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On the psychoanalytic act of writing — silence, resistance, and the terrifying, necessary risk of putting thought into words. A reflection on analytic writing from Lost and Found Psychotherapy.

You were taught to colour inside the lines, and then punished for not imagining beyond them. A cat, a therapist’s chair, and the quiet violence of civilisation’s oldest trick — the colonisation of your own mind. It’s appropriately windy outside & I’ve had my two breakfasts, along with four baths & one torn amazon box… all in all, it’s a good day to take matters into my own paws and spew some facts straight. For starters, my name is not Anar, it’s Anar Dana- I’m not a tedious fruit, I’m a flavour, a metamorphosis, a memory. BOW. Yes, my human is conspicuously twisted to name me, only to rename me, and then they wonder why my kin doesn’t respond to these uncharacteristic pseudonyms given to us. Our kitty party includes angoor, chamak, elaichi, laung, kishmish, adrak & damru. I mean, come on humans… & you’re surprised about you making ‘bad choices’. So, I’m not a therapist. But I’ve sat in the therapist’s chair long, wide & forcefully enough to examine the irony of being human. And while I don’t have a collarbone (go do your research, human), I do have a lazy bone in me so let me get to the point. — You’re taught to colour between the lines, whilst you could’ve just moved the lines. — Your silence is dissociative, not contemplative. — You eat trash… None of my business though, your dogs can deal with it.  Point 1. There are very few things that bring the human clan together beyond their racial & geographical differences. Ironically, those few things are often their misplaced priorities… I mean what is this mass obsession with coloring inside the lines? You teach your tiny humans to master control, behold urges, follow rules, only to turn around & expect them to be playful, creative & free. Is it just me who can see through the BS that you want your clan to think ‘out of the box’, but stay ‘inside the lines’? Yes, I’m told that discipline is a form of love too, but this sounds like some twisted version of colonizing the mind, where the rules might vary, but the experience of them continues to be threatening to the developing ego.  The hyperawareness of the lines, more than the colours, crystalises for the mind the essentiality of self-obstruction– that one can only restrict the fantasies & be enticed by the other (possibilities, people, life). This self-obstruction is the neurotic gift of civilisation that dooms any attempts at change. “We spend most of our lives anxiously hoping we will change… and doing everything we can to stop this happening” (Phillips, 2023). No wonder you’re all fascinated & doom scrolling my kin uninhibitedly knocking things off the table.  Point 2. Let me enlighten you, human. Cats don’t meow at each other, they only meow to communicate with humans, because we’ve learnt of your discrediting relationship with silence. Your silence, laden with strings of withdrawal, withholding & wishfulness, is a communicative tool rather than a contemplative space. Salman Akhtar, in his description of 8 types of silences talks about how silence is as demonstrative as talking, and yet humans cannot be farther away from it.  Silence is viscerally experienced as an absence, an empty space or an anxious position, demanding the psyche to dissociate into fragments of self-soothing. I seldom wonder where my human is when she’s silent in a session- is she waiting in a void, or is she thinking about her thinking?  If Maroda is right, the analyst is often too comfortable not engaging relationally with the silence. It becomes a moment of respite from the collusion with the analysand’s unconscious, a return to the state of nothingness, a complete collapse of the relational dialogue.  I can vouch for that, for I take the pains of rescuing my human from her silence by chewing off her books mid sessions, but her thanklessness speaks of an unexamined interpersonal exchange.  So, dearest human, I often gaze into many antidotes to these orchestrated communal living that humans have internalised, and normalised in an attempt at staying integrated. But here are a few purrls of wisdom.Use a litter box. (read again*)If it fits, it sits. Reclaim.It’s okay to draw boundaries, but please don’t start colouring in them for cat’s sake!You will not be liked by everyone. You’re not a dog.Someone somewhere is joyed because of you.I’ve done my part for the day, or year. I must now surrender myself to my zoomies & sprint around the house for no reason… something many would wish to do too if not for compromising their model of sanity. P.S. Adult relationships find an undeniable mirror when you get a cat, or become one.P.P.S. pspspsppsps.

At 2:30 in the morning, between the psychic deadness and the institutional cruelty of bad supervisors, lives a truth nobody in clinical training wants to admit: the way you are taught shapes what you become. Here, we refuse to let that pass unremarked. This newsletter is not written to you at 4:30 in the morning but at 2:30 in the night. *Not my proudest moment* But… there’s something about the deadness of the night that allows you to touch your own psychic deadness- or what Eigen illustrates as, “pockets of deadness that are relatively constant”. *……… buffering* Basically, when sleep has been ruptured, what would an analyst do without dreams? They turn towards the prepossessing deadness. I reckon I’ve been sitting on this piece for far too long- weeks in writing, years in mind, for it would crystalise in my mind & yours, the scathing impact of an unkind, holier-than-thou clinical supervisor– a part object we (need to) internalize as a marker of our work. I mean it doesn’t take a genius to agree that bad supervisors can deeply damage you individually & professionally; it is no surprise that many professionals have had an experience of being bullied (not using this word lightly) by their supervisors.  So yes, if history is any evidence, bad supervisors can leave an imprint of low self-worth, & a sticky imposter syndrome that freezes us & our praxis in our student era.  They tend to make you withdraw your curiosity, enact your ambiguity, fear your despair- all pieces that come together to form the therapist self. In totality, you lobotomise the health of an early career therapist & leave them hollowed out like an echo chamber of the internalised inept supervisor. *Fasten your seat-belts, it gets only more dramatic*  So let me put this straight… I’m an ardent supporter of supervision, and coffee. It’s unsettling to assume that a therapy practice can rely on the relational (decaffeinated) unconscious of one person in a room full of affect, projections & transferences.  Or as Ogden would ascertain my point (pfff, I wish)- “the supervisee creates a ”fiction” about the patient and about the therapeutic relationship, a fiction that unconsciously selects material in keeping with the supervisee’s own unconscious needs, anxieties, desires in the moment”. So yeah, while this is just one of the many complex ways in which the therapist’s & patient’s unconscious collude, it is safe to pin that “if we fail to take into account our own conflictual responses, we risk enacting that which we should be interpreting” (Irma Pick, 1985). And yet, as necessary as it is, supervision is also a deeply evocative & vulnerable space. It takes the therapist bringing in their authentic self, their helplessness & the unavoidable errors for scrutiny & support. But what’s (sadly) left unrecognised is that supervision is largely relying on the therapist’s intuitiveness to gauge the mis-attunement, their willingness to learn & the courage to showcase the incomplete works.  Sooo, basically they are kind of doing an amazing job by just showing up with all their truths & trysts. And then all it takes is a Karen-like supervisor with their narcissistic impunity, messed-up politics & gaslighting skills to convert the process of honing into horror. And just like that, something that had the potential to be pivotal & profound gets foreclosed. How do such oppressive people become therapists, you may ask… well, I believe this question is more satisfying & empowering than the answer.  The concern, however, is not so much the systemic existence of such authority figures; the concern is the withstanding impact they have on younger therapists- either normalising the toxicity of the process or gatekeeping the process altogether. Twist the power of knowledge & button it with the language of analysis & you have the recipe for keeping the other confused about their own subjective experience- and then, leave it to the higher-ups to do this job impeccably!  Alas, you might know of at least one supervisor who has had a detrimental impact on someone, leaving them not angry, but miserable. The misery is in not being able to imagine there is another way of knowing, that there is a possibility of relatedness without the hierarchy, that this mean remark is not a me problem but a you problem. No, I’m not advocating canoodling, Karen! I mean sure supervisees need to be nudged & questioned, & well, also be made to remove their unconscious floaties that are keeping them afloat without swimming (that’s fun!), but what’s at the centre is, using McWilliams words, “when respect is maximised and shame minimised, most professionals open themselves eagerly to learning”, especially in a cultural landscape like ours where marginalisation & humiliation has been a historical weapon of oppression. So, am I saying supervisors need to be of a certain temperament & personality? No. Am I saying they need to be ‘sweet’ & ‘loving’? ew No…! I’m just asserting the need for an analytic attitude- a crafted stance of thinking, listening & engaging that is facilitative of the analytical process– within the supervisory dyad.  Now, not to sound holier-than-thou myself… I’m inclined to turn to the endless archive of the ideal supervisory process. But, our favourites return to our rescue in brief- Nancy McWilliams– In one of the discussion groups with Nancy & her therapisty blue cardigan, she spoke of the supervision process being a space to bring out “love, work and play”. For her, the supervisee needs to be met with an atmosphere of solidarity and sameness to be able to unravel the undermining moments of the therapy process. How brilliant is that in those 2 hours, she never used words like ‘teach’ or ‘wrong’, instead she used ‘vitality’ & ‘forgiveness’. Perhaps, what it assembles, for me, is the permission that there exist other ways of being and becoming a supervisor, that are built on the respect for both- communality and individuality. Ogden & Eigen– What an opportunity to bring these two together in thought! Thomas Ogden in On Psychoanalytic Supervision & Michael Eigen in Being Too Good urges us to drop the act of righteousness & enter a state of “guided dreaming”- to do the conscious & unconscious work of emotional attunement.

A two-year-old named Shivoy knows something most adults have long forgotten — that play is not a reward for finishing work, it is the work itself. This is a meditation on what we lose when we grow up, and what quietly waits for us to return. You might not know me… or perhaps you do!  Well, who knows anyone anyway… #deepbut this isn’t about me, this is about- Shivoy! Shivoy is my two-year-old neighbour who often comes to my house to play. When I open the door, he rushes past everything and everyone and goes straight to my room to my musical instruments. For someone who cannot even spell harmonium, he somehow finds his way to them every single day. His mother often tries to take him back home, but his tiny body resists with all its strength. In that moment, it feels as if his whole being is saying “let me stay here a little longer”. To be with those instruments is his play. And that is his work. At two, Shivoy does not yet have the language to say what he feels or wants. The toy becomes the medium through which he communicates. When he presses a key or taps on an instrument, something is happening inside him. Something is being expressed. Doing is taking place. We call it “just playing,” but if we look closely, it is serious psychological work. Children often speak through play long before they speak through words. This makes me wonder about something- what happens to play when we grow up? Somewhere along the way, work and play become two completely separate things in our minds. Work becomes something serious, productive, and often exhausting. Play becomes something childish, almost indulgent. As if enjoying what we do is suspicious. As if fun belongs only to childhood. When we hit a socio-culturally determined age, it sometimes feels like we are expected to quietly swallow our emotions and begin the serious business of life.  Work hard. Be sensible. Be mature. And of course, the sentence most of us have heard at some point: “Don’t act like a child.” It is said so casually, but it almost feels like an insult not just to the person being told, but to children themselves. As if being someone who has needs, impulses, and curiosity is something embarrassing. But children remind us of an inherited absentia. They remind us that human beings need spaces where they can simply be. Play is one of those spaces. In early life, care is experienced through continuity. A caregiver being there again and again helps a child slowly build a sense that the world is reliable. The infant may not need the caregiver every second, but their presence in the background matters deeply. Absence can suddenly change the infant’s world. It can feel like opening the fridge expecting food and finding it empty. The infant’s limitation is not the absence of feeling, but the absence of language. And so, love and care become a kind of psychic nutrition. Somehow it feels like a subscription model. One can avail all the services of being taken care of till a certain age. Not to say that being taken care of is a removal of accountability one should grasp. But in the moments of confusion and frustration, play becomes the bridge between inner feelings and the outside world. It is the space where fantasy, curiosity, frustration, and joy can all exist safely.  In play, a child experiments with reality. If we were to skip the laps of time & repairs, if Shivoy were constantly stopped from touching the instruments, he might slowly become an “ideal” compliant child. The kind who listens immediately. The kind who does not insist. But compliance often comes at a looming cost.  The instrument, his current way of communicating might disappear. And with it, his spontaneous gesture. The world often celebrates compliant children. They are easy to manage. They do not disturb routines. But inside, something important can quietly go underground- an authentic self. Literature says, when a child’s true self is allowed space to develop, it becomes a powerful buffer against life’s difficulties. When our internal world is allowed to exist freely, external reality becomes easier to face because it resonates with something inside us. Which brings us back to adulthood. How often do we find ourselves in similar roles? Obedient. Responsible. Functional. But sometimes unsure of what we truly want. Many adults slowly lose access to play, not necessarily toys, but the spirit of play. Curiosity, exploration, creativity, and doing something simply because it feels alive. Play for adults might look different. It might be music, cooking without a recipe, dancing badly in your room, writing, painting, or even having a conversation that wanders without purpose. Play is spontaneity in an hyper organised world. Play is not the opposite of work. Often, it is what makes work feel meaningful. The question then is not whether adults should play. Perhaps the question is- how did we become so uncomfortable with it? Sometimes, watching a two-year-old stubbornly protect his time with a harmonium can remind us of something we forgot a long time ago. That, perhaps, play never really disappears. Perhaps, it simply waits for us to return. That was my playful attempt at getting to know you. I’m Shruti Garg, psychoanalytic psychotherapist at Lost & Found Psychotherapy, who finds comfort sometimes in quiet corners & on other days, among people. Coming from the field of psychoanalysis and classical music, attuning to the smallest of emotion feels like a home and probably the only way to be.

The world is not just physically on fire — it is psychically melting too. As temperatures rise and routines dissolve, this is an unflinching look at the intersection of climate crisis, mental health, and the privilege of being able to even write about it. This has to be my first time speaking about the heat to everyone. This has to be the first time everyone has spoken about the heat to me. I mean, of course, Global warming is real, Karen… I’m not on the edge of reality, yet. But for those of us who have the luxury to survive the heat- physically & mentally, on most days, also have the responsibility to reflect on it- not just as a climatic crisis, but as a shared psychosocial fabric of human experience. Whilst I wanted to pen a jolly newsletter, I think that ship has sailed (to wherever there is water). Because from where I see, I see people of certain classes working under that ruthless sun, I see dogs drinking filthy water from anywhere possible, I see poverty- of economy, thought & compassion under a bright sun.  I see we’re waking up to a literally burning world all around.  How does that feel, Karen? And sure some of us have the massive undertone of privilege where our air-conditioned world doesn’t seem to be burning, but let me break it to you, then it’s slowly melting.  For someone who works from home, with 24×7 air conditioning & pets not having to scavenge for water in the scorching sun, my world shouldn’t be withering either, and yet here I am recovering from a self-imposed quarantine & depleted cathexis. So, this newsletter is to compassionately inform you that if: Sounds rather convenient, isn’t it? So, let’s look at the ‘science’. In a notable (& not so ethical) study at the University of Richmond, researchers exposed rats, divided into two groups, to either normal room temperature or extreme heat conditions, mimicking the effects of a severe heatwave (around 104°F) for several hours per day over several weeks. As the weeks passed, the heat-exposed rats began to exhibit concerning changes. Their behaviour grew increasingly anxious, as if constantly on edge. When tasked with navigating mazes, their spatial memory faltered, leaving them disoriented. Within their tiny brains, a storm was brewing (obviously). Inflammatory markers rose, and stress hormones surged, disrupting the delicate chemical balance (something their life coaches & motivational speakers could not undo). Consequently, the brain activity patterns shifted (despite journalling!!!), reflecting the strain imposed by the unrelenting heat.  The researchers watched with concern, realising that-  #1. 104°F/40°C is the new ‘cool’ when temperatures in many parts of the country touched 122°F/52°C, & #2. this experiment was a microcosm of the mental health challenges that extreme heat could bring to human populations in a melting world. Several other ‘experiments’ have been messing with the rodents to ascertain a simple point- that the temperatures/ climate impacts your mental health detrimentally.  Ingenious, right?!  And I’m not even getting into the class, caste, race or gender differences herein which would only make psychic survival & growth look bleak for one sect more than the other. Psychoanalyst Donna Orange (2017) reminds us that “the climate crisis and social injustice are not two separate issues, but rather are one single, inextricably connected issue”. Perhaps, it must appal you how little such obvious facts about your mental health are spoken about. It must anger you that we’re left to find meaning in our internalized pathology of our dysfunction in a productivity-oriented world. It must rile you to demand a response to this ‘climate crisis buttoned with the pervasive mental health crisis’ CRISIS. I hope it does, for otherwise we too are the rats in the oblivious experiments of the industrial maze. There is no more denying that the destruction of the earth has a clear correlation with the destruction of the mentalized (Fonagy) world. There is no more denying that the rising temperatures are impacting how we live, feel, and relate with each other in subtle unhealthy adaptive ways. There is no more denying that our psychosocial fabric is melting. The problem here is that I can’t quote Freud or deploy Winnicott to direct us to work through this permeable crisis. This is a concern of the modern world that bereaves us of insight, yet also allows us the freedom to forge new ones. Some ongoing reflections in the praxis that are engaging with this crisis give ample ground to start this conversation. So this is where I pause, almost running out of ideas to secure felt stability, & hoping today would be less hot for those who don’t have the luxury to write about ‘how hot it is’. Whilst we write, read & reflect on this chaos from a place of privilege, I’m unwaveringly certain we also write, read & reflect from a place of compassion & responsibility. A responsibility towards containing the melting world. P.S. I hope you & your family are safe, wherever you are. If not the heat, from the cold, the rains, the droughts, the forest fires- from the (bad) mother earth. P.P.S. If you’re safe, I hope that safety has the capacity to be extended to someone who isn’t.

Psychoanalysis has always known that play is not what children do between naps — it is how the unconscious speaks before it finds its words. But what happens when you read about play without the one thing that makes it possible: curiosity? What is this title, you might ask.. I know, but don’t know either. (that’s basically what you can say about anything in Psychoanalysis to sound bougie). But let’s start somewhere- so, what is play for you? (sigh! the joy of asking awkward questions to put someone on the spot… ) However, isn’t that the charm of Psychoanalysis- to divulge us into gazing at the most ordinary page of our story with most fascination. Like a child watching a leaf fall from the tree, surrendered in a moment of both wonderment and excess! Aghhh.. what would I give to be lost in that kind of private play… wouldn’t you? WOULDN’T YOU… or are you too good for me? In case you didn’t notice, I’m pledged into understanding Psychoanalysis as a play with words- as an art of storytelling (Adam Phillips), an art of listening (Salman Akhtar), an art of interpretation (Freud). Did you notice the chronology is upside down? ** huffing **  catch up, Karen… we’re building a piece around play here! Anyhoo, the note of appreciation for Psychoanalysis’s own childlike wonderment aside (although I don’t think we’d be asking this question if it wasn’t for it…), when did you actually stop playing? #deep. #blackhole. #donotwanttogo. #activateresistance. Does someone know why we’re split when it comes to writing or thinking about our own (dis)embodied play? Why do we have to include a century-old discourse to talk about it? And is it even play if a thinker has to think it? This piece, despite my attempts at the opposite, is coming from a place of both curiosities, & deep sadness. A sadness reckoning an almost strategic, developmental loss. And then to write about curiosity & play, in a playful way, well, something’s amiss. So let me do the easier bit… let’s make-do with the concept of play psychoanalytically. Yeah well, I see you know a writing on play cannot be done without Winnicott, & Freud, & Bowlby and who not, and I know you’re watching how I would (fail to) compress this life-size work on play in a paragraph… Very clever, Karen. Very. Clever. Did I mention my toxic (loosely using) trait is handpicking unfathomable themes for the newsletter? But, a girl can, & must try. It might surprise you, but in psychoanalysis play is not seen as a leisure activity, it is not even an attribute of the child, it is not in the act of it- rather, play is a form of communication and expression that provides insights into the unconscious thoughts, feelings, and conflicts. Shocker, right? Let’s just prep our floaties as we jump into the shallow end of its Psychoanalytic iterations now. Something Old: So, to start from the beginning- let’s take a whimsical stroll into Winnicott’s microcosm, where the concept of play is never just a child’s pastime, but a working-through of the unabsorbed, overwhelming reality. Yes, literally, Winnicott believed that children play to master anxiety… (stay with this thought a second more, and you’ll agree). Now, imagine you’re the little you (disobedient, I’d prefer), brandishing your toy truck (gender neutral!). As you cater to yourself in that make-believe worlds, you’re not just passing the time—you’re crafting your reality. In Winnicott’s world, play isn’t just a distraction; it’s the theatre where the unconscious scripts unfold, where impulses are enacted, where sensual gratifications are allowed. But here’s where it gets juicy- for him, play isn’t just for kids. Winnicott saw play as the ultimate antidote to the drudgery of adulthood where inhibitions & vulnerabilities are unveiled. Something New: Now, have you heard of Jill Miller? No, I’m not just putting common syllables together, she’s a real person, in fact a student of Anna Freud.  It’s interesting we’ve learnt to be versed with the old more than the new, the alive. What does that say about play?! Anyhow, now picture that tiny (still disobedient, I hope) you, are handed a blank paper & a bunch of broken crayons. That’s classic Miller- compelling a canvas to invite the exploration of thoughts and emotions through various mediums, from art and music to movement and storytelling. Why I feel she belongs in the category of the ‘new’ is her attitude of inviting the patient to cultivate a sense of wonder and curiosity about the self. She ascribes certain features of play to the work of the therapeutic alliance- So somewhere between all of it, play becomes a therapeutic tool for the pre-analytic parts of the self. Something Blue: Let’s put a few men adjacent to each other on this. For Freud, play came to be pleasure seeking (a shift he made from seeing it as wish fulfilling); for Erikson (1963), play forms an ‘emotional laboratory’ in which the child learns to master his environment and come to terms with the world; for Piaget play is a movement from functional to symbolic order- that is, it carries within the capacity to symbolise objects for them to be manipulated as metaphors for the reality. And one can go in any direction from here, but what remains intact throughout is the lucid understanding of play in the psychic organisation. It is one of those rare concept explained simply & repeatedly in Psychoanalysis (pheww), and that is not to say it’s not exponentially complex, it is only to say that play holds in itself an undebatable element of narcissistic mastery over the (primal) preoccupation with the self & the object. Yeah, quite blue, right? Something Borrowed: Time we borrow play. What a strange thing to say, right? Neither can one borrow time, nor play, and yet the unconscious dares to string them together in a singular breath. I believe that’s what’s amiss.  What I mean is, “I hope all my readers are going to fall under the spell of some kind of

Before you can listen to another person, you must first learn to listen to your listening. This is an exploration of rhythm — not music, not productivity, but the deep psychic pulse that holds the self together, and the therapeutic alliance intact. Do you like Pages better or Word? What a random question, right.. well, it might surprise you but yours truly spends a minute deciding which one to open to write the newsletter! (As if the ‘right’ format will make the ‘(w)righting’ seamless.) While on some level this may seem an absolute BS, but I’m a creature of habit and I have learnt to see value in the conundrum of ‘space & time’ for any form of thinking, being & feeling. Like, I can only write with Jazz playing at the back (and so plays Sinatra at this point); I can only be my therapist self when I’m in my chair. Basically, I’m a cat, living in my own world of routines. While for Freud there’s no concept of time in the unconscious, there ought to be an organising agent that situates psychic continuity in the reality. For me, that’s the reverie of space & time. What I’m trying to build towards, is something quite simple, and hence rejected by the hustle & grind culture, or practically anything that is designed to render us anxious- like deadlines!! I’m talking about the rhythm of being. What is your rhythm of being? We never talk about it. I’d love to know, really? Do you wanna build a snowman? All we talk about are the notes of music- we keep a checklist, we keep a tab on our productivity, we have a to-do list but there’s no app to measure how it all comes together. There’s no one coming to weave our notes of the mind into psyche. How could they? This reminds me of a podcast where the analyst (forgetting the name) made a clever statement- that “psychiatry is mindless, and psychology is brainless”. From where I sit, I hear in that quoted statement an inherent incompletion, a deep & wide gap.  The world without music, even of nature, is pierced empty; it gives an imagery of an abandoned, no-one’s land. A town that is all concrete without any semblance of life. Now cut paste this idea to the inner world & imagine how barren the psyche could feel without a rhythm. I never see you any more Come out the door It’s like you’ve gone away! (Sometimes I think about the titles I pick to write on, almost trying to make my life difficult. Anyhoo…) So, what is your rhythm? I was reading, a while back, The Rhythm of Music by Ogden (yeah, you’ll soon realise I repeatedly read a few thinkers). He opens the paper saying “In the course of this discussion, I will ask the reader to listen to his listening” (* weeping *— leave it on to the psychoanalyst to make things poetically difficult). He goes on to explain it (pheww) as “to listen to the ways he (the therapist) listens and hears listening to an analytic session”. Somehow, I find myself readily inviting of this idea for it opens the window for fiction & anonymity in therapy, in ways that otherwise a non-rhythmic role would not. To be able to transition from the listener to the listener’s listener, from the knower to the unknown, from the conscious listening to the reverie- basically, any transition or movement needs a rhythm, and any analytic listening demands this swaying. Now, I can slowly see my writing becoming more about analytic listening, than the inner rhythm. ** Digression shalt be my middle name ** But that’s perhaps the liberating format one needs in order to listen, read, write, think & be in the world of Psychoanalysis. To be able to flow, float and fuse is the work of rhythm; to be able to survive ruptures is the possibility of rhythm; to be able to reckon & reconcile is the goal of rhythm. Let’s just put it this way- Winnicott writes in On the Capacity to Be Alone, “the goal for the child is to be alone in the presence of the mother”, what our piece is brewing is to replace (not literally, if ever you take anything in psychoanalysis in literality), replace the mother with rhythm. The goal for the therapist, or the inner world, is to integrate in the presence of a rhythm.  ** yeah, this image is the pictorial representation of my capacity for integration. ** (Pause) Return to reality and ask, “why should I take your word for it, Aanchal?” Fair enough! I expect nothing less after living with cats.   So let me put our favourite men in the field to use! — Freud– Okay, I don’t know if to stick the idea of Biorhythms to Freud or his bestie William Fliess, but it’s certain that this idea was conceived between them. Basically, the concept of biorhythm proposes human lives are influenced by rhythmic cycles of physical, emotional, and intellectual states recurring over 23, 28, and 33 days respectively, & that our behavior and performance fluctuate based on these purported cycles. Now, I don’t know why mister didn’t follow through this idea when most women can vouch for it (maybe that’s why!), however, the ideation around rhythms & psychic functioning goes long back. — Winnicott– If one is to read closely, for Winnicott, the experience of childhood, if not a rhythmic, is a disaster. From the rocking of the infant by the mother, to the child forming a sentence by tying sounds & syntax in a rhythm to the possibility of play made accessible via rhythmic movements, Winnicott’s understanding of psychic & bodily movements is tied via “the rhythms of his need for sleep and for wakefulness, of his need for engagement with others and his need for isolation, the rhythms of hunger and satiation, the rhythms of breathing and heartbeat” (1956). He goes on to build on the idea of ‘attunement’, one of his most significant contributions, parallel to the importance of rhythmic experiences

Therapy-speak has escaped the consulting room and now roams freely across brunch tables and heartbreak. Not everything is a trigger — but everything demands to be felt. A cat philosopher interrogates the language we use to simultaneously reach for connection and retreat from it. Anar Dana here, your ever-observant feline philosopher, currently stretched across my favourite spot right in front of the AC, pondering your curious preoccupation with triggers. I’ve noticed, with my impeccably sharpened ears- which I use to ignore my human calling out my name- that you humans seem not consciously convinced, but internally confused that everything is a trigger. Let me state the obvious- not everything is a trigger. When the bowl is empty, I’m not triggered; I’m hungry.When the door is closed, I’m not triggered; I’m mildly inconvenienced (and outrightly vengeful). But from where I see- every small discomfort, every quiet pang, every faint whisper of unease is being called a “trigger”, not just by tech bros and finance dudes, but by thoughtful, reflective minions of the wisely world! It’s as if you fear that unless your feelings are labeled with dramatic precision, nobody will hear their soft, uncertain murmurs. So, we need to talk about how therapy-speak has escaped the consulting room and now roams freely across brunch tables, reels, and arguments with your partner (yes I know everything!).  What is ‘therapy-speak’, you ask? It’s the not-so-subtle art of weaponizing your therapist’s vocabulary to explain exactly why you’re setting boundaries, but never quite admitting you’re just feeling forgotten. And why do you do this, when you can not do this? Tell me ……… Well, simply because humans, much like cats, find it easier to curl up behind clever words than admit we’re scared kittens underneath- hiding our softness behind a language that feels like claws, but lands like paws. In Freudian words- it’s a defence masking a deep vulnerability by introducing something that feels easier to explain & fight for. We speak “therapy” to gently push others off the spot without starting a hiss-fight, to lick wounds we pretend aren’t there, and sometimes just to convince ourselves we landed gracefully, but did we?! The Allure of the “Trigger” Label I mean, let’s face it- there is an irresistible allure of calling everything a trigger!  This word holds the seductive power of transforming a banal discomfort into meaningful narratives. It mirrors the symbolic process- giving your pain an immediate, compelling significance. My petty hooman latches onto “trigger” because it promises instant validation and authenticates her emotional experience, especially in a culture otherwise often dismissive of subtler, quieter hurts. I am the culture. I mean who cares that it forecloses the possibility of any real reflection or connection, right? Who cares that it will not leave you feeling any better than before? The goal, is to land on our feet.  ** recovering from the cringe above ** In case my clever sarcasm evaded you, here’s my profound psychoanalytic insight, Karen- the frequent misuse of “trigger” risks flattening the emotional terrain into a steady landscape of affect. By labeling every discomfort as traumatic, the very gravity of true trauma gets diluted, and might I say, such flattening might mask deeper unconscious conflicts- cuz why not?! I mean why else would we call every discomfort traumatic only to have the genuine, painful experiences lose their nuance, and… and… and… become indistinguishable from everyday irritations? And despite that, one would say this isn’t an all hiding and masking game, for if it were, one wouldn’t experience vulnerability over performing masculinity (jk… or is it?!). This relentless labeling is not any bland fish, dear human, it carries an old conflict- between wanting to be seen and the dread of being exposed. To declare something a trigger is to simultaneously reach out for empathy and retreat from hurt. It allows the safety of isolation, with an entanglement with the other. Being “triggered” becomes the perfect halfway house- exposing just enough to evoke care but hiding enough to avoid feeling too exposed!! P.S. I know, you know, that not everything is a trigger. But I also know that everything demands to be felt! P.P.S. Hold it lightly!

It’s been a while, hasn’t it?  The kind of while that stretches in memory, layered with all the things unsaid and the silence that wasn’t quite contemplative.  I could offer you the usual litany of explanations -life happened, chaos unfolded, the therapist needed therapy, people gifted me planners, etc, etc– but you and I both know that our resistances are always more interesting than our compliance! *wink wink* So let’s just say I was busy being human, with my spectacularly ordinary humanness. But you’re here. And I’m here.  And there’s something almost redemptive about that, right? So where do we start… perhaps, from the beginnings!  Three Humans Walk Into L&F… Lost and Found has grown!! Not in the Shark Tank way- scale! expand! multiply! * eww * But in the way a thought expands when we finally find the words for it- with intent, clarity and hope.  Three brilliant therapists have joined the L&F fold, and they’ve brought with them their own unique presence, clinical depth, and a capacity to listen to the unformed. If you’ve been with me through the onboarding process, you’d know that it isn’t their CV (which I did not open till very late in the process) or the credentials (though those matter, obviously), it is their ability to make the patient think that drew me in!  It’s Shruti’s ability to hear what one’s not saying, Mihika’s attunement with the patterns one’s drawn to like a moth to flame, and Akshita’s capacity hold the contradictions one brings to the clinic- I want to change but I’m terrified of changing, I need closeness but closeness feels unbearable, I know what I should do but I can’t seem to do it. It’s reassuring to witness their work. You know where to find them, right?! (→ here) And, here’s the thing about having a team, it splits you in ways you cannot fully get a grip of. Suddenly I’m not just the therapist in the room- I’m also the supervisor trying to hold someone else’s clinical uncertainty, the colleague debating theory over chai, the person who has to remember that payroll exists. This multiplication of roles is disorienting, and seldom confusing for everyone. But it’s also, and I’m surprised to admit this, deeply joyful. There’s something profoundly un-lonely about it.  also, I can finally use ‘we’ in my writings without it referring to just me and Anar! What else?!… LinkedIn! Ahh, we’ve been conducting experiments on our LinkedIn. I spent days scrolling through that damn platform of performance and envy, wondering if I’m doing life wrong. Like it’s 9am and I haven’t achieved anything today?!! Why can’t I just fall in love with LinkedIn, like a ‘normal professional’?, I have questioned myself periodically.  The closest I have come to an answer is, for me, it feels like showing up to a costume party in my athleisure- vaguely embarrassing, and set up for failure.  That blue thing is the superego’s canvas, where every post feels demanded by a particular gaze- thou must perform unambiguous professional virtues, and garnish it with the obligatory humility. *in robotic voice* So well, we’ve decided to move away from the “thrilled to announce, delightful to share, humbled to reflect”, to the “you know what?!”. About failures. About reckonings. About wonderments. About being a therapist at a strange organisation called “Lost and Found?”. Our LinkedIn is the pre-ChatGPT era inviting you to read and think, not read and applaud! * eww, never * Lastly, we’re soon to be three!!! Three years of this thing we’ve built… half by intention, half by accident that happened between me and you. Every time someone wrote to me “I thought I was the only one who felt that way” or ”You made me think of this paper I read…” or “I didn’t get you?!”, something became more than mine.  So the plan is to curate something to mark three years that actually acknowledges this inevitable collaboration. It wouldn’t be a celebration for its own sake, but a gesture toward the fact that ideas only live between people. That psychoanalysis, at its best, is a dialogue, not a monologue. That there’s a corner for everyone in this field. Details are coming soon! Meanwhile, is three too young or too old to be where we are?! *enters anxiety* PostscriptYou might be wondering where I’ve been. The truth is- here, but not here. Writing, but not writing. Caught in what I can only experientially describe as literary psychosis- repeating and binding stories in my head, that only I can see.You probably weren’t holding your breath waiting for this newsletter, which makes it easier to return with quality, over simple noise. There’s freedom in that- in returning without fanfare, in writing because you have something to say!Perhaps, it’s my way of saying, Thank you for reading… for being patient with the gaps. Thank you for staying long enough, with the good enough. P.S. If you’re looking for a therapist, our roster has expanded. New minds, new possibilities. Check the details. P.P.S. Anardana says ‘hello!’ as she basks in the sun and uninterrupted omnipotence… already working on the next newsletter!