What stuck out is Burden’s initial shame about her marriage ending, and the fear that people would blame her and assume she was at fault. She initially hid from her community.

Over time, she challenged herself to act opposite to hiding, confront her reality, and name the facts. She said it felt like her only choice. Many people responded to her vulnerability with shock. Others validated her pain and embraced her with kindness. New connections were formed and old ones were deepened.

I know this intimately, both the desire to hide and the need to do the opposite. I felt similarly when my own marriage ended unexpectedly. I also thought I was at fault, something was wrong with me, and people would judge me.

And. I found the reverse was true (most of the time). The more people I’m vulnerable with, the more people support me, and the less ashamed and alone I feel. Experiencing intense distress can be much more tolerable with others around.

Validation isn’t something everyone knows how to do, so vulnerability won’t make everyone your best friend. It can, however, help you find the people who will sit with you in your pain, hold your hand in your shame, and stand by your side through the good times and the bad.

Vulnerability – when met with openness and without judgment – is regulating.

The more we feel that our vulnerability will be met with validation, the more we feel we can be vulnerable. Validation builds safety, and safety invites more vulnerability.

Relationships created through vulnerability can strengthen regulation capacity more than anything we do alone.

Deep, quality relationships that make us feel understood predict a good life. This is why finding a life partner is cherished, and losing one is devastating. Being known reduces the burden of managing alone.

Vulnerability isn’t only helpful outside of work. The readings for my MBA classes support the benefits of vulnerability in business, which Brené Brown has been saying for years.

One of the first books I read for my coursework was The Heart of Business by Hubert Joly, former CEO of Best Buy. He joined the company at a low point and turned it around. What did he say was the key to this success?

Vulnerability.

The best leaders acknowledge they don’t have all the answers, caring more about helping people on their team thrive than being perfect. This creates psychological safety, where partially formed ideas are welcomed and innovation follows. Joly argues that profit comes from putting people at the center.

I’ve received feedback that my vulnerability as a leader at work is beneficial. Showing up as a normal human, rather than some polished version, opens space for others to do the same. It helps people collectively learn from what didn’t work and find what to do differently, instead of silently spiraling with shame.

As an emotionally expressive person, my face often communicates my feelings, whether I want it to or not. So when I don’t name what I’m feeling, my team tells themselves a story that they’re responsible.

Lucky for me, my team meeting happens right after my weekly therapy session, and I’m usually feeling emotionally hungover. I often want to either stay silent or word vomit, so I’m forever looking for the synthesis between them. This is the hardest part of being vulnerable as a leader, at least for me.

I’ll never perfect this, and, I’ll continue to try. The validation and gratitude my team expresses for my vulnerability reinforce tolerating the associated discomfort.

Avoidance is costly. Burden later recognized that her most authentic self stayed hidden in her marriage. She stayed small to keep her relationship. The ending opened the way to a more authentic life.

I found this as well. I kept parts of myself hidden not only to keep the relationship, but also because it was what I thought I was “supposed” to do. The unexpected, undesired, and uncomfortable ending provided an opportunity to find myself and live accordingly.

And now, in my most vulnerable and deeply connected relationship, I’ve found more space to think creatively about my values, behavioral science, and how I want to leave the world better than I found it.

In a relationship where I feel fully seen, I don’t have to spend energy hiding. That energy goes somewhere else now – into things like writing this Substack.

Vulnerability met with validation creates connection, and those relationships strengthen regulation capacity.

That’s what makes meaningful living, loving, and leading possible.

And. Understanding alone isn’t enough. The other person has to know you understand.

Think about the people you’re close to. Why are you close to them? Do you feel that they understand you, at least somewhat?

My closest people communicate that they understand what I’m saying. Yes, many of them are psychologists and know validation well. And, it’s fascinating what the simple sentence “yeah, that makes sense” conveys. I hear it (and say it) all the time. I’m not sure I’ll ever get sick of it.

DBT encourages explicitly asking whether someone wants validation or problem-solving. This is because we so often jump to the latter. Which makes sense (there it is), because when we care about someone, we want to do whatever we can to take their pain away. And, offering solutions without first validating someone’s experience can feel minimizing or dismissive.

I know this well. My ex-husband went straight to problem-solving all the time. He jumped to what I needed to do rather than expressing understanding. As a physical therapist, his answer to my problems was always to exercise more. As an eating disorder therapist, that was the opposite of what was helpful.

I don’t think people do this intentionally. Even knowing all this, I still jump to problem-solving all the time. Multiple times a week I find myself saying, “Whoops, I just went straight to problem-solving. I apologize.” And then I validate.

I just get so excited when I feel like I know a helpful solution and want to dive right in. And, the impact is often the opposite of what I want: it pushes people farther away or makes them less likely to open up to me again. Asking whether someone wants validation or problem-solving helps provide the support they actually crave and furthers connection.

Validation is essential to developing and maintaining relationships.

It communicates clearly that you are paying attention to someone, understanding what they are conveying, and seeing what makes sense in their perspective.

Accurate validation means searching for what we’re missing, asking more about another’s experience, and staying open to what we find. It’s rethinking our assumptions and allowing what we learn to expand our views.

Validation is not agreement, approval, or reassurance.

We can validate the why without validating the what. What we validate, people do more of. So we need to look for what is understandable in someone’s response – the emotion, thought, or action – and communicate that understanding without reinforcing an inaccurate interpretation or ineffective behavior. The why often makes sense even when the what needs to change.

Providing validation involves questioning instead of assuming. It looks like asking what someone wants before you give it – validation or problem-solving – and following their lead on what to do next. And when you forget to ask, name it and repair. You know what mine looks like.

Opening up, saying the hard thing, and asking for help all make us vulnerable to outcomes we cannot control. Validation can make the risk feel more tolerable. When we expect invalidation, we’re tempted to avoid what feels threatening. That avoidance offers momentary relief, increasing the likelihood we will avoid again.

When we express understanding, shame – the emotion that often intensifies avoidance – takes up less space. This can reduce the defensiveness that might otherwise emerge when we suggest behavior is problematic. Validation can help us feel worthy, imperfections and all.

Actively listening to accurately validate can help create what Amy Edmondson describes as team psychological safety. And, that climate gets built in smaller interactions over time – moments when people can share information, challenge assumptions, acknowledge mistakes, and correct course without expecting judgment or punishment. Without the perception of safety, people withhold information, thinking narrows, and decisions stall.

Shifting from being right to being curious, and demonstrating that in action, can decrease the fear associated with vulnerability. While the fear doesn’t disappear, even an incremental decrease opens more space for people to approach what they otherwise might avoid. And the less we avoid, the more we can confront, and effectively navigate, the facts.

I think psychological safety and vulnerability are reciprocal. What happens after someone says the hard thing influences whether they’ll say it again. Validation can make that more likely by lessening shame. And that repeats – in how we live, love, and lead.

Validation says: you make sense.

I love surprises. My partner loves them too – she just has a hard time keeping them secret. She gets so excited about what she’s planning that she wants to tell me ahead of time. That’s why I know when she’s proposing.

I’m so tempted to search for the ring. We picked it up on a trip visiting her family. We were sharing a room in her parents’ house, and during dinner, she took her family members to the room one-by-one to show it to them. I could have easily taken a “trip to the bathroom” to explore. Talk about tempting.

I’ve expressed my temptation to her multiple times. We’ve discussed it, and she’s fully aware that I can find the ring if I want. Then she reminds me of how much I want to be surprised.

I’m caught in a dialectic – loving surprises, and, hating not knowing.

This brings me to one of my favorite DBT skills: pros and cons.

You’re probably thinking, “I know how to do that.” And I’m sure you do. But the DBT pros and cons is fancy.

What makes it fancy is that the skill asks you to consider the pros and cons of two behaviors, side by side. It uses a quadrant to think through both 1) whatever you’re pulled to do now, and 2) whatever you’re considering doing differently.

This allows for comparing and contrasting the outcomes of two behaviors: giving in to the emotion urge, or tolerating the distress associated with not giving in to it.

In my case, this is thinking through the pros and cons of both snooping and waiting.

Once the quadrant is completed, I encourage people to take a step back, observe all of it at once, and see what stands out. What usually emerges is that the behavior that feels hardest in the short-term is more aligned with what matters to us in the long-term. Giving in just feels better sooner.

My curiosity is not a flaw. The ring is less than twenty feet away, and I can’t imagine I’d look for more than ten minutes without finding it. My temptation to know what I’ll (hopefully) wear forever makes sense.

The work is asking whether acting on that curiosity is aligned with my values.

As much as I want to know what the ring looks like now, I’m more looking forward to seeing it the moment that she’s planned. I value the moment she’s intentionally creating for me more than the chance to see the ring in isolation. Going through the DBT version of pros and cons when she first started telling me about the ring helped me identify that. It’s how I sat through that dinner.

Pros and cons is hardest to do in the exact moment when it’s most useful. I always encourage people to write out their pros and cons in advance, when they’re thinking clearly, and when they’re anticipating feeling pulled in another direction in the future. Then, take a picture of it, favorite it, and review it when the urge toward the emotion-driven behavior rises.

Reviewing the list doesn’t tell you what to do or how to act. It highlights what behavior is more aligned with your values in the long-term, which is often different from what you’re pulled toward in the moment. And, the values have to be yours. Not your partner’s, not the ones you would say if someone asked. The ones you still choose when nobody else is watching.

I know I can search for the ring – it’s just not what I want in the long-term. And, that gap is why it’s helpful to write it out. I used this on a decision where getting it wrong costs me a spoiled surprise, not a marriage. A skill works under pressure when you’ve already practiced it when there wasn’t any.

The ring is just a small example of something that shows up everywhere. Whether to quit the job, end the relationship, have the hard conversation, stand up for what you believe. The pull feels immediate, and the cost feels out of sight. The skill makes the cost visible in the moment when acting on the emotion seems so much more appealing.

I’ll never stop hating the not knowing. I’ll continue wanting to look every day. And, waiting is how I navigate the messy space between wanting to know and wanting to be surprised.

I can hate it, and, still choose it.

Try this on something you’re considering, and be curious about what emerges.

The hiding gives shame exactly what it needs to grow.

Asking if an emotion fits the facts is helpful to identify whether the emotion makes sense in the context of the current moment or past learning history. Even as much as my brain loves checking the facts, my body still loves focusing on feelings. Regardless of context – how annoying.

So when that happens, the work is deliberately acting opposite to the emotion’s action and expression urges. It’s easier said than done. And, it’s what makes valued action possible. The goal is feeling the emotion, recognizing that acting on it won’t help, and choosing the behavior that matches our values.

Opposite action applies when the emotion doesn’t fit the facts, or when it does fit but acting on the urge won’t get us where we want to go. Shame fits the facts when the behavior would cause rejection by a group whose acceptance we need.

Identifying the effective action asks us to question if the shame is warranted with these people, in this room. Sometimes it is, and hiding is the effective choice. Knowing which situation we’re in is a skill.

When I came out, I felt lots of shame. Everything in me wanted to hide – to avoid the reality of my sexuality. And, I knew that avoidance would only reinforce the belief that my sexuality was wrong. Hiding blocks the thing that could update the belief: information about what happens when we don’t. We don’t learn that we’ll be okay while we’re making sure we never find out.

Checking the facts helped remind me that my shame didn’t fit with the people who matter. And, it did not stop the emotion from occurring.

So I practiced opposite action to live in alignment with my value of authenticity. I openly acknowledged my identity with trusted people. I made being lesbian a part of my personality. And I received more support from my community than I thought possible. I continue to do this repeatedly in new settings, finding that the more open I am, the more connected I feel.

The skill is practicing the opposite action all the way, repeatedly.

That means opposite posture, expression, thinking, and communication. It looks like keeping your head up, exuding confidence, saying the thing, and staying in the room long enough to find out what happens.

This is an active component in many effective interventions, like behavioral activation and exposure-based treatments. They target avoidance by helping people act opposite to what scares them and do the hard thing. The objective is the same in every modality – encouraging people to approach, with support, rather than avoid. It’s learning to confront the discomfort, finding out what happens, and gaining confidence in tolerating distress moving forward.

And. Shame operates not only at the individual level, but at interpersonal and systems levels as well. We learn what’s safe to reveal from the environments we’re in.

I think a lot about why DBT hasn’t become more mainstream. I previously discussed how this might partly be related to where it lives. And I think there’s more – some behavioral science approaches, like Acceptance and Commitment Therapy (ACT), have been translated to settings outside the therapy office.

In her memoir, Linehan discusses her own experience with mental illness and how that shaped her interest in helping others build their life worth living. When she was developing DBT, she was repeatedly told by scholars in the field to not disclose her personal history.

Linehan concealed her psychiatric history for most of her career. While she was working to help others effectively navigate their own shame, I have to imagine she was carrying her own. And, the field gave her a reason to stay quiet. A woman in the 1980s developing a treatment for one of psychiatry’s most stigmatized diagnoses, disclosing her own psychiatric history, risked having the treatment dismissed along with her.

It’s fascinating to think that the same hiding that protected Linehan’s treatment cost her decades of being fully known. She built a skill that teaches how to act opposite to avoidance for the purpose of building a life worth living, and the field she built it in made hiding the effective move for her.

This brings me back to Brené Brown’s work on shame – how it prompts protective behavior, impedes vulnerability, and limits connection.

I don’t know how any of this shaped DBT’s translation to the broader public. And, I’m wildly curious about what a field learns to leave unsaid when the person behind a body of work is told to stay quiet.

Linehan finally opened up about her own struggles in 2011 because she “didn’t want to die a coward.” Brown argues that kind of courage requires vulnerability. The memoir that followed is opposite action all the way. And in it, she stated that she had a strong desire for belonging.

Linehan dedicated her career to helping people enhance their connection with themselves and others. And, one part of her own life stayed hidden for decades.

She got there. I keep wondering what it cost to take that long.

These themes show up across domains – in conversations about organizational leadership, athletic performance, interpersonal communication, self-improvement – just in different languages. People are craving skills that help them do better at being human, whatever the category: to find meaning, feel valued, and live with purpose.

Solutions are offered all the time. Pause before responding. Name the tension. Reflect on your behavior. Act in accordance with your values.

All are useful. And, I keep noticing that how we develop the capacity to actually do them is missing.

Behavioral science offers the how. It gives behaviorally specific tools, backed by decades of research, that can be developed, practiced, and refined. Dialectical Behavior Therapy (DBT) is one well-established example of what behavioral science provides.

So I have to wonder: if the how already exists, why aren’t more of us reaching for it?

I think it’s partly because behavioral science is unglamorous. It asks for learning, practice, and feedback in the messy places that reveal what makes us human. Change happens slowly, and the results aren’t linear. There isn’t an endpoint at which we have ourselves completely figured out.

I also think it’s because of where behavioral science lives. Many of the evidence-based mechanisms for developing regulation capacity are written in academic language and taught inside clinical systems. Some of the most developed tools are concentrated there, so people often encounter them only after something has gone wrong in a clinically significant way. When the entry point is pathology, people either can’t access the tools that might help or don’t see them as relevant.

In her most recent book, Strong Ground, Brené Brown claims that collectively, humans feel disconnected, distrustful, and emotionally dysregulated. She defines dysregulation as being “overwhelmed by big feelings that are hard to name and contain and can drive behaviors and thinking that are not always aligned with who we want to be” (p. 22).

Brown states this is fueled by fear-and-shame-based cultures that prompt protective behavior, the belief that vulnerability is weakness, and false dichotomy between performance and our humanity. She argues that strong ground, in ourselves and our connection to others, is what allows for both accepting uncertainty and embracing change.

Her description is remarkably close to the behavioral model I’ve spent my career working within. DBT views emotion dysregulation as the result of transactions between biology and environmental invalidation that prompt coping behavior, self-invalidation, and non-dialectical thinking patterns. Brown’s definition of vulnerability – “the ability to recognize and regulate the emotions we experience during times of uncertainty, risk, and emotional exposure” (p. 23) – is regulation capacity under pressure. She calls this the source code for courage.

Brown names the destination and gives practices for getting there. She also notes a common mistake: building on old dysfunction rather than revamping the foundation. What DBT adds is decades of research on how to develop that core capacity – which skills, in what order, and whether they produce change that holds under pressure.

I think Brown and Linehan are describing the same problem from different angles.

Both were shaped by integrating scientific rigor, personal experience, and contemplative practice.

Part of what obscured the overlap, I think, is the terminology. The mechanisms Brown points toward still live inside clinical literature that pathologizes. Brown deliberately avoids that language because shame gets in the way of change. Bringing these bodies of work together can help close the gap between knowing what to do and being able to do it, especially under pressure.

Linehan’s work was not built around the idea that something was fundamentally wrong with people. She developed DBT to address what happens when a person’s regulation capacity is chronically overwhelmed by environmental demands. She used a systems perspective to name the many things that influence behavior.

Then she needed grant funding and had to select a specific diagnosis as the target. An NIMH reviewer thought Linehan was treating Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD). She didn’t know much about it at the time, and a team member said the connection made sense.

That history linked DBT to a highly stigmatized diagnosis, and it’s carried shame by association ever since. Yet Linehan didn’t think of herself as treating a disorder. In her memoir, she said, “I treat a set of behaviors that gets turned into a disorder by others” (p. 304). Her goal was to teach people to be effective. What helps people improve is genuine human connection, practical skills, and validation for who they are.

Linehan’s model is transactional. Behavior emerges from the complex exchanges between a person and their environment. An environment that shames people for expressing emotional vulnerability is invalidating, and can prompt more shame. It reinforces the very thing it discredits. This is Brown’s claim about strong ground in behavioral language.

This is why DBT focuses on synthesizing acceptance and change. The model assumes that people are doing the best they can with the capacity they have, shaped by conditions they didn’t choose. It also assumes that people want to improve, and – at the same time – that they need to do better, try harder, and be more motivated to change. Holding both at once makes change possible without shame.

These skills were developed and refined under extraordinarily difficult conditions. They teach capacities – observing, describing, regulating, tolerating, reflecting – that aren’t unique to any diagnosis. That’s why I feel so passionate about translating them beyond clinical settings. I think they can help all of us become more effective, wherever the setting.

I first encountered Brown through her TED Talk on vulnerability while I was in treatment for an eating disorder. It was the first time someone accurately communicated what I so desperately desired – deep, authentic connection. And, I had no idea how to get there.

Knowing what I wanted gave me something to work toward. Behavioral science gave me the tools to move forward. What changed things was learning the skills and practicing them over and over. Observing the urge to avoid, describing what I was feeling, and choosing to act on my values when my emotions pulled me elsewhere. Then taking the time to reflect and refine my behavior.

I had to do this hundreds of times, and often when I didn’t want to. I haven’t reached the end. The behaviors I want to change have varied over the years, and I continue to practice the skills and refine them based on my current context and goals. Learning to regulate emotions, communicate effectively, and stay present is a continuous process. One that I have to turn my mind toward radically accepting more often than I’d like to admit.

In practice, naming an emotion helps identify what it is urging us to do: shame pushes us to hide, fear pushes us to escape, anger pushes us to attack. From there, we can ask whether the emotion fits the current facts and whether acting on its urge will move us toward the life we want.

Sometimes checking the facts changes the intensity. When it doesn’t, we can deliberately practice acting opposite to what the emotion is urging us to do. With shame, for example, this looks like letting someone we trust see our messiness. When emotional intensity is too high to think clearly, the task changes again: tolerate the distress until we can.

Reading about these skills can’t replace structured practice, accountability, or feedback. And, I’m increasingly convinced that formal settings aren’t the only place learning can happen. We can practice and refine these skills alongside trusted people in our lives. What’s necessary is curiosity about how to do better at being human and tolerance for receiving feedback that helps us grow.

Feeling overwhelmed by what your environment demands, and then behaving in ways inconsistent with your values, is what DBT was built to address. And, it happens to sound like the description of being a human right now.

The how exists.

It’s backed by science, teachable, and available in places most people don’t think to look. It needs language that doesn’t start with what’s wrong with you.

Responding to the avoidance problem requires rethinking how we view emotions. We need to shift from seeing them as something to avoid – push down, distract from, or outright deny – to something to accept.

Remember the options for responding to any problem: 1) solve it, 2) feel better about it, 3) tolerate it, or 4) stay miserable. Avoidance is often what keeps us choosing the fourth. The first three all require regulating emotions skillfully.

They can be uncomfortable. And, does anyone actually die from experiencing an emotion intensely? Have you ever had one persist endlessly? All emotions rise, peak, and then fall. None lasts forever.

The more we fear emotions, the more we try to avoid them, and the more scary they seem (remember the cycle of avoidance?). Which is counterintuitive to what most of us learned – that hiding big emotions keeps us from seeming “weak” or “sensitive.”

If we’re willing to view emotions differently – to think about them dialectically – we can move from being controlled by them to regulating them. We can see them as something to learn from.

Emotions are important sources of information that evolved to help solve problems necessary for survival. They serve three functions:

Emotions motivate us to action. They prepare us for action and save us time when it’s limited. Each is associated with an action urge that arrives before deliberation does.

Consider hiking in the mountains when a grizzly bear emerges from the trees. You don’t have time to think through your next steps. Fear moves you before you decide to move.

We’re no longer encountering life-or-death situations as frequently as humans once did. Which is great, and in my opinion, very much preferred. Our biology just hasn’t caught up, so we still overestimate danger and underestimate the likelihood that we’ll be okay. Fear moves us away from situations that might be neutral, or even beneficial.

I recently went to an event to practice pitching my idea that we need behavioral science now more than ever. Everything in me wanted to run out of the room. My anxiety made sense given the vulnerability required. And, my safety was very much not at risk.

I told the group I was feeling terrified and made a joke about practicing what I preach. Others said they felt similarly. I stayed in the room, gave the pitch, and received constructive feedback. Even better, people seemed genuinely interested in what I had to say.

Emotions communicate to others. Our facial expressions often communicate faster than words. These nonverbals influence others, whether we want them to or not.

When what we show doesn’t match what we say, people rely more on what they observe than what they hear. They translate it through their own assumptions, which is often where misinterpretation starts.

Think about the last time you said you felt “fine” when you felt anything but. Chances are your face communicated something differently, leaving what you actually felt up for interpretation. Others might have concluded you were mad at them or disliked them.

Your reality might have been completely different. Maybe you had a stomach ache because you were constipated, and you didn’t feel like sharing that information. Completely valid. And, hiding it left the people around you guessing.

Most of us learned to hide for a good reason. Somewhere along the way, saying the real thing was costly, and “fine” kept the peace.

And, what we hide quietly teaches people what’s safe to bring us. The less they bring us, the less we bring them, and the more each of us assumes we’re the only one.

Hiding costs us something that reliably helps. Emotions are often easier to regulate when they’re met with acceptance than when they’re managed alone.

Emotions communicate to ourselves. They’re signals about what’s going on, and they often pick up details registered outside of our awareness. Our personal history shapes when, where, and how intensely they show up, which is why they typically make sense.

The issue is when we start treating emotions as facts and use them as evidence to support existing beliefs. What was accurate before might be outdated now. We need to check them against the current context.

Many of us carry a belief that we’re not “good enough” in some capacity. There was likely a time when that conclusion was understandable, and it may even have motivated us to develop new skills. And, if every experience of shame gets filed as more evidence, without checking the facts, we cause ourselves unnecessary suffering.

Naming the emotion is the first step. And the label itself is regulating – putting our feelings into words measurably lowers physiological activation.

Being specific helps: “I feel afraid of failing in front of strangers” does more than “I feel bad.”

Everyone needs skills for turning toward emotions rather than away. This means giving ourselves permission to feel the emotion while staying curious about why it’s there. Examining the emotion without feeling it is a fancy way to avoid it.

Marc Brackett, who founded the Yale Center for Emotional Intelligence, estimates that less than 10% of us are ever taught these skills. Ethan Kross, who directs the Emotion and Self Control Laboratory at the University of Michigan, admits that those of us who study emotion regulation don’t often teach it.

That’s what I’m here to do. To teach people how emotions show up, and how to regulate them in line with their values.

The first skill is turning toward emotions long enough to ask what they’re signaling, instead of automatically doing what they’re urging.

There are screens for uncomfortable moments, chatbots for existential questions, and metrics for all the ways we’re falling short.

My final question: why does it seem that avoidance is growing?

Modern life might be making avoidance cycles harder to disrupt. It intensifies pressure to appear polished, while giving us more private, frictionless ways to escape interpersonal uncertainty.

New meta-analytic research suggests that socially prescribed perfectionism – the sense that everyone else expects us to be perfect – is accelerating among college students (Curran, Hill, & Pose, 2026). I think one consequence is that the more we feel pressure to perform “right” the first time, the riskier it becomes to try something new.

And, experimentation is how we learn; failure is not only expected, but functional. A demand for early excellence impedes trial and error, and therefore growth.

Artificial intelligence makes polished performance seem more attainable. Turning to chatbots for emotional support can lower the stakes of saying the hard thing out loud. I wonder whether the more we practice vulnerability with a machine, the easier it becomes to avoid practicing it with others. And when we hide our imperfections in LLM memory, do we bring a more curated version of ourselves to humans?

Relying on AI for emotional support makes a lot of sense, especially given the risks inherent in vulnerability. It can feel like a safe space to bring our fears, insecurities, and helplessness – a place to disclose the thoughts and desires that might scare us – because we cannot control how another human will respond.

And. In doing this, we risk avoiding the very process that develops connection: moving through uncertain situations with another person.

The risk isn’t AI itself – it’s what happens when it becomes a substitute for vulnerability instead of a bridge toward it. When we hide our messy selves from others, we miss opportunities to discover that our fallibility is normal.

Others can remind us that thoughts about not being good enough are common, help us fact-check the belief that we are unlovable, and show us that perceived flaws often make us more approachable and relatable. That is often why we avoid vulnerability in the first place – we fear that our imperfections will make us unworthy of belonging.

The Harvard Study of Adult Development found that the quality of our relationships is among the strongest predictors of happiness and health. It’s the depth of our relationships that matters most – specifically, whether we have people we can depend on and with whom we allow ourselves to be known.

What’s essential about these relationships is not the absence of friction, but what happens when friction occurs – whether connection is maintained through mutual respect, productive disagreement, and timely repair. Learning to move through this friction effectively is the work. It’s how we do better at being human. Life feels worth living when we’re deeply connected to, and growing alongside, others.

Vulnerability – when met with acceptance and validation – is regulating.

Being known can reduce the burden of managing alone. Connection can reduce shame and help us tolerate what otherwise feels intolerable.

Allowing ourselves to be known is often uncomfortable upfront. It requires tolerating uncertainty, relinquishing control, and facing unknown consequences. Breaking the cycle of avoidance calls for the willingness to sit with the discomfort long enough to try something new.

Willingness is a form of acceptance. It’s doing what’s needed in the moment for the sake of what we want long-term. If avoidance is how we hide from our own lives, acceptance is how we turn back toward them.

Accepting uncertainty, while holding hope that others respond compassionately, might never come easily. It might be something we always have to choose on purpose.

When it’s the latter, the work is to remember that avoidance quietly starves us of the very thing that makes life feel worth living – the sense that we matter and belong, imperfections and all.

And, understanding alone isn’t enough. If it were, avoidance wouldn’t be so hard to stop.

So my next question: if avoidance is widely recognized, why does it persist?

I think it persists for two seemingly opposing reasons: there are times when avoidance clearly helps, and other times when it clearly doesn’t. In either situation, it can bring immediate relief. It’s dialectical.

There are also many times when the outcome is ambiguous and we have to make our best guess about how to act.

When ending relationships, keeping distance is typically a smart move. And, separation from someone who knows you well is difficult. The fear of not being known like that again, or the thought of having to rebuild that kind of connection, feels huge and uncertain. Even knowing the legitimate reasons for parting, the pull to return to what feels safe is strong.

Maintaining some distance allows for standing by the decision, effectively experiencing grief, and appropriately moving forward. It might look like avoidance, yet the function is to create room to feel the discomfort without reversing a values-aligned decision.

In my own life, it’s easy to look back now and see that distance helped. Yet in the moment, the outcome was unclear. Given how often we misjudge the likelihood or intensity of threat, avoidance can also work against us. That makes the “right” action hard to determine in advance. What’s helped me tolerate that uncertainty is opening up to others and asking for support.

Whether avoidance protects or pulls us away from our values, it starts the same – with emotions, often fear or shame. These emotions carry important information. They can function to protect us from harm or social exclusion. They help preserve our safety or belonging.

Fear usually motivates avoidance first. When we view internal and external experiences as potentially threatening to our physical, psychological, or social safety, we want to abandon ship. This makes complete sense. If we start judging ourselves for being afraid, or anticipate judgment from others, shame emerges. It’s a secondary emotion that often keeps avoidance going.

Avoidance often provides temporary relief. We eliminate or reduce contact with something aversive. The moment we decide to avoid, our distress often drops.

It works – that’s the catch. The relief is reinforcing. It teaches us to choose avoidance the next time distress appears.

The next encounter brings up memories of the original distress and the relief that followed avoidance. We might consider responding differently, yet imagining continued contact with the distress intensifies it. Avoidance becomes even more appealing. So we avoid it again, strengthening the cycle.

As this continues, we miss out on learning that we can tolerate discomfort. We lose the opportunity to learn that distress rises, falls, and eventually ends. We lose the chance to learn that distress can be painful without being permanent or intolerable.

We get into trouble when the effectiveness of avoidance is unclear and we respond automatically. Problems emerge when we act on the emotion’s urge without checking whether the emotion, or its intensity, fits the facts.

When we automatically follow the urge to avoid, without checking the facts or evaluating likely consequences, we can disconnect from our values. What reduces discomfort in the moment prolongs it over time.

The trouble is that discomfort is becoming easier to escape, so we’re getting less practice tolerating it. More on that next.

We don’t avoid because we want to make our lives worse. We avoid because it works – it makes sense.

Acknowledging painful facts, taking responsibility, and asking for help are inherently risky. Each makes us vulnerable to an uncertain outcome. Not having control is frightening. So we avoid doing, feeling, or encountering the perceived threat.

And. We’re quick to overestimate the probability of danger and underestimate the likelihood that we’ll be okay. Our threat-detection systems evolved to err on the side of danger, even in ambiguous or neutral situations, to keep us alive.

Across many psychological theories, avoidance shows up as a process that exacerbates long-term distress. We avoid external situations, internal experiences, or cues of perceived threat – all functioning to reduce contact with something aversive. Avoidance turns us away from what hurts.

Each theory describes processes related to avoidance in different terms, such as suppression, denial, psychological inflexibility, and distraction. The shared function is short-term relief at the cost of long-term alignment with our values.

This leads me to a few questions. First, why do so many theories describe similar processes using different terms?

I think it’s because avoidance is functional. The same behavior can serve different functions, and different behaviors can serve the same function. Avoidance is defined by what the behavior accomplishes, not by what it looks like.

And function is harder to observe than form – we can name withdrawal, we can’t always name the relief that maintains it. We’re often unaware why a behavior repeatedly occurs – we just know we feel better, at least temporarily.

Consider the behaviors often labeled problematic – substance use, disordered eating, excessive screen time, gambling, dissociation – what function can they share? Reducing contact with experiences that feel painful. And they work momentarily – they protect us from things we don’t want, or don’t yet know how, to tolerate.

The same function can appear across different diagnoses. A diagnosis describes a behavioral pattern without explaining what maintains it – or what the behaviors themselves might protect someone from.

I tend to view these behaviors as learned protection strategies for experiences that otherwise feel intolerable. Exploring this, recognizing the function in dysfunction, can help people open up to change.

I wonder what might happen if we treated avoidance as one possible function of behavior and became more curious about the why and less fixated on the what. If we might better identify what’s maintaining the behavior and target the right process for change.

Shifting the focus to function, and exploring why a behavior labeled problematic might make sense in the context of the environment and learning history, can offer validation. This can remove blame and reduce the defensiveness that often emerges when we treat someone’s behavior as a problem to fix. And when we see behavior as protection, rather than a character flaw, shame – an emotion that often intensifies avoidance – takes up less space.

My own default is avoidance. I’ve said the hard thing and been punished, so I prefer that people read my mind. And, as much as I wish my partner had that skill, she doesn’t. I’m working on answering with something other than “fine” when I’m feeling anything but. What I notice is that the more I open up to her about my emotions, the more connected to her I feel. The more of me she knows, the less of me I feel the need to hide.

Interestingly, DBT doesn’t name avoidance as a primary problem – unlike Acceptance and Commitment Therapy, another third-wave approach, which places experiential avoidance at the center of psychological inflexibility.

One possibility is that DBT approaches related processes through a more explicitly nonjudgmental and validating frame. Yet the foundational dialectical philosophy emphasizes continuously searching for what’s missing. The practice is to keep looking for the kernel of truth in any perspective. And the behavioral approach to this directly questions the function of any behavior – for why the behavior makes sense.

Avoidance, then, might be one behavioral expression of nonacceptance. It prevents change by feeling like protection – which, at times, it genuinely is. The work is getting curious about when it’s helpful and when it’s harmful.

Whatever we call it, avoidance is a process that pulls us away from a life worth living. Naming the function helps replace judgment with curiosity.

Exploring what it offers immediately – relief – helps us understand why it persists. More on that next.

Our options for responding are not. There are four:

Marsha Linehan outlines these early in the DBT skills manual. Knowing these options makes them available. You get to choose how you respond.

Let me show you what I mean. My partner has a habit of leaving half-finished cans of seltzer water around the house. She warned me about this quirk and expressed little desire to change. After moving in together, I realized the extremity of the issue.

It’s standard to see five or six cans sitting on her nightstand at any time, and there’s always a variety of partially filled cans in her car (or mine, when she borrows it). The cans scattered around our home irritate me. What are my options? The same four everyone has.

First, you can solve or modify the problem. This starts with factually describing the situation and identifying the specifics of the problem itself. Then, brainstorm ways to effectively solve the problem in line with your values.

Once you identify a viable solution, mindfully take action and evaluate what happens. If you’re not satisfied with the outcome, revisit alternative solutions brainstormed earlier and try another strategy. You can also leave the problematic situation for good. Sometimes it’s the most values-consistent option available.

In my case, brainstormed solutions might include telling my partner directly that the cans bother me (yes, she warned me), expressing appreciation whenever she cleans them up, or nagging her whenever they are left out. Naming it and expressing appreciation are most in line with how I want to treat someone I love, so it’s where I would first take action. And, I could decide the can issue is too annoying to deal with and move out (spoiler alert: it’s not).

Next, you can feel better about the problem. This starts with observing the emotion the problem elicited. Just acknowledging and naming what you’re feeling helps lessen the intensity.

Then, notice the automatic judgments, beliefs, or assumptions about the problem that emerged. Examine the accuracy of your thoughts and identify whether they are based on reality. If the emotion or its intensity doesn’t fit the facts – or acting on the emotional urge would make things worse – change your behavior. Act opposite to the urge, and your emotions will change as a result. The problem remains, the distress decreases.

Even with reinforcement, my partner’s behavior might not change. If she continues to leave the cans around the house, I can decide to regulate my emotions in response. When I notice feeling frustrated, I can observe it, check whether the intensity fits the facts of the situation, and/or act against my urge to snap or withdraw and approach her calmly.

Third, you can tolerate the problem by changing your relationship with it. Sometimes you can’t solve the problem or feel better about it. What you can do is radically accept the facts and your emotional reaction.

This involves fully seeing reality as it is and letting go of fighting what can’t be changed. It includes validating that uncomfortable emotions make sense in the context of painful problems. This allows for effectively tolerating uncertainty, complexity, or ambiguity. The problem remains, the suffering – or what you add to the pain – decreases.

Even with emotion regulation, I still might regularly feel anger toward my partner’s messy behavior. Instead of pushing for change, I can accept this as one of her quirks, recognizing that if I want to be with her, this behavior is part of the package. I can validate my irritation without negatively impacting our relationship. I can notice my distress and learn how to interact with it more effectively. And over time, I expect the half-empty can situation to generate less frustration than it does now.

Finally, you can stay miserable. You can do nothing, or make things worse. Zero skills required!

I can keep feeling frustrated every time I see a half-empty can, keep begging my partner to change, and keep getting limited traction. I can decide to stay perpetually frustrated.

The seltzer cans aren’t a huge deal, of course. And, the same four options apply to the problems that cut deep.

The first three options all require behavioral skills to tolerate the tension between acceptance and change. Knowing our options and skillfully responding when our nervous system is activated are two different things. That’s why practice is essential.

It’s the default when we lack – or cannot access – the behavioral skills. Each time we practice another response, the default becomes less automatic.

Accepting that a problem exists is the prerequisite for responding to problems effectively. Solving, feeling better about, and tolerating a problem only happen when we acknowledge it.

We’re often reluctant to view problems accurately, which makes sense – clearly seeing something painful is its own kind of pain. And, problems we won’t see clearly leave us responding to the reality we wish existed instead of the one that does, which only creates more problems.

Many of the problems we encounter are outside of our control. What remains in our control is how we choose to respond.

Accepting what we can't control, and choosing to skillfully respond to what we can, is how we move closer to experiencing life as worth living.

Most of us struggle with change. This makes sense – stability is comfortable. And, the reality is that change is constant. Most of us also know this. The challenge is translating that knowledge into action.

So the problem isn’t that we’re against change. It’s that we struggle to accept change that feels intolerable, ambiguous, or unpleasant – especially when we didn’t choose it. Denying reality feels easier in the moment. And, it doesn’t change the events that already occurred. Our difficulty with acceptance is what interferes with effective action.

One change I’ve struggled to accept occurred a few years ago, while vacationing in Raja Ampat, Indonesia. I was with my then-husband, and it was our “last hurrah” before starting a family and settling down. On the second night of our weeklong stay on a liveaboard scuba diving boat, without WiFi or any connection to the outside world, he said he didn’t love me anymore and wanted a divorce. This happened without any warning or indication of discontent.

I had another five nights on the boat with him and without access to my support system. We had to share a bed and bathroom, and remain dive buddies. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to reject reality more than I did that week.

And, I knew that rejecting the facts would only intensify my distress. My ex-husband firmly stated that nothing would change his mind. Arguing with him, begging for a different outcome, or denying his position would only increase my distress and decrease my self-respect.

Responding to change with reactivity or avoidance doesn’t change the facts. The gap between reality as it is and reality as we wish it were is where problems thrive.

Our preference for denying reality often comes down to fear of the emotions that come with acceptance. Fully accepting painful change can be extremely distressing. What’s important is recognizing that this pain will linger longer if we resist it.

Accepting reality starts with validating the emotion and the undesirable nature of change. Without this, shame often interferes with acceptance, as it urges us to hide. And hiding doesn’t generate change; it prevents it.

The thing about shame is that it’s typically not the primary emotion at play. Change often elicits sadness, which communicates that we lost something we care about, or anger, which communicates that an important goal of ours is blocked. Shame is then secondary, emerging when we start judging ourselves for feeling those primary emotions longer than desired or recognizing our role in why those emotions, or the change, happened in the first place.

In each case, the shame makes sense. It’s unpleasant to experience prolonged periods of sadness or anger, and it’s agonizing to know that your actions contributed to undesirable change. And, allowing shame to linger just makes things worse.

While scuba diving in Indonesia, what kept replaying in my mind was that I was the one being dumped, not the other way around. Which meant, in the story shame was telling me, that something about me was the problem; that it was my fault my marriage failed. I was about to be a mid-thirties divorcee. What was I going to tell people?

I felt sadness about my marriage ending, and anger toward my partner for how he ended it. Yet, the emotion I felt most strongly in those moments on the boat was shame. I felt flawed; repulsive, even. It was hard to imagine seeing people and telling them what happened. And, I knew that the more I hid from reality, the harder reality would be to face.

I observed the never-ending self-judgments flowing through my mind. I fell into the trap of believing some of them and letting them linger. But I didn’t let the thoughts take control. I knew acceptance was the only way forward, as annoying as it was for me to admit. So I intentionally reoriented myself to the only thing I could control: my response.

That required validation of my distress; telling myself that my devastation made sense given how quickly the future I’d planned vanished. Validation helped stabilize my emotional arousal, reducing judgment and creating space to view the situation accurately. Nonjudgmentally describing the facts made it possible to identify intentional action. The first thing I did when we returned to port was call my family and closest friends; they were my lifeline.

Acceptance without effective action becomes passive resignation, which also intensifies discomfort. Full acceptance – or what Marsha Linehan calls radical acceptance – acknowledges the facts while maintaining hope for what’s next. It’s not approving of, agreeing with, or liking them. It’s working with reality as it is without wishing for it to change.

Dialectical Living centers on synthesizing this tension between acceptance and change. The goal is recognizing that neither works well without the other, and that the synthesis shifts in every situation.

Acceptance of the change we didn’t choose allows us to effectively embrace the change we do. The synthesis helps us proceed in a way that’s consistent with what makes our life worth living.

People often wonder why I didn’t push my ex-husband overboard. Aside from not loving the idea of physical harm, focusing on the benefits of accepting the facts helped keep me grounded. Frustratingly, this wasn’t a one-time process. It was something I had to practice repeatedly, and for months.

Continually practicing acceptance allowed me to experience my emotions, grieve my reality, and stay hopeful for something different later on. It also allowed me to remain connected to the present.

My marriage was ending. And, I was still able to enjoy scuba diving among some of the greatest known underwater biodiversity. Both were true.

I vividly remember when one of my first DBT supervisors frequently used to say, “it’s a dialectic.” She’d shrug her shoulders, smile slightly, and if my memory serves me right, sometimes even wink. Her nonverbals communicated that I was supposed to understand what she was saying. I absolutely did not. My close colleague and I were often confused, struggling to understand what dialectics really meant.

Almost a decade later, I’m now the one confusing people. And not just my supervisees; most people I interact with (I’m mildly obsessed with dialectics). I recently got frustrated, impatient even, when my partner struggled to see the dialectic in whatever we were talking about. Which, of course, is not a dialectical response.

This led me to reflect on how I learned dialectics, which reminded me of my own bewilderment with my past supervisor. Whoops.

Reflecting on my own learning didn’t uncover a clear path to understanding. I don’t recall any specific moment where I finally felt I fully comprehended dialectics. Like most things, it was a process of being curious, making mistakes, and refining thinking that led me to where I am today. And, working in an environment that embraced a dialectical philosophy and taught it daily was likely exponentially helpful.

All this to say, understanding dialectics is complicated. Even with my passion for this way of thinking, I still find myself perplexed at times (see above for an example). There’s a dialectic there within a dialectical philosophy – which is the whole point. No single perspective contains the whole truth.

Dialectics doesn’t offer an endpoint; rather, it’s an approach to endless learning. It’s continuously searching for what is missing.

The quest for what’s missing promotes flexible thinking. It encourages perspective taking. Essentially, it’s a mechanism for understanding why someone might behave, think, or feel a certain way. And this curious approach opens space for constructive dialogue rather than hostile disagreement. It keeps us engaged when passionately held binary beliefs, and the emotions attached to them, threaten relationships.

Evidence for the relational consequences of binary thinking is abundant. The current political polarization, where families have separated over who they voted for, demonstrates this. Our minds crave certainty, and in doing so, we tend to sort the world into fixed categories – good/bad, right/wrong, safe/dangerous. This feels comfortable, and, is problematic. Because we often place new information into existing categories. Without curiosity, we misread the data.

Curiosity is foundational to a dialectical philosophy. It’s a mentality for expanding firmly held beliefs when learning something new. It’s a method for updating these beliefs when new facts appear contradictory. It’s holding what is known and integrating what is learned – long enough for deeper understanding to emerge. The goal is synthesis.

Underneath all of this are four principles that make dialectical flexibility work:

1. Everything is interconnected. Reality is a complex system of many interacting parts. Humans are in constant exchange with their environment. Understanding individual behavior requires considering the larger systems that shape how someone experiences the world.

2. Reality contains opposing forces. Everything that exists contains polarities that seem contradictory. Recognizing these polarities and being curious about what is missing facilitates rethinking. Wisdom emerges from synthesizing opposites into something new.

3. Change is continuous. Because everything is interconnected and reality is oppositional, change is the only constant. It’s the only thing we know for certain will continue. Acceptance of this fact is the prerequisite for effective action.

4. Change is transactional. Everything influences everything else. All things are caused by many interactions over time. Everything has causes.

Together, these principles offer an approach to getting unstuck by allowing opposites to coexist and recognizing that truth evolves over time. Let’s walk through a classic example.

People tend to blame their parents. Their mom did this, dad did this, and that’s the reason they’re having whatever issue today. There’s always truth here, and how could there not be – no parent, let alone person, is perfect. Naming a parent’s mistakes is pretty straightforward.

And, there’s more to acknowledge. First, that parent’s behavior makes sense given their own personal history and lived experience. Blaming them for problems does little to actually solve problems. It usually just increases frustration, which impedes change.

Second, regardless of why the problem emerged, the fact is that it still exists. Again, blaming them doesn’t solve anything. However the problem came about, the reality is that the person experiencing the problem is the one responsible for solving it. I know, life is unfair. Another helpful thing to accept.

Curiosity lets you hold both at once: the parent caused real harm, and their behavior is understandable based on their environment. Understanding doesn’t excuse harm, and taking responsibility for healing doesn’t necessitate blame. That’s the synthesis.

Learning dialectical flexibility takes time. It starts with observing opposing forces and getting curious about what’s missing. And it’s never finished. It’s a continuous practice of noticing the tension, questioning what you know, and remaining open to growth.

I had an “aha!” moment recently with a friend. I was (as usual) yapping about DBT over lunch. Like a true pal, she was inquiring about its structure and how behavior change happens. I mentioned the different components of treatment and emphasized the importance of learning behavioral skills in addition to individual therapy. She was intrigued that the treatment requires something beyond talk therapy, and then it hit me: I rarely explain the significance of learning skills to people outside the therapy office.

DBT skills are central to the treatment. Learning these behavioral skills is what helps people build a life worth living.

So when I say that everyone can benefit from DBT, what I really mean is that everyone can benefit from the skills taught in DBT. My words make it sound like I want everyone to participate in individual therapy, when that’s not the case (although I would argue that most people can also benefit from therapy, but that’s not the point I’m here to make). I’ve likely confused people by using the name of the treatment as shorthand for the skills it contains.

Let me be clear: I think everyone can benefit from DBT behavioral skills that emerge from the underlying dialectical philosophy. These skills are concrete, teachable skills that anyone can practice. Marsha Linehan, the mastermind behind DBT, made sure of it. And she had a uniquely challenging group providing her feedback: people repeatedly rejected from treatment, dismissed as untreatable, and avoided by many.

I’m rereading Marsha’s memoir, Building a Life Worth Living. What strikes me is how clearly and persistently she asserts that DBT skills are life skills. She repeatedly emphasizes their applicability far beyond the population for whom they were developed. If the skills could help them, they can help anyone.

“I developed these skills in the context of treatment for severely dysfunctional people. But, these are also life skills that can help every one of us live more fulfilled and emotionally stable lives. They are the stuff of everyday life.”

On the way to lunch with the friend mentioned above, she insisted we take a certain route after I repeatedly expressed my desire to go a different way. I felt anger rise in my chest as my heart began to race and my hands started to tremble.

So I paused before responding and practiced STOP: Stop. Take a step back. Observe. Proceed mindfully. I told her I needed a few minutes of space. I used that time to observe what was happening for me. I thought through the pros and cons of acting on the emotion. I oriented myself back toward my value of connection. And I noticed that what set me off was ultimately unimportant in the larger context of our friendship. A few minutes later, I calmly reengaged with her.

Marsha asserts that DBT is quite literally a program of self-improvement. The skills help people live more effectively. I’m fortunate to know them and to practice them daily in my own life. Because change doesn’t come from insight alone.

“You can’t think yourself into new ways of acting. You can only act yourself into new ways of thinking.”

And action without understanding is just reaction. Effective change requires both – which is exactly what came next. In those same few minutes, I analyzed what happened and what prompted the emotion. I explored the facts without judgment – what happened earlier in the day, what I showed up with, and what her actions touched on. I allowed myself to see that my reaction made sense. And thought about how to respond more effectively next time.

During lunch, I told her what her comment set off internally, why I stepped away, and what I found underneath – my sensitivity to feeling unheard. I didn’t have to. And, letting her see the messy part, instead of just the regulated version, brought us closer.

Marsha built her model around what pushes people to the edge: shame, hopelessness, and disconnection. Her mission was to help people experiencing those states find meaning. She accomplished that by centering DBT on teaching people to be effective. To do what is needed in tough moments to keep living in line with their values.

What stands out is how universal these experiences are, especially today. The same skills that pull people back from the edge by helping them accept and regulate emotional discomfort, generate hope, and connect with others also help the rest of us move through those feelings more effectively. As Marsha says, “being effective is the key to success in all walks of life.”

Along the way, in synthesizing personal experience, scientific rigor, and contemplative wisdom, something else emerged: a coherent worldview. The therapy itself is simply the clinical application. The core assumptions include:

• Reality is what it is.

• Change is the only constant.

• Pain is inevitable.

• Suffering is influenced by context.

• Behavior is modifiable.

• Wisdom emerges through synthesis.

• Everything is interconnected.

• Biology, relationships, and environments all matter.

• A life experienced as worth living can be intentionally built.

DBT was never only a treatment. Underneath the clinical application sits a philosophy of how to accept reality, embrace change, and build a life worth living. Dialectical Living is an exploration of what becomes possible when the philosophy and life skills beneath the treatment are brought into everyday life.

As a psychologist certified in Dialectical Behavior Therapy (DBT), I see the approach as much more than a treatment. It’s the lens through which I view life. I’ve been saying this for a while, and I’m recognizing how misleading that statement might seem.

DBT is a framework that I practice in my therapy office with individuals who meet criteria for a psychological diagnosis (often more than one). So when people outside of the psychology world hear that I view life through DBT, they probably wonder how the clinical manual for borderline personality disorder applies to my worldview. Or maybe they just think I’m crazy (which is their judgment to tolerate, not mine).

I’ve been thinking more about what seeing life through a DBT perspective means. It’s not the treatment per se that I find applicable; rather, it’s the underlying philosophy, principles, and behavioral skills.

The approach is grounded in dialectical philosophy, which assumes that reality is composed of seemingly opposing forces and that wisdom emerges from their integration. It proposes that human thinking moves forward by recognizing these contradictions and synthesizing them into something new. This conviction underlies all of DBT; hence, the word ‘dialectic’ in the title.

The central dialectic in DBT integrates the tension between acceptance and change. Integrating acceptance of reality with effective change anchors the entire framework.

Synthesis runs throughout, pulling together ideas that otherwise appear contradictory. This is evident in DBT’s integration of Zen Buddhism with behavioral psychology, making the framework both contemplatively informed and scientifically grounded. The Buddhist concepts of mindfulness, radical acceptance, nonattachment, the middle path, and compassion are interwoven with the behavioral principles of contingency management, shaping, exposure, and reinforcement.

Dialectically speaking, the synthesis of these divergent schools of thought expands beyond psychotherapy.

Understanding and synthesizing dialectics serve the ultimate goal of DBT: helping people build a life worth living. Change skills move clients toward more effective living, while acceptance skills cultivate understanding that pain is inevitable.

When reality isn’t accepted, suffering emerges through behaviors like rumination, catastrophizing, and judgment. A life worth living isn’t void of pain; it’s one that acknowledges pain as unavoidable and chooses to accept facts as a means to decrease suffering. It’s experiencing life as worth living amid pain, which makes it more tolerable.

When I start working with anyone, one of the most important conversations involves exploring their definition of a life worth living: what gives their life meaning, where they hope to go, and what they value. Not what their parents, their spouse, their friends, or their boss value – what they value. What they feel internally passionate about, regardless of what others might think or feel. What they experience as innately inspiring, especially when no one else is around.

Naming values offers guidance toward a destination people find motivating. Identifying current behavior and evaluating the space between that behavior and their values reveals areas of misalignment that often increase suffering. When habitual behaviors are inconsistent with someone’s vision of a meaningful life, people get stuck.

The behavioral skills in DBT help people close the gap. They offer strategies to move toward living a life that is values-aligned – one experienced as worth living. A satisfying and meaningful life, defined by whoever lives it.

My top values include adventure and connection, and I’m lucky to travel often with people I love. I’ve had a slew of less-than-ideal travel experiences recently. Within the past year, I’ve taken two international trips where my luggage was lost (one for most of the trip). On a road trip (or what was supposed to be one), my fully packed car was broken into, and everything inside was stolen.

The moment each of these occurred, I was tempted to throw a massive tantrum. While the urge was understandable, I asked myself: how will that help me live the life I want? The answer: not at all. It only moves me farther from it.

Now, that doesn’t mean I didn’t shed a few tears (I actually shed much more than a few); however, I didn’t let my distress take over. I validated my emotions (it made complete sense that I was upset) and accepted the brutal facts: my belongings were no longer with me. Throwing a tantrum wasn’t going to change that. It wasn’t going to bring back my favorite outfits. It was only going to interfere with fully enjoying each location and staying present with my favorite people.

Acceptance of the situation paved the way to effective problem-solving. And more importantly, it allowed me to stay aligned with my values of adventure and connection. Hyper-focusing on a situation that I couldn’t change would only detract from them.

My passion for my career comes from living what I teach. I find myself engaging with life more effectively every year I practice the skills (recent travel situations say hello). I credit much of my emotion regulation, cognitive flexibility, and interpersonal effectiveness to actively using DBT strategies in my own life.

Most people are well aware of my love for DBT (yes, my birthday celebration this year involved dialectics). A close friend and colleague recently said, “when I think DBT, I think Courtney; and when I think Courtney, I think DBT.”

I want the world to know DBT, love DBT, practice DBT, and live a DBT-informed life. What I love most isn’t DBT as a treatment model. It’s the broader philosophy underneath – and the behavioral skills that emerge as a result – that are too valuable to remain confined to the therapy office.

The purpose is to experience life as worth living.

It’s skillfully engaging with life by accepting what feels intolerable, regulating emotions that feel uncomfortable, separating thoughts from facts, and interacting effectively with others.

Dialectical Living starts with accurately observing reality. It’s using that awareness to change what’s in your control and accept what’s not. It’s practicing self-regulation and relational finesse when the difference is uncertain. And it’s tolerating that ambiguity long enough for deeper understanding to emerge.

A diagnosis is not necessary for this framework. Neither is a therapist.

What’s necessary is deciding to accept reality, pursue change, and navigate the messy space in between — over and over — to build a life you feel is worth living.