The Surprising Gift of a Noisy Mind

Why Talk Therapy Doesn’t Work for Me Or My Son

Photo by Vitaly Gariev on Unsplash

I remember the first time I lost my mind. I was 24 years old and my girlfriend just dumped me. Unlike previous breakups where I was sad and then simply moved on, this time I was completely crushed, and I could not explain it. My emotions seemed to lose all control, and I wasn’t able to stop crying at times.

I listened to all of my favorite music, but none of it helped. Instead, I would shake, unable to get up or move. Eventually, I visited my mom and stayed there a few days. I remember sitting in a warm bath just trying to eke out an evening without losing control of my emotions again. I’m not sure it was me or my mom that suggested counseling, but my college provided free sessions, so I signed up.

At the time, I wasn’t exactly sure what I was looking for. Maybe I hoped for some profound insight, a guiding light that would illuminate the tangled mess of my emotions. Or perhaps I was searching for a voice outside my own—a voice that could articulate what I was too overwhelmed to say, to offer the kind of clarity that had become a stranger to me. Instead, I found myself facing someone only slightly older than me, tasked with untangling threads she may not have even faced herself.

I was terribly nervous for my first session and had a million questions. Was she going to go deep into my psyche? Was it like the movies where I sit on a long couch and ramble while they make small notes? The reality was much less exciting.

My first session was with a young, curly blonde-haired woman. She introduced herself and stated she was a grad student. Yes, the person I needed to let it all out to was a student just a year or two older than me. A little taken aback, I began to unload — disability, frustration with women, broken family life, friends, and everything else in between. In response, the counselor said phrases like, “I see,” “OK,” and “How did that make you feel?”

This continued for 30 minutes until the timer went off. With our session over, she thanked me for coming by and said I may not have her next time, but they usually “try to keep students with the same counselor.” The thought of having to explain all of my pain to someone else the next week was not exciting.

Luckily, I kept seeing the same woman the next week and filled her in on what was going on in my life. Again, she said phrases like, “Oh, that’s great,” and, “What are you going to do now?” It was at that moment I realized she hadn’t said anything in over an hour of me speaking. So, I asked her a direct question.

I needed clarity. Something concrete. I wanted her to point me in a direction, any direction, because my own internal compass felt broken. But what I got instead was a reflection—a blank mirror that offered nothing back but my own scattered thoughts.

“What do you think I should do?”

“Well…” She paused. “That’s really up to you. You should do whatever you feel is best.”

“Right, but I came here for help with an objective observer. So, what are your thoughts on the situation?”

“So…” She paused. “I think you’re doing good and moving in the right direction.”

I appreciated the encouragement, but I really thought she was going to say something useful. I had expected direction—a signpost to guide me out of the labyrinth of my own mind. Instead, I was left circling the same questions, trapped within the echo of my own voice. Were my expectations too high? Maybe, but if that’s true, then why was I going?

She didn’t say or do anything my best friend, mother, or internet stranger did. After my second session, I never went back. It had been three weeks, and the shaking had stopped. Music was slightly enjoyable now, and the sun felt warm on my skin again.

Did it work? I don’t feel like it did.

Almost 20 years later, we placed my 13-year-old son in counseling for behavior and social issues.

Walking into the counseling office with Grayson felt like stepping into a time capsule. The sterile waiting room, the soft-spoken counselor, the encouraging but ultimately empty affirmations—it all felt eerily familiar. I sat beside him, nodding along, watching the same pattern unfold.

After about a month, I checked in with my son to see how he was getting along and if he felt any progress had been made with his counselor.

“Dad? Is this what counseling is? I just sit there and talk, and the other guy doesn’t say anything?”

“Well, that’s what it was for me when I took a few sessions,” I said.

“So, just talking out loud about everything I think about is supposed to help?”

I paused. That statement, “…everything I think about,” struck a chord in my mind. Not wanting to downplay the useful and noble profession of counseling in front of my son, who might need it in the future, I said, “Well, some people can find it useful, and some might not. What kind of person do you think you are?”

“I don’t think it’s doing anything useful,” Grayson said. “I talk to you and mom all the time about everything. So, this guy isn’t saying much of anything and doesn’t even really give me advice. He gave me some breathing exercises, but you had already taught me those. When I told him that, he was just like, oh, okay cool, and we moved on to talking more about school.”

I never took him back to counseling. His phrase, however, stayed with me for weeks. Was I missing something? Was he? Or were we simply the wrong audience for this kind of therapy—people who had spent years interrogating our own minds and had grown accustomed to searching for answers within, rather than from an outside source? Why did so many people, my family members included, find talk counseling helpful, but my son and I did not?

In the weeks that followed, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were missing something. Was it the process of counseling that was flawed, or was it that some people simply don’t need to speak their thoughts out loud to make sense of them? The more I considered it, the more the answer felt obvious.

We already talk all the time about our thoughts and emotions, but not out loud.

My mind races every day, all day. From sun up until sundown, I think, question, ponder, and wonder about everything I need to do or might do later. I hold entire conversations in my head between myself and my wife, children, coworkers, colleagues, and old friends I haven’t seen in years. I pretend I’m on a talk show being interviewed about current news or a social media craze. It never ends.

One of my favorite sci-fi movies from the early 2000s is K-PAX, starring Kevin Spacey. In it, Spacey plays a mental patient who claims to be an alien inhabiting another man’s body. One of his amazing abilities is to seemingly cure a man who was considered to have an incurable mental disorder. When questioned, Spacey states, “Every being in the universe knows right from wrong,” and that he simply showed the man the truth about himself, allowing him to confront and resolve his internal conflicts.

In the days following my revelation, I found myself turning to familiar texts—words that had guided me through other turbulent times. I was seeking not just wisdom but a sense of validation, a confirmation that this inner dialogue I relied on wasn’t a flaw but a tool, perhaps even a strength. One passage, in particular, stood out, as if it had been waiting for me to rediscover it.

Tao Te Ching chapter 15 (Stephen Mitchell)
Do you have the patience to wait until your mud settles and the water is clear? Can you remain unmoving until the right action arises by itself?

你能静心等待直到泥沙沉淀、水清澈明净吗？你能安静不动直到正确的行动自然产生吗？

When I am patient and allow my thoughts and emotions to settle, I see clearer, like the condensation on a glass evaporating. By speaking to myself and running different scenarios, I understand different paths, like Google Maps for my mind.

Sometimes, we don’t need anyone else to tell us the answer because we already know it. We only need to stop long enough to feel our thoughts, sense our purpose, and realize that all actions can be effortless (无为, wú wéi), all thoughts are valid, and we can be masters of our own minds.

Perhaps the key isn’t in finding someone to listen but in learning to listen to ourselves. The noise of everyday life can drown out the quiet wisdom within us, but when we allow our minds to settle, we can find clarity and direction. Like the still water that reflects the sky, we can reflect the truth already present within us—if we’re willing to wait, to listen, and to trust that we already hold the answers we seek.

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