Trueform Therapy

Tag: Counselling

  • The No That Costs Less Than You Fear

    You know the moment. Someone asks for a favour, or adds one more thing to your already full week, and your chest tightens. You want to say no. You can feel the word somewhere near the back of your throat. And then, before you’ve really decided anything, a cheerful “yes, of course” comes out instead.

    Afterwards there’s that familiar sinking feeling. Not quite resentment, not quite exhaustion, but something in between.

    I hear versions of this in the therapy room all the time, often from people who look, from the outside, like they’re coping brilliantly. They’re the reliable ones. The ones who always say yes. And underneath, many of them are running on empty.

    If that’s you, I want to start with something important: there is nothing wrong with you. That automatic yes isn’t a character flaw. It’s something you learned, usually for very good reasons.

    The Yes That Comes Before You’ve Decided

    Belonging matters to us in a way that goes much deeper than preference. The psychologists Roy Baumeister and Mark Leary argued, in a landmark 1995 paper, that the need to belong is one of the most fundamental human motivations, close to a need for food or safety. Leary’s later work suggests that our sense of self-worth works partly like an alarm, monitoring how accepted or rejected we are by the people around us.

    Seen this way, the automatic yes makes sense. For many people, saying no sets off that alarm. It feels risky, even when nothing is actually at stake.

    You may have come across the idea of the “fawn” response: the instinct to keep the peace and please others when we feel threatened, alongside the better-known fight, flight and freeze. The term comes from the psychotherapist Pete Walker, who wrote about it in his work on complex trauma. Many people recognise themselves in it, and I find it a useful idea. But it’s worth knowing that it comes from clinical experience rather than research, and there isn’t yet much research on it. It’s a helpful way of describing a pattern, not an established scientific category.

    What I see more consistently is simpler. Somewhere in their lives, many people learned that keeping others happy kept them safe. Maybe a parent’s mood set the temperature of the whole house. Maybe being easy and helpful was what earned approval. Maybe being “difficult” had real consequences. Those lessons were sensible at the time. They just tend to outlive the situations they were made for.

    Culture adds its own layers. Many people, and many women in particular, grow up with the message that a good person is an accommodating one. Some religious and moral traditions link goodness with self-denial, so that even a reasonable limit can feel selfish. And many neurodivergent adults have spent years adapting themselves to fit in, often at a real cost to their energy. For them, protecting that energy can feel especially loaded.

    What Guilt Is Actually Telling You

    Here’s the part I most want people to hear: guilt is not proof that you’ve done something wrong.

    Guilt can be a moral compass, and sometimes it points to something real. But it can also be an old rule firing in a new situation. If you learned that disappointing people was dangerous, guilt will show up when you disappoint someone, whether or not you’ve done anything wrong. It’s a reaction to breaking the old rule, not necessarily to doing harm.

    From a psychodynamic point of view, guilt can also be a kind of loyalty. Saying no can feel like going against the family you grew up in, or the person you were expected to be. Sometimes, learning to say no involves a small grief: letting go of the role of the one who always copes.

    This also means the guilt doesn’t need to disappear before you act. Research on how people overcome fear, such as Michelle Craske’s work on exposure therapy, suggests that we learn new patterns by doing the thing despite the discomfort, and finding out that what we feared doesn’t happen. The feeling often fades after the behaviour changes, not before.

    We Overestimate the Damage

    This brings me to some of the most reassuring research I’ve come across on this topic.

    In a series of five studies published in 2024, the researchers Julian Givi and Colleen Kirk looked at what happens when people turn down invitations. They found that people who decline consistently overestimate how upset the other person will be. The people being turned down were, on average, more understanding than expected. The decliners imagined the other person would focus on the rejection itself. In reality, the other person was more likely to think about the reason behind it.

    There are limits to this. The studies focused on casual invitations, like dinners and films, not weddings or family crises. They also mostly used one kind of reason: wanting to stay home. We can’t assume the same holds for every situation, and some people in our lives genuinely do react badly to a no.

    But it speaks directly to that tightening in your chest. The disaster you’re bracing for is often much smaller in reality than it is in your imagination.

    What a Boundary Is (and Isn’t)

    The word “boundary” gets used a lot these days, and not always helpfully.

    A boundary isn’t a rule for someone else’s behaviour. “You’re not allowed to call me after nine” is a request, or perhaps an attempt at control. A boundary is about what you will do: “I don’t answer calls after nine.” You can’t control how others respond. You can only decide what you’ll do.

    It’s also worth remembering that every yes is a no to something else. Yes to the extra project might be no to sleep. Yes to the weekend favour might be no to the rest you’ve been needing for weeks. When you say no to a request, you’re often saying yes to something that matters, including your own health and the relationships you want to keep.

    There’s research to back up the cost of blurred limits, at least in one area of life. Large reviews of research on work–family conflict, including one by Frank Amstad and colleagues in 2011, have found that it’s linked with lower wellbeing and more exhaustion. Within the well-established job demands–resources model of burnout, having little control over your workload is a consistent risk factor. Most of that research is about work rather than personal boundaries, so I wouldn’t stretch it too far. But it supports what many people already feel: constantly overriding your own limits has a cost.

    How to Say No Without Guilt, or at Least With Less of It

    There’s no perfect script. But a few approaches make it easier.

    Buy yourself time. The automatic yes thrives on speed. A simple “Let me check my diary and get back to you tomorrow” interrupts it. That pause gives you time to ask whether this fits your energy, your health and what actually matters to you this week.

    Keep it short. The assertiveness writers Robert Alberti and Michael Emmons suggest acknowledging the request, stating your limit clearly, and offering an alternative where it makes sense. At work, that might sound like: “Thanks for thinking of me, but I’m at capacity right now.” With family, warmth helps: “I love you, and I won’t be able to make it this time.” With friends: “That sounds lovely, but I need a quiet night.” Long explanations often invite debate, so one clear reason is usually enough.

    Try “thank you” instead of “sorry”. “Thanks for understanding” keeps things kind without apologising for having limits.

    Say the same thing again. If someone pushes, the psychologist Manuel Smith, in his 1975 book When I Say No, I Feel Guilty, suggested what he called the “broken record”: calmly repeating your limit without adding new reasons. He paired it with “fogging”, acknowledging the other person’s view while holding your position: “I can hear it really matters to you, and I’m not available.”

    Offer what you can. The negotiation expert William Ury describes a “positive no” as a yes to what matters to you, a clear no to the request, and then an open door. In everyday terms: “I’d love to help. I can’t do Saturday, but I could give you an hour next Wednesday.”

    Steady your body first. Feet on the floor. A longer breath out. A slower pace of speech. A 2018 review of research on slow breathing, led by Andrea Zaccaro, found it was linked with calmer physiological arousal and better emotional regulation, though most of the studies were small. In practice, a steadier body tends to make steadier words.

    Practising, Slowly

    Saying no is a skill, and like any skill, it gets easier with practice. It helps to start small.

    You might begin by writing out a few phrases that sound like you, and saying them out loud, perhaps even recording yourself to hear your tone. Then try them in low-stakes moments: turning down a minor request with one sentence, then stopping. Afterwards, notice the difference between what you feared would happen and what actually did.

    Once that feels more familiar, you can practise responding to pushback — “Oh come on, just this once” — and pay attention to your posture and pace as much as your words. And when you feel ready, try one harder conversation: a work favour, a family obligation, a social event you’d rather not attend. Afterwards, think about what went well and what you’d change next time.

    The aim isn’t perfection. It’s to discover, bit by bit, that your relationships can survive your honesty, and that many of them become closer because of it.

    When It’s More Than a Habit

    Sometimes the difficulty goes deeper than finding the right words.

    If you say yes before you’ve even thought about it, feel resentful afterwards, or keep finding yourself exhausted while still holding everything together, it may be worth getting some support. The same is true if setting a limit brings on panic or shame, or if there are relationships in your life where honesty doesn’t feel safe.

    Therapy can be a place to understand where the guilt comes from, and to practise new ways of responding without real-world consequences. At Trueform Therapy, we can explore the beliefs that tied your safety to keeping others happy, and practise real conversations until the words start to feel like your own. We take it at a pace that keeps your life stable while your confidence grows. For neurodivergent clients, that can include understanding the fatigue that comes from years of masking, and finding limits that respect your sensory and energy needs.

    I offer one-to-one sessions in person in Cardiff and online across the UK and EU. You can read more about me on the About your counsellor page, or get in touch to book an initial consultation.

    If You Want to Explore These Ideas Further

    Manuel J. Smith’s When I Say No, I Feel Guilty (1975) is where the broken record and fogging techniques come from. It’s dated in places, but the core ideas still hold up.

    Robert Alberti and Michael Emmons’ Your Perfect Right is one of the longest-running books on assertiveness, now in many editions, and a thorough practical guide.

    For a broader take on saying no without damaging relationships, William Ury’s The Power of a Positive No (2007) comes from the world of negotiation but translates well into everyday life.

    If the idea of fawning resonates with you, Pete Walker’s Complex PTSD: From Surviving to Thriving (2013) is where the term was introduced. It’s written for people with a history of trauma, and it’s best read with that in mind.

    And if you’d like to look at the research directly:

    • Julian Givi and Colleen Kirk on how we overestimate the cost of declining invitations (Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 2024): summary on PsyPost
    • An overview of the fawn response and what we do and don’t know about it: The Conversation

  • Feeling Stuck Before Change: A Common Psychological Pattern

    People often talk about being stuck as if it were a malfunction. As if something in them is failing to do its job. They know what needs to change. They’ve thought about it carefully. They may even be tired of talking about it. And yet, nothing shifts.

    Sitting with someone in that place, I’m rarely struck by a lack of effort. More often, I notice how much pressure they are already under — usually from themselves.

    Stuckness tends to appear when different needs collide.

    On the one hand, there is usually a clear sense that something cannot continue as it is. A situation feels too heavy, too constricting, or too painful. On the other hand, change is not neutral. It asks for something in return. Sometimes what it asks for is obvious. Sometimes it isn’t. Either way, the system notices.

    One reason people get stuck is that change involves loss. This is not always a dramatic one, but it’s always present. A familiar role might need to be loosened. A relationship might shift in ways that are hard to predict. A certain image of oneself — capable, agreeable, reliable — might no longer hold in the same way.

    When those losses come into view, slowing down can be a sensible response.

    Another reason stuckness shows up is emotional exposure. Change often brings people closer to feelings they have organised their lives around not having to feel too much. Grief, anger, fear, disappointment. If distance from those feelings has been protective in the past, hesitation makes sense. Pausing here can be a way of checking whether the ground is solid enough to finally allow space for those feelings.

    There is also the matter of habit, though not in the superficial sense people usually mean it. Ways of thinking about yourself, others, and the world tend to run on well-worn tracks. They require very little effort. New ways of responding take more energy, more attention, more tolerance for uncertainty. Knowing this does not make the old tracks disappear.

    This is why insight alone rarely produces change. Most people already understand far more than they can easily live by.

    Familiar patterns also have the advantage of being predictable. Predictable is not the same as comfortable, but it is often treated as safer. People routinely choose what they know how to manage over what might work better but feels less certain. They may complain about this choice at length, while continuing to make it. This is just human behaviour, not hypocrisy.

    Stuckness is not a single emotional state. It can include frustration, resignation, fear, numbness, or a strange flatness that doesn’t quite have a name. Sometimes these states alternate. Sometimes they sit alongside each other. None of this is particularly elegant. Psychological processes rarely are.

    What tends to complicate things further is pressure. When people decide they should not be stuck, they often respond by tightening the internal screws. More self-monitoring. More rules. Less patience. This approach is understandable, but it usually has the opposite effect. Systems that are already cautious tend to become more so under threat.

    Seen this way, stuckness is often doing something. It may be buying time. It may be preventing a loss that feels too large. It may be holding the line until something feels possible rather than merely necessary.

    This does not mean staying where you are indefinitely. It means recognising that immobility can have a function before trying to dismantle it.

    From the outside, being stuck can look like nothing is happening. From the inside, there is often a careful, if uncomfortable, negotiation underway. When that negotiation is understood rather than overridden, movement — when it comes — tends to be slower and more stable.

    Sometimes nothing moves because something important is being held in place.

  • Learning to Sit With Your Emotions: How to Feel Without Needing to Know Why

    The Common Moment in Therapy

    “I don’t know why I feel this way.” Have you ever said that out loud while sitting with a friend or a counsellor, trying to make sense of what you’re feeling? I know I’ve been there. Sitting there, feeling the wheels of my mind turning, searching for any possible reason that could explain what I feel. And the thing is, whenever I go looking for a reason, I’ll always find one. I’ll explain a feeling away with whatever makes the most sense in that moment. That’s the left side of the brain doing what it does best: filling in the gaps, not worrying whether it’s true, only that it fits.

    I know I’m not alone in this. (Yes, you — I’m talking to you.) I’ve heard that same sentence from so many clients in therapy, and it’s what made me want to write about it. The idea of not knowing exactly where a feeling comes from often brings up guilt or frustration, as if not knowing is some kind of personal failure. Like being unsure of your feelings means you’ve somehow failed at being a person.

    But not being able to name or explain what you feel isn’t a sign of disconnection. I’d actually argue it might be the opposite. We live in a culture that teaches us to name and categorise everything (maybe because it makes us feel safe, because uncertainty is uncomfortable). And somewhere along the way, we started applying that same rule to emotions. The moment a feeling shows up (especially an uncomfortable one), we’re told to identify it, label it, find it on the emotions wheel (have you ever been shown one of those?), then analyse it, explain it, and make sure we can justify why it’s there. To me, that sounds like an exhausting process for something that, physiologically, only lasts about 90 seconds. Wouldn’t it be kinder to just let ourselves feel it, instead of rushing to understand it?

    Our Obsession With Knowing

    We live in a culture that worships knowing. From a young age, we’re taught that the goal is to figure things out, to analyse, to explain. Uncertainty means you haven’t done enough. Remember school? There was always a right answer, and if you didn’t know it, you just had to try harder. That lesson sticks.

    As adults, we bring that same mindset into our emotional world. We treat feelings like problems to be solved instead of experiences to be felt. We think if we can just understand why we feel something, then we’ll have done it “right.”

    Iain McGilchrist writes beautifully about this — how our culture has become dominated by the left hemisphere of the brain, the side that values logic, categorisation, and control. It’s brilliant at making sense of things, but it also struggles to leave space for what can’t be neatly explained. And when that part of the brain takes over, we start to believe that knowing equals competence. That not knowing means failure.

    So we analyse, interpret, and overthink our own emotions. We chase explanations instead of sitting with the actual feeling. It’s as if we can’t allow ourselves to simply be until we’ve written a full essay on why we’re feeling sad, angry, or lost.

    What Happens When We Overthink Our Feelings

    Neuroscientist Jill Bolte Taylor talks about something called the 90-second rule: the idea that an emotion, as a physiological experience, only lasts about a minute and a half. That’s how long it takes for the chemicals triggered by an emotion to move through the body. After that, what keeps the feeling going isn’t biology — it’s thought.

    Emotions are meant to rise, peak, and pass. They’re waves, not storms. But when we start analysing them (Why do I feel this way? What does it mean? Should I be feeling this?), we keep activating the same emotional response over and over again. It’s like hitting “refresh” on a page we don’t actually want to stay on.

    That’s how sadness turns into heaviness, how anger lingers as resentment, how fear becomes anxiety. Overanalysis traps us in a feedback loop where we’re no longer feeling the original emotion, just the story we’ve built around it.

    And it can happen with any emotion. For some people, sadness feels unsafe. For others, it’s anger or even joy. So the mind steps in to manage it, to think it away, to control it, to make it make sense. But all that thinking just keeps us stuck inside the feeling we were trying to escape in the first place.

    Therapy and the Value of Unknowing

    Even in therapy, the “why” mindset sneaks in. We’re trained to look for root causes, to find patterns, to make meaning out of everything that hurts. And while understanding can be powerful, I’ve learnt that searching for answers too soon can actually pull us away from what’s most alive in the room: the feeling itself.

    There was a time when I thought that was the work. Help people figure out their feelings. Make sense of them. But over time, I started to notice that the moments of real change didn’t come from explanation. They came from presence. From slowing down enough to actually be with what was happening, without rushing to label or fix it.

    I’ve had to learn that myself too. I grew up in the same culture that values analysis over experience, knowing over feeling. So learning to stay with uncertainty, to resist the urge to tidy things up, has been a slow and ongoing process. To this day, I still catch myself trying to decode something instead of sitting with it.

    It’s something I still work on, too. As a therapist and as a person.

    What It Means to “Stay With” a Feeling

    So what does it actually mean to stay with a feeling? It’s simpler than it sounds and harder than it looks. It means noticing what’s happening inside you without rushing to understand or change it.

    You might feel your chest tighten or your stomach drop. Maybe your jaw tenses or your breath gets shallow. Staying with it means allowing those sensations to be there, without turning them into a story. No analysis, no self-critique, no “why”. Just noticing.

    It’s about presence, not understanding. Acceptance, not control. Letting the feeling move through instead of trying to pin it down.

    If you want to try this, the next time you notice a strong emotion, pause before asking, ‘Why am I feeling this?’ Instead, see if you can bring your attention to your body. What do you notice? Where do you feel it? You don’t need to name it or make sense of it. Maybe do a slow scan from your head to your feet, or just follow the rhythm of your breath for a minute. That’s it.

    It’s a practice that doesn’t offer quick answers, but over time, it builds a kind of trust in yourself. The kind that doesn’t depend on knowing, only on being.

    The Reframe: Understanding Comes Later

    Staying with your feelings doesn’t mean giving up on understanding. Insight isn’t lost. It just arrives differently. When we allow ourselves to fully experience a feeling without rushing to explain it, understanding tends to emerge naturally, in its own time.

    This is how the therapeutic process often works. When safety and acceptance are in place, reflection comes on its own. Clarity shows up after presence, not before it. You don’t need to force it.

    So if you’re sitting with an emotion and feel uncertain, remind yourself: it’s okay not to know yet. You’re simply feeling. And for now, that’s enough.

    In therapy, we make space for not knowing. That’s often where the real work begins: in the unknowing, in the pause before explanation.

    If you recognise this in yourself, if you notice the urge to figure things out instead of just feeling them, there’s a way to explore it with support. You can practise sitting with what’s here, noticing it, and letting it pass, without needing all the answers right now.

    If You’re Interested in Reading More

    If you want to dig deeper into the ideas I’ve mentioned here, these are a couple of great places to start:

    • Jill Bolte Taylor’s work on the neuroscience of emotions and the 90-second rule, which explains how emotions naturally rise and pass: My Stroke of Insight: A Brain Scientist’s Personal Journey (2008).
    • Iain McGilchrist’s The Master and His Emissary (2019) explores how our culture and left-brain–dominant thinking shape the way we perceive and interpret the world.

    Both offer fascinating insights into how our minds work and why learning to sit with feelings, rather than immediately trying to explain them, can make such a difference.