There’s a tension I live with almost daily—one that sits right at the crossroads of my roles as a therapist, a teacher, and a human who’s deeply uncomfortable letting nonsense go unchecked.

I’ve always had a strong radar for ideas that don’t hold up under scrutiny. Vague, untested, or pseudoscientific claims—especially when wrapped in feel-good language—tend to light that radar up like a Christmas tree. And I’ll be honest: I don’t just notice them. I bristle. Not because I enjoy being contrary, but because I believe there’s something unjust about letting shaky ideas become frameworks for how people understand themselves.

In therapeutic circles, this shows up a lot. Take the verbiage in many somatic focused models that suggest that trauma is “trapped” or “stored” in the body. These metaphors have gained traction for their emotional resonance, and I understand why—they offer a clear visual for an otherwise complex, often overwhelming internal experience. But as a clinician, I’m cautious of the deeper message they send.

Because here’s the thing: we don’t need to believe that trauma is some indelible residue lodged in our cells in order to make sense of our responses. Polyvagal theory, at its core, offers a much more grounded idea—that our nervous system is adaptive. It learns from our environment how to respond to danger, even if the danger is no longer present. What we often call a “trauma response” is, clinically speaking, a learned survival strategy that once kept us safe. Yet I see many clinicians who claim to be dedicated learners of Polyvagal theory continue to use terminology which is not consistent with its teachings.

Let’s say a 28-year-old gets into her first heated argument with her new partner. He raises his voice, and suddenly she shuts down—emotionally, physically, relationally. What’s happening here isn’t mysterious or evidence of some invisible toxin from childhood leaking into her system. It’s a freeze response—her nervous system’s way of trying to stay safe.

This response isn’t random; it’s adaptive. Her body is detecting a familiar cue of danger—raised voices—and is reverting to the strategy it learned in childhood, when her father’s yelling made home feel unsafe. Back then, shutting down, going still, and withdrawing may have been the smartest survival move available. And that’s what the freeze response is at its core: a strategy. It’s the same instinct you see in animals who “play dead” or freeze in the headlights. The underlying logic is evolutionary: Maybe if I stay completely still, this predator will lose interest or pass me by.

So when this woman shuts down during conflict, it’s not because something is “stuck” in her body. It’s because her body remembers what used to work. Her nervous system is doing its best to keep her safe—it just hasn’t updated the context yet.

This distinction matters.

Because when we tell people that trauma is trapped inside them—stuck, buried, seeping through their nervous system like some kind of psychic mold—we risk reinforcing a much darker belief: there is something inherently wrong with you. You are unclean. You need to be purged. You carry a kind of invisible yuckiness that only some external process or expert can rid you of.

This idea is echoed in many well-known quotes from respected figures in the trauma field:

“Trauma is… …the imprint left by [an] experience on mind, brain, and body.” —Bessel van der Kolk
“Trauma is what happens inside you as a result of what happens to you.” —Gabor Maté
“We need to begin healing the trauma that lives in our bodies.” —Resmaa Menakem

Each of these authors has made important and deeply meaningful contributions to the understanding of trauma. Their work has helped countless people feel seen, validated, and empowered to begin healing. I respect that deeply. But I also believe we need to step back and ask: What are the unintended consequences of this language?

When taken literally—which it often is—this language suggests that trauma is a kind of psychic contaminant lodged in the body, leaking harm until it is somehow released or cleansed. And for many clients I work with, this doesn’t just sound like a metaphor—it feels like a diagnosis: There’s something inside me that makes me bad.

That belief is tragically familiar for clients who’ve been raised in shame-based religious systems. For them, the language of “stored trauma” echoes the doctrine that they were born into sin—fundamentally stained and in need of constant purification. We’ve swapped theological terms for clinical ones, but the emotional logic remains: You are yucky inside. You need to be fixed.

I also see a striking parallel in how many individuals with eating disorders describe their bodies. For them, fat is not simply a nutritional substance—it becomes symbolic of something unwanted, disgusting, invasive. The goal becomes to purge it, to cleanse themselves of the shame it represents. And I can’t help but notice how often this same emotional framework shows up in a different costume—especially among wellness influencers and self-help personalities. Many of these attractive, seemingly high-functioning individuals are already fixated on restrictive food plans, juice cleanses, and elimination diets. And now, with the rise of pop trauma discourse, they’re turning that same purging energy inward: not just cleansing their bodies of gluten or toxins, but of trauma—as if what happened to them years ago has left behind a metaphysical residue that must be flushed out.

It’s the same story in new clothes: I am yucky.
Because of what I ate.
Because of what a religious leader told me I was.
Because of what happened to me when I was little.

But you are not yucky. You are not polluted. You do not need to be purged. And if you need to be healed, it is to be healed first and foremost of the idea that you are yucky.

Your nervous system is not a haunted house full of ghosts waiting to be exorcised. It’s an adaptive system doing its best to keep you safe. Yes, some of its habits may no longer serve you—and yes, there’s deep work to be done to help it relearn—but none of that means there is something festering inside you. You don’t need to be cleansed. You need to be met with understanding.

My goal as a clinician is to help people break free from these destructive self-perceptions. Your nervous system is not your enemy. It’s doing its best to work in your favor, even if some of its responses are outdated or overly reactive. We may need to adjust those patterns so you can remain the conscious operator of your own responses—but there is nothing that needs to be exorcised, released, or purged in order for that to happen.

Healing doesn’t require us to believe we’re carrying a sickness.

And truthfully, I think people deserve models of healing that respect both their biology and their dignity. That’s why I keep asking questions. That’s why I stay skeptical of metaphors that feel good but subtly harm. That’s why I believe we need language that honors what the body has learned—without convincing people they’re damaged goods.

Truth isn’t the opposite of compassion. It’s what sets it free.

Throughout human history, individuals have sought meaning and identity by anchoring themselves to sacred texts. From the Torah and the Quran to the Bible, the Bhagavad Gita, and the Tao Te Ching, humanity has long revered these ancient writings as ultimate sources of truth and moral guidance. Although modern secular society subjects these texts to critical scrutiny, strict adherence to them now represents only a minority within most world religions.

A key attraction of these ancient texts is their ability to bestow a profound sense of identity and intrinsic value on their followers. Each work offers a glorified vision of the self: the Torah designates the Israelites—and by extension, modern Jews—as God’s chosen people; the New Testament portrays Christians as a royal priesthood reborn in a new creation; the Quran proclaims Muslims as the best community on earth; the Bhagavad Gita presents Hindus as fragments of the divine; and the Tao Te Ching extols its followers as sages in union with the Tao.

In communal worship, adherents recite these identity-affirming narratives through prayers and rituals, thereby reinforcing their self-worth and offering solace in times of hardship. When life brings failure, conflict, or trauma, believers find immense comfort in the assurances provided by their sacred texts—a comfort that has even been linked to enhanced well-being and life satisfaction (Moreira-Almeida, 2008).

In stark contrast, contemporary Western society has experienced a steady decline in religious affiliation, particularly among politically liberal individuals. This shift has created an identity vacuum, especially among young people wrestling with perennial existential questions: “What is my purpose?” “Is life meaningful?” “What is my worth?”

Let me be clear: I am not advocating for a religious revival in this blog; rather, I’m making an observation that while religious communities address these questions with the comforting certainty of divine purpose, secular culture often settles for the modest declaration, “I’m a good person.” Compared to the poetic grandeur of ancient scriptures—for example, the verses from Tehillim that proclaim, “For You created my inmost being; You knit me together in my mother’s womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made”—this modern assertion of “I’m a good person” feels markedly less profound, as its often as if the speakers are straining to truly believe it.

Consequently, many young people are in a quest for identity—a search for something to define their worth and provide a sense of meaning. In the absence of religious frameworks, a surprisingly large number seemed to have turned to the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM-V) and to the virtual communities that have sprung up around it. Whereas traditional religious congregations gather in mosques, churches, temples, or synagogues, modern adherents of diagnosis convene online, sharing their identity-affirming narratives in comment sections that reach far more viewers than any conventional sermon. Expressions such as “This is a trauma response,” “It’s giving ADHD,” or “Tell me you’re autistic without telling me you’re autistic” have become common refrains in these digital spaces.

It is increasingly common for new therapy clients to arrive with self-diagnoses acquired from platforms like TikTok—diagnoses they embrace with surprising enthusiasm. In an era where invalidating someone’s personal identity is deemed socially unacceptable, such self-attribution complicates professional assessment and challenges traditional diagnostic practices.

One must then ask: how did mental health diagnosis evolve into a primary source of identity and self-worth? Older generations often found identity in national pride, allegiance to alma maters (Roll Tide! Fight On!), or steadfast ethical convictions. In contrast, many young people now increasingly identify themselves in terms of psychological or emotional distress.

Social Currency

Today, authenticity and vulnerability are celebrated virtues, particularly among those on the political left. While previous generations often regarded personal hardships as private matters, today’s youth are encouraged to share their struggles openly—a shift that has spurred widespread mental health initiatives in schools and universities. However, this openness has an unintended consequence: personal revelations about mental health are frequently rewarded with social media acclaim. Influencers amass vast followings by disclosing their diagnoses, prompting one to question whether the pursuit of attention is now an incentive to pathologize normal experiences.

Accommodations

Consider the case of a client in his early twenties—a brilliant young man who, following the traumatic loss of a close friend, was diagnosed with adjustment disorder with depressive mood. Although this diagnosis was initially appropriate during a period of acute distress, it was later rescinded as he recovered and resumed his academic and social life. Yet he observed with bemusement that many of his peers received academic accommodations simply by virtue of holding a formal diagnosis—benefits extended by educational institutions and even recognized in corporate human resource policies. Consider, then, the incentive for individuals to cling to a diagnosis that affords tangible advantages in academia and the workplace. Increased time to take exams, attending class from homes, extensions on deadlines and due dates. I suspect universities and workplaces make every attempt to avoid potential litigation and individuals undergo very little scrutiny when requesting they be allowed benefits their undiagnosed peers have no access to.

The Diagnostic Shield Against Criticism

In a fiercely competitive society—whether in economic terms or in the realm of personal relationships—individuals are acutely sensitive to perceptions of inadequacy. For many, adopting a mental health diagnosis serves as a protective shield, a means of deflecting criticism both from others and from themselves. While the diagnosis may not offer material benefits, it provides a crucial social and psychological buffer against judgments of failure. It is remarkably bad taste to criticize someone who has a disability.

The Mental Health Industry

The critique of industries such as diet and beauty are well established, with these sectors continuously promoting unrealistic standards that turn natural human variations into sources of insecurity. Crow’s feet, cellulite, post pregnancy weight, so much more. All of these very normal human experiences have been made to be unacceptable. Turning an insecure and uninformed populous into loyal customers. Of course, there are valid reasons to belong to a gym and have a nutritionist, but endlessly trying to stave off the realities of aging and the inevitable reality of your body changing has turned the diet and beauty industries into mega profitable conglomerates. A similar dynamic is at work within the mental health arena. With influencers, podcasters, and even some clinicians incentivized to expand their reach, everyday experiences are increasingly labeled with clinical terms. Stress before an exam is recast as “academic anxiety,” nervousness in new social situations becomes “social anxiety,” and a child’s natural restlessness is often reinterpreted as ADHD. Particularly disconcerting is the role of some psychiatrists, whose diagnostic practices may prioritize client retention and medication refills over genuine therapeutic care.

Suggestions for Parents and Individuals

If you find yourself caught in this trap of mass-diagnosis, or you want to help your child avoid the pitfalls of mass self-diagnosis, here are some clear recommendations:

1. Unfollow, Unfollow, Unfollow
   While certain influencers may articulate personal experiences in ways that resonate, it might be wise to take a break from mental health–focused social media accounts. Whether it’s Brene Brown discussing vulnerability or a 17-year-old sharing how her breakup with her boyfriend of 2 months traumatized her, consider clearing your feed temporarily to reduce the constant barrage of diagnostic labels.
2. Embrace Secular Wisdom
   If you’re not religious or are uncertain about spirituality but still crave a solid foundation, turn to the timeless insights of secular thinkers. Authors like Carl Sagan, Marcus Aurelius, Bertrand Russell, and Albert Camus offer profound reflections on the intrinsic value of the individual without needing to invoke supernatural beliefs. For instance:
   • “Very little is needed to make a happy life; it is all within yourself, in your way of thinking.”
   • “Every one of us is, in the cosmic perspective, precious. If a human disagrees with you, let him live. In a hundred billion galaxies, you will not find another.”
   •  “In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer.”
   •  “It is the preoccupation with possessions, more than anything else, that prevents us from living freely and nobly.”
3. Consider Existential or Narrative Therapy
   Not all therapists adhere to the conventional diagnostic model. Many question the utility—and even the harm—of reducing individuals to clinical labels, particularly given the DSM’s links to the pharmaceutical industry. Approaches such as existential and narrative therapy empower individuals to shape their own life stories rather than being confined by a predetermined label.
4. Connect with Nature
   There’s no better reminder of your unassailable worth than the natural world. Whether among trees, near streams, by the ocean, or in the mountains, nature offers a reprieve from labels, diagnoses, and digital distractions. In the quiet rhythms of nature, where the stars and trees exist without concern for personal struggles, you can reconnect with a sense of inner peace and resilience.

**Author’s Note:** While the ideas presented are entirely my own, I utilized AI assistance to refine and articulate them more clearly.