Full Focus Counseling
Scott Thode, LPC
What does it mean to care?
Is it a feeling? On some level, sure. But that’s just a starting point.
A thought? It probably involves thinking too, but we shouldn’t stop there.
Action? Yes, absolutely. Action may be the most central ingredient. But there is more to it, especially with the highest forms of caring.
Dedication and time? Yes and yes.
A kind of formula is beginning to emerge. And as we travel down it, we run into deeper and deeper levels of care.
What we care most about tends to involve a sustained combination of feeling, thought, action, and dedication over the course of time.
Insofar that this is a generally accurate way of conceptualizing and scaling “care,” it can help us assess what we care about most in life. The question is this: what are the things you actually direct feeling, thought, action, dedication, and time towards?
I’m painfully aware of the defensiveness questions like this can evoke. Some people may sense an inner disconnect and take a quick U-turn right out of this topic. There’s a reason people say “ignorance is bliss.” Others may engage in mental gymnastics, bending and folding logic so that their way of life appears to be in alignment with what they claim to care about.
Exploring what really matters to us is an uncomfortable subject, and it can take courage to address it honestly, especially if there is dissonance between what we say we care about and where our energy actually goes.
So again, what do you truly care about? At least be real with yourself.
Let’s make things a bit more complicated. Maybe you have strong feelings about a cause, relationship, or a creative project and have spent countless hours thinking about it, yet something is holding you back from action. What is that something? What would, if anything, constitute a valid excuse?
On the flip side, what are you acting towards that your heart and mind are misaligned with? You may think of this as “going through the motions.” But sometimes, there are good reasons to go through the motions. What would those reasons be?
Clearly, I have more questions than answers, but that’s kind of my intent.
My hypothesis is that many people haven’t intentionally defined what’s important to them or seriously investigated what it means to care. After all, a lot of us live on autopilot, even while frequently noticing that something seems off. “Eh, but it’s really not that deep. Put your head down and get back to it,” one might think. Meanwhile, it could be whatever you’re getting back to that lies at the root of the problem.
Studying this sense of offness can help us break free of acting like we care when we don’t— or even better, it can challenge us to move into deeper levels of care so that we can live in alignment with our values.
Feeling. Thought. Action. Dedication. Time. It means a lot to care. Are you up to it?
Confidence is a confusing word, so I should first be clear about what I mean. It seems to me that most people use the term confidence to refer to some kind of elevated feeling state. Whether it’s a little extra spark or something more grandiose, the popular use of confidence implies that we need a heightened mood in order to perform well, succeed in life, or even to just be ourselves.
From this perspective, confidence is overrated.
Of course, feeling confident feels awesome. And yes, when you have it, use it and build off the momentum. There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s true, the feeling of confidence is great at overriding stress, doubt, and anxiety for a while. But only for a while. The problem is when the momentum runs out, and other feeling states move in. What do you do then?
Confidence is fickle. Some days you wake up with it. Others not so much. If we over-rely on it, we run the risk of becoming mood dependent. When we feel good, we do good. When we don’t, we get caught up in our head, check out, and come up with excuses.
I have good news though. There are better models for human performance. Instead of feeling confident, I prefer to look at preparation and perseverance as the more important components.
Let’s start with preparation. Unlike confidence, you can’t really fake it. I mean, you can lie about it, but deep down you either know you’ve done the work or not. If you can say with honesty “I’m prepared,” it doesn’t matter so much whether you feel confident.
A genuine belief in one’s preparation turns into self-trust. And trust is earned, not given. Self-trust is deep. It transcends the realm of surface feelings. Feeling confident, unconfident, anxious, doubtful, pumped up? Doesn’t matter. You’re prepared, and you deserve to trust yourself. That’s what really counts.
This may sound like a strange idea: It’s possible to still trust yourself while feeling unconfident. Think about it. What does “feeling unconfident” actually refer to? Isn’t it just an interpretation of some form of nervous system activity? A jittery wave of bodily energy, perhaps? You don’t necessarily have control over this feeling, but you do have control over whether you assign importance to it.
Waves of energy don’t have to mean anything at all. Feeling states come and go. But self-trust can be the solid ground from which you operate.
Now the other piece to the puzzle: Perseverance. You ever heard that Mike Tyson quote? Something like, “Everyone has a gameplan until they get punched in the face.” That’s life. You know you’re prepared, but life punches you in the face sometimes. This has happened before, and it will happen again.
In boxing, there is a phrase used to describe a fighter that can take a punch. “He has a good chin,” they say. Perseverance is gritty like that, and it builds self-trust too. Every time you persist through something hard, you’re providing yourself with evidence that you can take a punch—that you have a good chin.
When you commit to perseverance, you stay in it. You keep giving yourself a chance until all reasonable options have been exhausted. Maybe you get off to a choppy start, maybe something unexpected happens, maybe the sky falls. Regardless, perseverance helps us navigate those aspects of life that we can’t prepare for. It gives us a way through the chaos.
To conclude, if you focus on preparation and perseverance, you’re working with something far more reliable than confidence. As you very well know, confidence may no-show. But no worries. Preparation gives you the ground to stand on. Perseverance keeps you moving forward. And together, they form a foundation you can trust.
When we’re little, we start learning about our body parts. We even sing songs about them—”Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes,” “The Hokey Pokey,” and others. Very early in life, we physically locate ourselves in the world by naming what’s part of us, and our social environment reinforces this curiosity.
But what about the parts of the mind?
We might get vague hints that the mind has something like parts. Many of us are exposed to the idea, in one way or another, that the “head” and “heart” can be in conflict. Or we notice that sometimes we think or feel one thing but say or do another. But mostly, we go through life using our mental head, shoulders, knees, and toes… without ever realizing we have them.
Granted, the mind is more complicated and abstract, so educational songwriters have their work cut out for the psychological version of “The Hokey Pokey” (as long as they don’t use ChatGPT). Even so, there’s a real need for clearer ways to understand our inner worlds and to see our mind and self as made up of many parts working together.
There’s a therapy called Internal Family Systems (IFS), which is relevant to this topic. Basically, IFS proposes that our mind is not a single, unified voice, but rather, an internal community or family made up of distinct parts, each with its own role, perspective, and emotions.
Although I accept the central premise of IFS—that the mind has parts—I am not a fan of the verbiage it uses to describe said parts. Therapy, in general, has a relatability problem. A lot of the language we use ends up sounding mystical, overly clinical, or just plain corny. You know, either leaning too far into woo-woo or trying way too hard to sound smart.
So, here’s my attempt to name some of the core parts of the mind hopefully using more straightforward language.
- Vulnerable Self: This part of the mind holds our emotional sensitivities, deepest values and beliefs, unmet needs, fears, insecurities, and significant past memories. I want to make it clear that the Vulnerable Self doesn’t just store “negative” contents, which is often associated with other therapeutic models. Rather, it stores meaningful contents—which can be positive, negative, or a mix of both.
- Defense System: This part of the mind perceives threats (both internal and external) and protects the Vulnerable Self. It includes what are commonly known as our defense mechanisms. The patterns of the Defense System have a natural pull towards what’s emotionally familiar and habitual, not necessarily what’s effective.
- Rational Brain: This part of the mind is knowledgeable, reasonable, and practical. It helps us think critically, make plans, analyze situations, and solve problems. However, it’s susceptible to being hijacked by the Defense System, rationalizing unhelpful patterns under the guise of logic. It’s also prone to frustration when other parts don’t cooperate.
- Wise Self: This part integrates the other parts of the mind into a coherent whole and can guide behavior accordingly. That said, the Wise Self can be limited when other parts dominate or are cut off, which is quite common. In order to function optimally, the Wise Self must have access to the Vulnerable Self, an understanding of the Defense System, and receive input from the Rational Brain. It also requires a calm presence of mind to do its work, which can take a lot of practice to cultivate.
This is by no means an exhaustive list. It’s just a starting point. The goal is to see the mind as a system of interconnected parts. This helps us work with, not against, our inner contradictions. It reduces judgment and opens space to explore the deeper functions of our thoughts, feelings, and behaviors.
And instead of just beating ourselves up for the last dumb thing we did, we can begin asking: What part of me is this serving?
Problems can feel like a dark landscape, and the way we think about them is like a flashlight. Shift the beam even slightly, and what once felt overwhelming becomes navigable.
As a therapist, I think a lot about how people approach problems. I’m always keeping in mind whether a change in perspective can modulate the stress response— which, in turn, opens the door to relatively calmer, clearer, and more adaptive thinking.
When struggling with a problem, I find it useful to ask myself (and my clients) the following question: Is there another way to think about this? Even if I stick with my initial way of thinking, it’s good to have options. Options mean I have a choice, and having a choice is empowering, and being empowered means I’m probably feeling less stress. Simple logic, healthy outcome.
Expectations are key too. Here’s an expectation worthy of reflection: There will always be problems. Let go of the idea that you can eliminate them all. Being a human being on this planet means that there will be problems. Don’t let that fact become another problem.
Interpersonal problems are especially common. It’s imperative that we recognize the limitations of framing these problems from a place of control. Another mind is at work, and unless we want to resort to coercion (which can be immoral and illegal), we need to account for the possibility that the other mind is going to act in accordance with its own will. So, instead of control, we might want to frame interpersonal problems through the lens of influence, persuasion, flexibility, or acceptance.
“Work the problem, don’t let the problem work you.” Do you know much about concrete foundations? Me neither, but I’m learning. I have a short story that illustrates this idea.
After a heavy rain last summer, I found water in my basement. Naturally I was angry and worried— because, well, that’s what you’re supposed to do if you find out your foundation is leaking. Still, my distress was serving a purpose, although I was slow to fully recognize it. It helped me detect that the problem was working me, not the other way around. Eventually, I was able to connect with a sense of calm curiosity, which allowed me to discover potential solutions without the added fluster.
It seems to be a reflex of the mind to assume we must be unhappy to solve problems. But I’m not so sure this has to be the case. It’s at least worth it to run a different experiment. I heard this question from someone the other day, and I think it’s a good place to start: How unhappy do I need to be to solve this problem?
Sometimes there can be significant resistance to changing our approach to problems. We cling to what’s familiar, even if it’s no longer serving us. But when we are willing to dig a little deeper, something interesting happens. We realize there’s a wiser way forward. Often, it’s the subtle shift in perspective that reveals a new path.
I wrote a poem about an ocean wave. It’s a true story.
I was in the ocean once
Floating on my back
Minding my business
The waters were quite calm
I was at peace
Unexpectedly
A wave caught me
Rolled me over
Slammed me against the ocean floor
My body thrashed uncontrollably
Salt water torpedoed through my nose
There was nothing I could do
Then the wave let up
And it was over
I found myself
On the shore
Banged up a bit
And a little dazed
But I was okay
I stood up
Walked back out into the ocean
To float on my back once more.
Sometimes we are peacefully floating on our backs when something unexpected happens, and our lives are thrown into chaos. You did nothing wrong. There’s no one really to be mad at either. Things just happen sometimes.
In a microcosm, that’s what my experience in the ocean represents.
When we get swept up in a wave, we have no choice but to go with it and accept the loss of control for a while. It’s so important, though, to remind ourselves that the wave will eventually let up. No need to resist. Just ride the wave, and if we pay close attention, we’ll notice when we’ve made it back to shore.
The wave analogy captures something about the human condition. Nature is powerful. And it’s not just physical nature like oceans and mountains and storms, but psychological nature as well, like depression and anxiety and confusion.
Heavy feelings and the thoughts that accompany them are pieces of nature too. We can hate them all we want, but they deserve our respect. And maybe even our curiosity.
The shore— this is another important metaphor. We have to notice once we’ve made it back to shore because that’s when we’ve regained a sense of control. We can stand up again, look out at what’s in front of us, and begin charting a path forward.
Strangely, the shore can be hard to notice sometimes. The water is plenty calm and shallow enough, yet it feels as if we can’t stand. This is when we can become attached to pain, and if we aren’t careful, helplessness can become our identity. So it’s deeply important to realize when you’re back on the shore. The wave is no longer dictating what you do. There may be wounds that need continued care, but a sense of agency is restored.
In other words, I’m talking about resilience.
What an interesting concept: Resilience. I never get tired of pondering it. I’m moved when I see it in others. I feel proud when I can find it within myself. Life can be brutal at times, no question about it. Yet resilience is woven into the human spirit. It’s there for all of us if we are willing to notice.
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