulnerable experience.
Watching the light change through my window.
Asking better questions.
Helping people heal.
Conversing with people about ideas.
Writing some occasional essays.
And trusting that the right people and clients will find me.
That's how I want to spend my finite life.
Thank you for spending a few minutes of yours with me today.
Sign Up For a Slower Conversation
Where we spend our attention is where we spend our lives.
So if this essay resonated with you, and you’d like more opportunities to get meaningful content outside of a social media platform, I'd love to continue the conversation.
I've started a monthly letter called A More Human Life where I'll share one thoughtful essay each month about healing, connection, and living a more human life. I’d be honored to have you join me by following this link and entering your email address, so you can receive future letters.
Onward.
I am a trauma and EMDR therapist in Colorado who works with high-achieving, over-functioning women navigating burnout, overwhelm, trauma, and chronic self-pressure. If any of this resonates and feels like the kind of work you'd like to explore, let’s talk.
I offer private-pay, EMDR therapy for women across Colorado.
And I offer private-pay, EMDR intensives for folks who are looking to make substantial progress more quickly.
You can learn more about my Colorado psychotherapy practice and EMDR intensives by clicking the links.
