“Improv masks it, makes it fun. Like, oh, yeah, I'm just playing this silly game. But then when we sit and we start to debrief what that game brought up for us, we see that it brought up a lot more than just funny space aliens.”

Shannon Stott’s approach to improv isn’t just about laughter—it’s about listening to your body, accessing your truth, and practicing how you want to move through the world. In this conversation, Logan Kim and Shannon dive deep into how playful, low-stakes games can help us explore identity, make intentional choices, and connect more fully with ourselves and others.

“Most of the moments that we have are actually low stakes,” Shannon reflects. “And improv helps us remember that it’s possible to be right here—in this moment—making one choice at a time.”

For years, I carried anxiety without knowing what to call it—just a constant hum in the background. Hiking changed that. Time outdoors offered me something other grounding practices hadn’t: a calm, clear presence in my body and mind. In this post, I explore how nature became a transformative part of my healing journey, how it deepened my sense of self-trust, and how embodiment plays a key role in therapy for anxiety and disconnection.

When someone we love is grieving, most of us freeze. We're not taught how to help, and our discomfort gets in the way. This post offers practical, compassionate ways to show up—without relying on worn-out phrases or emotional guesswork.

True authenticity isn’t about perfection or polished outcomes. It’s about the willingness to risk being fully seen. Practicing a conversation doesn’t have to be a form of manipulation or performance. It can be a way to stay more grounded and present, to get clearer about what we need to say and why.

Sometimes I gaslight myself. I think something’s really wrong, but then I spiral—‘Doctors say I’m fine, so maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m the problem.’ And then you’re in this Spoonie loop: physical health, mental health, anxiety, self-blame. It’s relentless. And when your symptoms are invisible, it’s even harder to trust yourself…

“It sucks here, but sometimes it’s kind of nice.” That’s how we describe the Spooniverse. This group—of therapists who also live with chronic illness—wasn’t built to fix anything. It was built so we could stop doing it alone. We talk about grief, weird symptoms, feeling like a burden, and yes, peeing our pants. But we also laugh—a lot. Because even when bodies fail us, connection doesn’t.

For those of us who have grown up as siblings of individuals with disabilities with high support needs, it can feel strange (or even wrong) to acknowledge the complexity of that experience. Many of us carry deep care and fierce loyalty toward our siblings, but also feelings of confusion, frustration, sadness, or loss. These emotions can be hard to name, especially in an ableist world that continually devalues disabled lives.

One of the ways I know therapy is going well is when it starts to feel like we’re freestyling together. Not because we’re rapping (though I wouldn’t be mad about that), but because there’s a shared flow—a mutual presence and rhythm to our interaction. We’re co-creating something in real time, improvising with whatever is happening in the moment, not from a rehearsed script, polished character, or careful performance.

What happens when men are encouraged to cut off parts of themselves to fit into a narrow definition of masculinity? In this honest, nuanced conversation, three male therapists unpack how traditional gender norms shape emotional isolation—and how therapy offers a space to reconnect with tenderness, vulnerability, and real relational strength.

For the next four years or so I became stiffened and afraid to do things that might compromise my body’s integrity. My mind fixated on the faintest of sensations rising in my gut, my throat, my chest… It only took a few moments of poking and examining myself to succumb to yet another panic attack. I began to feel sore in the places I’d continually examined and this only further contributed to the notion that my body was a time bomb ticking its way toward disintegration. It was utterly exhausting, but it bled into the interpersonal realm as well.

I’ve written up until now about how this impacted my mental health on an individual level but that doesn’t tell the full story and it isn’t the whole story when it comes to health anxiety. You see, after months of doctors visits and emergency room trips in the hopes of gaining clarity on what was so wrong with me, I had to face the realization that, physically at least, I wasn’t in such a dire state as I’d come to believe.