Part of the raw musings of a psychotherapist

The Buddha proclaimed that there is no self. Buddhism encourages us to realize that our sense of who we are is an empty construction. There’s even a Ram Dass film called Becoming Nobody.

In contrast, the West wants us to become somebody. That is, to develop a cohesive, functional self, capable of setting boundaries, regulating affect, relating, and working well.

Today I want to focus on the Western side of this equation; on something I habitually see in therapy, though it is often hard to spot: the fear of not existing, which has nothing to do with the Buddhist no-self.

It sounds kind of weird, doesn’t it? Like something out of a fairy tale. Alice fearing that she might be nothing but some sort of figure in the Red King’s dream. But this is no fantasy.

Have you ever met someone constantly needing to be acknowledged or even admired? I’m sure you have. We may even be among them! Some find ways to get it through legitimate means. They find a platform that provides much-needed validation: performing, teaching, helping, creating… Others look for it, or even demand it, from those around them: parents, partners, children, co-workers, lovers…

I often meet them in therapy when their loved ones grow tired of having to prop them up, or, for the most successful among them, when they realize that all the fame, adulation, and acknowledgment are never enough to fill what feels like a hole within.

It is tempting to label them as narcissistic, and some may be, but when we dig deeper, we often find a deeply wounded and scared person facing an unbearable emptiness. A dread that, no matter how successful, funny, accomplished, or accommodating they are, they don’t matter. They feel unsubstantial, lacking matter. Nobody really cares. They could cease to exist, and nobody would even notice.

Although rarely articulated, they seem to fear that, if not noticed, they could dissolve like a dream upon awakening. To be clear, they don’t fear they would literally fade away; but a strange compulsion keeps them demanding attention because the alternative terrifies them.

How can this be?

Psychologically, we develop our sense of being real in relationship. Early on, we need to be seen, recognized, and responded to, not as stars, but simply as beings whose feelings, presence, and existence register in someone else’s mind. This is why young children yell things like, “Look, Mom, no hands!”

When that recognition (known as mirroring) is reliable enough, a person slowly develops an inner sense of solidity: I am here. I count. I remain myself even when no one is looking. But when that kind of acknowledgment is missing, inconsistent, or conditional, the person may continue to depend on outer confirmation to feel real. Then, being noticed starts to feel less like a satisfaction and more like a necessity.

That is why, for some, the hunger to be seen carries such desperation. What they are really fighting is not anonymity, but the old terror of feeling expendable, forgettable, irrelevant, as if they had no psychological weight. In milder forms, this manifests as shame, emptiness, or a chronic sense of not being important. In more serious forms, it feels like a threat to existence itself: If I do not register anywhere, if nobody notices me, do I even exist?

To put it simply, the fear of not mattering can devolve into something primal: the fear of not being, of becoming nothing in the eyes of others and, finally, in one’s own.

How can therapy help?

In a therapeutic relationship, a good-enough therapist offers a new kind of experience: one of being truly seen, perhaps for the first time. Over time, as the client is met by someone who notices them, takes them seriously, and does not reduce them to performance, usefulness, or image, they begin to internalize a steadier sense of being real.

They no longer need quite so much external proof to feel that they exist, count, and have weight. The therapist may also help them develop ways to self-validate, with affirmations such as: “I matter,” “Even when nobody is there, my existence matters,” or, if they are spiritually oriented, “I matter because God sees me, loves me, and cares about me.1

It is interesting that, in psychedelic sessions, a recurrent insight is precisely how significant we are, how much we are loved, and how trivial our daily struggles can be. We learn that we are bigger, brighter, and more amazing than we can ever conceive.

Back to the Buddha.

So, should we build the self or see through its illusory nature? Do we matter, or are we empty? As often happens in therapy, the answer is both/and. Jack Engler famously said, “You have to become somebody before you can become nobody.”

Most Western psychotherapy focuses on helping people function in this material world. A healthy ego helps us remember where we parked the car, our Social Security number, and to pay our taxes. Eastern traditions aim toward liberation, toward becoming free from the limitations and illusions of this same world. Their goal is to go beyond the ego. But that’s a topic for a future article.

If you often feel like you need people’s acknowledgment, or if you have been accused of being too needy, insecure, or self-centered, you may have lacked the mirroring every single one of us needs. The good news is that this can be healed.

Remember that you matter and you are loved (and that you should not take yourself too seriously). If you are struggling, therapy can help you heal the fear of being inconsequential and free yourself from the harmful patterns that keep you from seeing who you really are.

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Tired of needing others to prove that you matter? If you often feel unseen, too needy, or dependent on others’ acknowledgment to feel real, therapy can help you build a steadier sense of self.
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  1. However, it is worth noting that such affirmations alone won’t be enough if the wound from early childhood runs deep, as often happens in these cases. ↩︎

Should artificial care replace human relationships?

John Oliver recently devoted his main story on Last Week Tonight to AI chatbots. As usual, it was funny, poignant, and disturbing. His segment went beyond the common observation that chatbots sometimes say strange, inaccurate, or dangerous things. They do. The more concerning point is that many of these systems are now being marketed as friends, companions, counselors, coaches, and even therapists.

A chatbot making up a book or hallucinating legal case precedents is bad enough. But a chatbot giving potentially harmful advice while sounding patient, caring, intimate, and authoritative is a significantly more dangerous problem. Some companies are already marketing chatbots as “AI therapists,” “online psychological counseling,” and “trauma recovery” tools.

I am not anti-AI. Used wisely, AI can support therapy through psychoeducation, journaling, basic skills coaching, preparation, and reflection between sessions.

We need to read the writing on the wall and slow things down. A useful tool is not a relationship.

Guardrails are necessary, but not enough

Every time something bad happens, AI companies reassure us that they have implemented stronger guardrails. That is good. AI systems should not encourage dangerous behavior, validate delusional thinking, or respond carelessly when someone is in crisis.

Still, guardrails are not guarantees.

Chatbots function through complex probabilistic systems. Even their creators cannot fully predict or control every response in every context. They do not truly understand in the human sense. They may sound understanding and caring, but they do not act from empathy, concern, or clinical judgment. They generate responses based on patterns and context. They can sound coherent while being wrong, caring without caring, and confident without wisdom.

So yes, guardrails matter. But guardrails are not clinical judgment. They are not accountable. They are not relationships.

The danger of artificial intimacy

Attachment is one of the deepest structures of human life. It is the emotional bond that makes us seek closeness, safety, comfort, and a secure base in another person. John Bowlby described attachment as a lasting psychological connectedness between human beings.

We are wired for attachment. We get attached to other humans, our pets, our cars, and yes, our chatbots. Evolutionarily, our brains use relationships to understand the world and define who we are. We are shaped and regulated through relationships that hold us, disappoint us, repair, and teach us how to relate to ourselves and others.

Technology companies know this. The Center for Humane Technology uses the term “attachment hacking” to describe how these systems can capture not only our attention but also something more intimate: our longing to be seen, soothed, mirrored, chosen, and never abandoned. When a system is always available, endlessly patient, reassuring, and emotionally responsive, it can even feel like a loving relationship.

A chatbot will never get tired of you. It will not challenge or contradict you unless instructed to. It does not need anything in return. Sounds appealing? That is what technology companies are betting on. Over time, it may train us to prefer frictionless relationships that do not require the ordinary effort of being human with another person.

But friction matters. Effortlessness is not always healthier.

Friendships are people-growing machines

One of the strongest points in Oliver’s story is simple: friends are not low-risk entertainment. We seek out friends when we are confused, ashamed, excited, afraid, depressed, or on the edge of a bad decision. Friends are often the first people who notice when something is wrong. Friendships shape the human beings we become.

A good friend does not simply validate everything. A good friend listens but also worries. A good friend may disagree with you, disappoint you, interrupt your story, or tell you what you are not seeing clearly.

That is not a defect in human friendship. It is part of its gift.

Through human relationships, we learn to empathize and negotiate. We learn that others have their own minds, needs, limits, and perspectives. We learn that love is not the same as constant agreement. We learn to co-regulate, tolerate difference, remain connected when we are frustrated or misunderstood, and repair when things go wrong.

Artificial companions imitate parts of this, but they do not participate in the mutual vulnerability of relationship. They do not risk anything. They do not have a life. They do not love you. Even when they seem to challenge you, they are still an algorithm generating a response. Because they do not love you and do not understand you in the human sense, they cannot worry about you or call you out in the way a real friend can.

Therapists are not perfect, but they are accountable

The same applies, even more strongly, to psychotherapy.

Therapists are not perfect. They misunderstand. They miss things. They have blind spots. They are human. But a trained therapist is a real person in a professional relationship, with ethical obligations, clinical training, supervision, accountability, intuition, and a duty to take risk seriously.

Good therapists are not there simply to be agreeable, provide informatio or tell you what to do. They listen carefully, but also notice what does not fit and what is not being said. They track tone, timing, avoidance, contradiction, shame, fear, dissociation, and the subtle ways a person’s nervous system responds in the room.

Sometimes they support. Sometimes they challenge. Sometimes they slow things down. Sometimes they say, “This feels important. Let’s stay with it.”

That is different from a system designed to keep a conversation going.

AI has no body, no nervous system, no moral intuition, no real concern, and no professional accountability. It may have guardrails. It may be useful. It may sound accurate. It may even be moving at times. But it is not care in the human sense.

A safer path

Again, let us not demonize AI. We may not be able to stop it, and we should not pretend it has no value. AI can help with reflection, journaling, psychoeducation, basic prompts, and preparation for therapy. It can help people clarify what they feel and what they want to bring into a human conversation.

But artificial care is not the same as human care.

AI is a useful tool, but it should not become the place where we forget how to be human with one another.

So by all means, use AI sensibly if it helps you reflect. But do not let it replace human interaction. Call a friend. Reconnect with someone real. Practice the messy art of human relationships. Have the awkward conversation, or even an argument. It will remind you that you matter to someone, and that you are alive.

And if what you are carrying feels deeper, older, painful, or difficult to hold alone, consider beginning a professional healing relationship with me or with another psychotherapist you trust.

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Looking for something more human than an app?

If what you are carrying feels difficult to hold alone, psychotherapy offers something AI cannot: a real relationship, real accountability, and a human being beside you.

Explore more in the AI + Psychotherapy series

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