21 July, 2025

Gratitude for the Things We Don’t Think About

 A few days ago, I was at a 99 Speedmart waiting to check out. In front of me was a man trying to pay for several bags of all-purpose flour. He looked like he might have been a wait-staff from one of the nearby mamak restaurants.

While I waited, I overheard him apologizing to the cashier, saying he only had RM12 – apparently not enough to cover the items he had chosen. The cashier didn’t look pleased. She glanced sharply at him and repeated, “You only have RM12?” Then she muttered something under her breath, tapped the register keys, and pulled out her phone – possibly to call a supervisor or get a code to cancel the order.

The man pushed back two bags of flour. It looked like he only had RM10 in hand. I quietly asked how much more he needed. He showed me his money – one RM10 bill and two RM1s – and said he was short by RM2.

I checked my wallet and happened to have three RM1 bills. I handed him two. He hesitated for a moment and asked how he could pay me back. I told him not to worry about it. He accepted the money and handed it to the cashier.

She glanced at me, almost as if to ask, “Are you sure?” I nodded, and she resumed processing the transaction.

The man thanked me again – a few times – and even asked if I’d stop by the restaurant where he works so he could return the money. I assured him it really wasn’t necessary. It wasn’t a big deal. I paid for my own items, and that was that.

I’ve seen many videos like this on social media with strangers quietly stepping in to help someone else in line. And here I was, with the chance to do the same. Not because I’m a saint and certainly not because I’m trying to be Mother Teresa. But just … because I could. And in that moment, RM2 really wasn’t that much of a deal to me – but that’s the thing because it clearly meant something to him.

If I’m completely honest, I wasn’t thinking of those videos in that moment. And I certainly wasn’t gleeful to have a chance to “do good.” Part of me just wanted to move things along. I was in a bit of a rush and figured, if RM2 helped him settle his bill so I could pay mine, why not?

Maybe that sounds self-serving. But here’s the thing: even when we don’t act from a perfectly noble place, a small gesture can still mean a lot to someone else. And that counts too.

I did find myself hoping I hadn’t come across as condescending when I said, “It’s no big deal.” Because for someone else, even RM1 might be a big deal. We just never know.

That moment stayed with me. It reminded me that, despite the ups and downs in our lives, there’s still so much we can be grateful for. So many “little” things we take for granted – not  out of arrogance or a sense of entitlement, but simply because they’ve become so common, so normal. We forget how much of a privilege that really is.

Today, I just want to remind myself of the many things I may have come to take for granted.

Family members and friends – some I may not see often, some I may not always feel fully “in sync” with – but they’re there. Maybe not always beside me, but always with me.

The aches and pains that show up now and then … but also the strength and health that allow me to do what I love, to keep going, to live this life.

I may not always get the food I’m craving at any given moment, but I never go hungry. There’s always something – and often, more than enough.

It’s not about guilt. It’s not about comparing pain. It’s just … remembering what a privilege it is to have “enough.” And to not overlook the quiet abundance that lives in the background of my life.



17 July, 2025

How Existential Therapy Complements Inner Child Work, Echo Self, and Narrative Therapy

 


Yesterday, I sat in on a lecture at Sunway University on Existential Therapy – a topic that resonated deeply with me back in my university years.

Having been in the field of psychotherapy, psychological coaching, and consultation for years, I often hear clients ask me:

“Which approach is best – Existential Therapy, Narrative Therapy, or something like Inner Child work?” This type of question is fairly common: people often compare one form of therapy against another. Today, I’m reflecting specifically on these three approaches.

And my answer is usually:

“They’re not either/or – they can actually dance together.”

Existential Therapy invites us to ask life’s big questions:
Why am I here? What truly matters to me? How do I live fully, knowing life is uncertain and limited?

These questions can feel heavy at first – but they’re deeply human.
They help us look honestly at freedom, responsibility, connection, mortality — and meaning.

So how does Existential Therapy complement some of the other approaches I use?

With Echo Self work
We explore the small, often hidden voices shaped by the past.
Existential reflection helps us ask:

Once we’ve noticed these echoes, existential reflection invites us to ask:
“What do I choose to do next?
How can I live more authentically, instead of only reacting to old patterns?”

The Echo Self process helps us notice and welcome these inner voices;
Existential inquiry then helps us decide:
“Given this, what meaning do I want to create now?”

With Narrative Therapy
We rewrite the stories we tell about ourselves.
Existential work deepens this by asking:

Beyond the story, what values and choices do I want to embody?
Am I living in line with what matters most to me?

Together, they help us see that we’re not prisoners of old narratives –
we’re the current authors of the story still unfolding.

With Inner Child Healing
We reconnect with wounded, forgotten, or playful parts of ourselves.
Existential reflection then asks:

Knowing these parts exist, how do I create a life that honours them?
What responsibility do I have to care for them and live truthfully?

Why bring these together?

Because being human is complex:

·       We carry past hurts (inner child & echoes)

·       We tell stories about who we are (narrative)

·       And we still have to choose how to live meaningfully today (existential)

No single approach is enough by itself.
But woven together, they help us heal, understand, and – perhaps most importantly – choose who we want to be, starting now.

What about you?
Do big questions like “Who am I?” or “What truly matters to me?” feel exciting, scary – or both?
If you’re willing, I’d love to hear what comes up for you.


16 July, 2025

Is Labeling Someone “Neurodivergent” Helpful — or Harmful?

 I’ve been thinking about this lately.

More and more young people I meet – clients, students, even friends – describe themselves as neurodivergent. Sometimes with relief, sometimes with quiet uncertainty.

And I find myself asking:

Does this label truly help? Or could it also hurt?

On one hand, naming our difference can feel liberating.
It can say:

·       “You’re not broken; you’re simply wired differently.”

·       “There are others like you.”

·       “Your challenges and strengths have a context – you’re not alone.”

It can open doors to support, accommodations, and self-understanding.
It can help someone let go of years of shame for “not being normal.”

But on the other hand …
Labels can also become cages.

·       They can turn into fixed identities: “This is who I am — nothing more, nothing less.”

·       They can become shields: “I can’t help it; I’m just neurodivergent.”

·       And sometimes, society hears the label and sees only limitation, rather than possibility.

So, I wonder …
Is the power of the label not in the word itself, but in how we hold it?
Not as a box, but as a lens – something that clarifies, but doesn’t confine.
A starting point for self-compassion and curiosity, not an ending point for growth.

Perhaps what matters most is remembering:
You are always more than any label — even one that helps explain your story.

These are just my musings today, as I sit and reflect.
What do you think?
If you’ve been labeled – or have claimed a label for yourself – did it feel freeing, limiting, or a bit of both?

Feel free to share if you’d like.
I’m still learning, too.

15 July, 2025

When “Don’t Apologize” Misses the Point

 Reflections on Accountability and Connection

Somewhere along the line, we were told:

“Don’t say sorry. Say thank you.”
Instead of, “Sorry I’m late,” try, “Thank you for waiting.”

At first glance, it sounds empowering – a way to stay confident, keep conversations positive, and avoid self-blame.

But recently, after receiving a note that read “Thanks for the patience” – without acknowledging weeks of unkept deadlines – I paused to reflect.

Does this approach risk something important?
Could it subtly teach us to skip accountability?

A genuine apology isn’t about self-shame. It’s about recognising impact:

“I’m sorry I kept you waiting.”
“Thank you for waiting.”

These two can coexist beautifully.

Avoiding every apology might protect our image of confidence, but it can also distance us from real human connection. We might appear polished, but not fully present. And in professional life, as in personal life, trust often grows not from perfection, but from ownership and sincerity.

The same applies to the difference between guilt and shame:

  • Guilt reminds us we’ve acted outside our values – it invites repair.
  • Shame tells us we are flawed – it isolates.

A thoughtful apology acknowledges guilt (a healthy conscience) without falling into shame.

Maybe it’s not either/or.
Maybe what relationships need most isn’t the erasure of “sorry,” but the courage to say:

I’m sorry for the delay – and thank you for your patience.

Owning what’s ours. Appreciating what’s given.
Both are human. And both keep us connected.

What’s been your experience with this advice?
Has it helped – or sometimes felt hollow?

Do feel free to share your thoughts, if you'd like, even if your perspective differs, In fact, especially if it does.

Thank you. Namaste. 🙏

11 July, 2025

When a Question becomes a Mirror

 

This past week, I was invited to speak to a cohort of young individuals in training to become psychologists. My talk focused on Narrative Therapy – specifically, how I, as an eclectic consultant-psychologist, apply it in my practice.

Following my presentation, one of the attendees – a very bright young man – asked me: “Doesn’t saying ‘I don’t believe in absolutes’ become an absolute too?”

It was such a beautifully alive question.
And he was right (even “absolutely” right)
😊
That’s the paradox of it all: rejecting absolutes can so easily harden into its own hidden certainty.

I explained to him: it isn’t that I insist there are absolutely no absolutes.
It’s that I choose to live and teach from a place of openness – gently resisting the pull to make even that idea fixed and final.

On my slides used for that presentation, I hadn’t declared a universal truth. Instead, I’d offered reminders:
– Truth and meaning are subjective and shaped by context
– It’s more fruitful to explore many perspectives than cling to one
– Your map is not the territory (a NLP presupposition)

For me, this isn’t about proving something.
It’s about staying curious enough to notice when my own views can potentially start turning into rigid truths.

And yes, even this approach isn’t perfect – which itself is the lesson: we live among paradoxes.
And our work isn’t to erase them, but to notice, observe, and welcome them.

I’m very thankful for his question, because it mirrored something back to me:
That we all need these voices – sometimes external, sometimes internal – to remind us to pause and ask:
– What do I hold as always true?
– How might that serve or limit me?
– Could I hold it more lightly?

In that way, even a question from someone else becomes an echo within – nudging me toward deeper self-awareness.




10 July, 2025

Echoes We Still Carry: A Conversation that Became a Mirror

Last night, a friend reminded me of old comments from people who once hurt me – words I clearly still carried inside.

At first, I felt a small flicker of pain – a sign the echo was still alive.

Then she said something that struck me:

Their comments are painful enough for you to remember even now … but if we asked them, they probably wouldn’t remember at all. Yet we’re still living with it.

My immediate reaction was to deny it, to insist that I wasn’t hurt or resentful. That was, in fact, how I’d responded a year ago when this came up.

But this time, I paused. I stopped.

She was right.
Those memories – these echoes – still lived in me, not as loud voices anymore, but as something quietly reverberating inside: shaping my beliefs, colouring my reactions, perhaps even limiting my choices.

Then I realised: this echo isn’t here to shame me.
It’s here to invite me to ask: Do I still want to carry this story?

I told my friend:

These echoes don’t go away because we bury them.
They go quiet when we welcome them, re-author them, and bring them home.
Not to erase the past, but to let the story become softer, kinder, truer.

It isn’t about making them remember, or making them apologise.
It’s about me remembering who I am, and choosing what meaning I carry forward.

Letting go isn’t forgetting.
It’s transforming.
And it begins with three gentle steps: Noticing, Observing, and Welcoming.





30 June, 2025

More Than Survival: Bridging Medicine & the Human Spirit in Cancer Care

 Today's entry is little different from those I've been writing in the past few days. While this still carries some of my thoughts and reflection - it isn't so much about my own personal evolving (well, I am sure that's arguable - but I believe you will know what I mean). It's still my reflection - and how I view the subject matter (what I am writing about in this article).

So, anyway - here it goes:

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Growing up, I remember the word “cancer” was a huge taboo – at best, people whispered it as the “C” word. Even today, in 2025, it’s still a word that stops conversations.

Over the years, I’ve sat with clients who whispered it, shouted it, or tried not to say it at all.
And closer to home, I’ve watched loved ones walk that path – sometimes living far beyond what statistics predicted, reminding me that numbers can’t fully measure the human will to live, to hope, to keep going.

In those moments, I’ve wondered: what would it feel like to hold both?
The clinical precision of medicine – statistics, treatment plans, measurable outcomes – and the softer, resilient strength of hope, belief, and the mind-body spirit that can’t be graphed or charted as easily.

1.   The Two Perspectives (explained without judgment)

Clinical / Medical View
Purpose: Diagnose, stage, and treat disease – targeting tumors, cells, and biomarkers.
Strengths:

·     Evidence-based treatments (surgery, chemotherapy, radiotherapy)

·     Reduces tumor burden, prolongs life, sometimes achieves remission

·     Provides measurable outcomes to guide care

Limitations:

·     Risks reducing the person to “case X, stage II”

·     Can overlook emotional, existential, and spiritual distress that accompany illness


Mind-Body / Holistic View
Purpose: Recognizes cancer as not only a disease of cells, but an experience touching  
                 the whole person – body, mind, and spirit.
Strengths:

·     Addresses fear, loss, identity, and meaning

·     Uses tools like guided imagery, mindfulness, hypnotherapy to reduce anxiety and pain

·     Supports treatment adherence and overall well-being

Limitations:

·     Risks being dismissed as “unscientific” if poorly integrated

·     Overpromising can create guilt (“You didn’t fight hard enough”)

 

Analogy:
The clinical view is like a microscope – sharp, precise, focused on disease.
The mind-body view is like a wide lens – seeing the whole person, their story, and context.
Together, we see more clearly.

 

2.     Why Awareness Matters
During my years working in cancer awareness, oncologists and survivors alike often reminded me: “Don’t let the numbers define the person.”
Survival rates matter – but so does remembering that some will belong to the group that heals, not just the group that succumbs.
Hope isn’t false when it’s grounded in compassion, honesty, and possibility.

For clinicians:

·      Avoid purely technical language; speak to the human being, not only the tumor

·      Recognize fear, grief, and anger as normal – not “non-compliance”

·      Refer to psychosocial or integrative care where possible

For families & patients:

·     Use medical advice as a solid anchor, but also seek emotional and spiritual support

·     Explore practices that nurture hope and resilience: mindfulness, prayer, support groups

·     Redefine “fighting cancer” beyond just a physical endeavour

Shared risks if we don’t bridge these views:

·     Pathologizing natural fear or sadness

·     Missing social or spiritual distress that undermines healing

·     Letting survival statistics overshadow a person’s lived reality

 

3.     Bridging the Gap (Practical Steps)

For healthcare teams:

·      Use medical precision to treat disease and remember the story around it

·      Integrate psychosocial support, mindfulness, palliative care, and patient-centered dialogue

·      Frame hope not as denial, but as part of human resilience

For families & patients:

·      Embrace both clinical care and holistic tools

·      Challenge narratives that reduce identity to diagnosis

·      Seek support groups, mentors, or therapists who see the whole person

Shared action:

·      Advocate for integrative oncology – an evidence-informed approach combining conventional medicine with mind-body and lifestyle support

·      Push for environments that foster dignity and connection, not just treatment

 

Closing Invitation

I share these reflections not as an oncologist, but as a psychologist who believes in the mind-body – and spirit – connection; and as someone who has seen, both personally and professionally, how deeply cancer touches more than the body alone.


My hope is that each person facing cancer is seen as more than a diagnosis: as a parent, sibling, child, friend, dreamer – still growing, still loving, still becoming.

And perhaps, by bringing together what science offers and what the heart remembers, we can create a gentler, wiser way to walk this path – so that living with cancer becomes not only about surviving, but about truly living.

Note:
These reflections come from my experience and observations in mind-body healing.
I am not an oncology specialist – simply someone striving to make a small difference by sharing what I’ve come to know – and staying open to what others might teach me through their stories.

 

Dr Sylvester J Lim PsyD, CHt, NCAPS, MCMA
Consultant Psychologist, Clinical Hypnotherapist, Psychological (Life Coach)
NOW Mind Body Healing Centre

 





28 June, 2025

Beyond the Label: The Dance Between Knowing and Becoming

Continuing from my earlier post/entry:  Between Discipline and Drift

I’ve noticed this same tension appear in another form:
Diagnosis. Evidence-based frameworks. Labels.

As a clinician and consultant, I’ve never been against science.
I respect the clarity a diagnosis can bring:
It gives language to suffering. Helps professionals communicate. Sometimes even brings relief to a client: “Ah, that’s what this is.”

And yet … part of me hesitates.

Not because I reject science – but because I’ve seen how easily a label becomes a prison.

“I am depressed.”
“I am anxious.”
“I have low self-worth.”

Words meant to name an experience start to define the person.
The client stops seeing depression as something moving through them – and begins to see it as something that is them.

 

I remember debating this during my clinical psychology training:
Yes, diagnosis helps. But doesn’t it also risk pathologizing what might simply be a very human response to pain, loss, or uncertainty?
Doesn’t it risk quietly whispering: “You are broken.”

And yet, aren’t we all broken – sometimes?
Or perhaps more truthfully: aren’t we all becoming – always moving, always more than any single name or frame could hold?

 

Just like my love of military precision isn’t really about wanting rigidity …
My hesitation around labels isn’t about rejecting science.
It’s about refusing to let the map become the territory. (This is a reference to one of my favourite NLP presuppositions: The Map is not the Territory)
I do not wish to let the description replace the living, breathing, becoming person in front of me.

 

Maybe this is the deeper lesson life keeps teaching me, in different forms:

Structure isn’t wrong.
Diagnosis isn’t wrong.
But they must remain gentle containers – not cages.

Use them to hold.
Never to bind.

 

In the end, perhaps real discipline isn’t about freezing the dance.
It’s about keeping the floor steady enough … so the dance can continue.

To let knowing serve becoming – without  ever replacing it.

And maybe that’s what I wish for everyone I work with, and for myself:

To remember:
We are never just a label.
We are always a living question, a changing story, a work in progress.



(Reflection born in conversation with my MI — my mirror within).