family
Family can be our support system. Or they can be part of the problem. All about the complicated, loving, and difficult relationship with us and the ones who love us.
The Truth About Social Media Addiction: Why We Can’t Stop Scrolling
The Reality of Social Media Overuse One morning in 2026, fingers swipe screens before feet touch the floor. Instead of coffee, attention flows into glowing rectangles filled with faces, clips, noise. Beneath each endless feed lies invisible wiring - patterns forming without consent.
By Abdul Lateefabout 10 hours ago in Psyche
The Inner Critic: Understanding the Psychology of Self-Talk. AI-Generated.
There is a voice most people hear every day, though few pause to examine it closely. It comments on mistakes, evaluates performance, predicts outcomes, and quietly narrates social interactions. Sometimes it encourages. Often it criticizes. This internal dialogue, commonly referred to as the inner critic, belongs to the subcategory of cognitive and self-psychology that explores self-talk and self-evaluation. Far from being random mental noise, the inner critic plays a central role in shaping identity, confidence, and emotional well-being.
By Kyle Butlerabout 12 hours ago in Psyche
When Reflection Feels Like Accomplishment
There is a subtle experience many people recognize but struggle to name: the feeling of having done something meaningful without having actually changed anything. It often follows long periods of thinking, talking, organizing, or refining ideas. The mind feels clearer. Tension feels reduced. There is a sense of closure or completion. And yet, when examined closely, nothing in the external world has moved. No decision has been enacted. No behavior has shifted. No responsibility has been embodied. What changed was internal orientation, not external reality.
By Peter Thwing - Host of the FST Podcast6 days ago in Psyche
Meeting My Dead Best Friend Twice: . AI-Generated.
I was twenty when the world cracked in half. My mom died suddenly that spring, leaving me reeling and raw. Then, just months later, Jimmy told me over a nice casual lunch on Broadway in Vancouver— plates filled with burgers & fries, the sharp tang of ketchup mixing with the faint diner coffee bitterness—that the spots on his arms weren’t an injury. They were the first signs of something the doctors were just starting to name AIDS. He was scared, but still grinning like the slutty optimist he was, his voice low over the clatter of dishes. “California,” he said. “They need fresh faces. Mature ones.” He practiced saying James instead of Jimmy, rolling the name around like it might armor him against whatever came next. I laughed, called him a goober, and hugged him so hard the waitress looked away; my cheek pressed against his warm shoulder.
By Thaidal Zoner8 days ago in Psyche
