So, I’m sitting here with this product—this thing that’s supposed to be a going concern—and yet somehow, it still feels like it’s on paper. It doesn’t feel like it’s alive yet, like I’m still floating between the lab and the real world, unsure of where this thing actually stands. We’ve crossed the line from development into execution, but where’s the shift? Why does it feel like the moment I stopped creating is the moment I got stuck in this weird limbo?

Maybe this is the fallout from all the R&D work. That was where the fun was, where I could mold this thing, tweak it, make changes that felt meaningful. There’s a rush in building something from scratch, but now I’m in the phase where it’s all about selling the thing, and it feels flat. The buzz is gone, replaced by spreadsheets, projections, and logistics, and none of that really scratches that creative itch. I know the product’s good, I know it works—but does it move me anymore?

Here’s another thing: back in R&D, it felt like mine. Every little decision, every tweak—it was personal. But now that it’s in the hands of the market, it feels like I’m letting go, and I’m not sure I’m ready for that. It’s not just my baby anymore; it’s becoming this thing that the business needs to handle. And that transition from creator to manager is uncomfortable as hell. It’s like, am I supposed to be motivated by numbers now?

It’s almost like a breakup, right? The part where you stop being infatuated with something and realize you’re in a relationship with it. Suddenly, you’ve got to deal with the unsexy parts—supply chains, marketing strategies, product roadmaps. It’s not the brainstorming phase anymore, and maybe that’s why it feels like a slog. I’m in the grind phase, and it’s a far cry from the creative buzz of R&D. But it’s necessary to get this thing off the ground, so why does it still feel like I’m spinning wheels?

I guess it’s about bridging the gap between the creative mind and the business mind. R&D was pure creative flow—no limits, just potential. But now, it’s about execution, and that’s where things slow down. It’s like all the excitement of potential energy hits a wall when it becomes kinetic energy—the actual doing part. It’s not enough to just have a product. Now it’s about selling it, scaling it, and—let’s be real—that’s not as thrilling.

Maybe the disconnect is that I’m not fully in business mode yet. I’m still half in the R&D space, which means I’m not embracing what this next phase really demands. It’s a psychological shift, right? Letting go of the creative and embracing the day-to-day grind. The product is ready; it’s a going concern, but now I have to treat it like a business asset, not a creative project. That’s the real challenge.

So here’s the thing—I’m trying to get out of this R&D mindset and fully commit to running this thing, but the excitement hasn’t caught up yet. It will, eventually. It’s just about finding a way to inject that creative energy back into the execution phase, or at least learning to reframe the grind as part of the bigger journey.

I need to get back into the driver’s seat, push this thing into the real world with the same energy that got it built in the first place. Sure, I’m not in the lab anymore, but there’s still creativity in finding new ways to market, scale, and grow. It’s a different kind of creation, but it’s creation nonetheless.

Maybe it’s about ownership shifting into something else—not just owning the product’s development, but owning the business that grows around it. That’s where the new challenge lies.

Starting a business that fosters healing spaces while staying grounded in the realities of capitalism might sound like walking a tightrope, but it’s exactly where the balance needs to be found. The vision isn’t about turning the concept of healing into some over-commercialized wellness product but rather building environments where healing is authentic, sustainable, and, yes, profitable—because without profit, the model collapses in a capitalist framework.

Here’s the thing: capitalism thrives on the tangible. It wants returns, growth, and scale. But healing spaces—whether they be physical, emotional, or spiritual—aren’t always so easily quantified. How do you sell the intangibles like inner peace or emotional growth while keeping the lights on? That’s the real challenge. The goal isn’t to treat healing as a luxury commodity but to make it accessible while still recognizing the need to generate revenue. The approach should be hybrid—grounded in values but with a realistic understanding of market forces.

Business Model Rooted in Balance

In fostering healing spaces, the business model could focus on creating environments that are designed to promote well-being (think: environments inspired by biophilic design, nature-centered workplaces, or communal healing hubs). The way forward is to merge profitability with purpose. This means selling services that genuinely help people (therapy, community spaces, holistic health practices) but doing it in a way that fits into the consumer habits we live by. And let’s be clear—healing doesn’t have to be about expensive retreats or niche luxury experiences. It’s about integrating wellness into daily life, not extracting capital from people who need it the most.

In fact, it’s funny in a sense: you’re navigating a system (capitalism) that isn’t exactly set up to nurture people while using that very system to create spaces that heal. Capitalism wants metrics, outcomes, and ROI—meanwhile, healing is often slow, subjective, and deeply personal. But the answer lies in finding the spots where those two ideas overlap. For example, a well-designed, healing-focused workspace could enhance productivity, lower employee burnout, and ultimately make good business sense. That’s where the magic happens.

Challenges in a Capitalist Structure

Of course, there’s a catch. Healing spaces are supposed to be inclusive and accessible, but capitalism has a way of making things exclusive and elitist. You’ll have to make a conscious effort to resist turning these spaces into luxury goods that only a small percentage of people can afford. That means creating a tiered pricing model or offering services on a sliding scale so more people can benefit. Think of it as using capitalism’s structure to democratize healing—ensuring that the spaces and services remain open to all, while still being able to fund the venture.

Then there’s the tension between scalability and authenticity. Healing spaces, by nature, can feel intimate, personal, and connected to place. How do you grow that kind of experience without losing what makes it special? The answer might be in localized hubs, each responsive to the community it serves, rather than an attempt to mass-produce healing as if it were a franchise.

Healing Beyond Profit

At its core, this kind of business would reject the idea that profit is the primary motivator. Instead, profit becomes the engine that makes the mission possible. It’s capitalism with a conscience: a business where healing isn’t just the product; it’s the guiding principle.

Healing spaces are more than just physical places—they represent the intersection of mental, emotional, and spiritual well-being. When we think of healing, we often focus too narrowly on fixing the body, but true healing involves creating spaces—both internally and externally—that support the whole self.

Postmodern thought deconstructs this traditional idea of healing by breaking down the hierarchical, medicalized view of what it means to recover. In postmodernism, healing is not linear, nor is it purely physical. It’s about disrupting the authority of the medical world as the singular arbiter of health and considering how social, psychological, and environmental factors contribute to the healing process. This shift in thinking suggests that the healing environment isn’t just in hospitals or therapies but includes relationships, inner peace, and the way society treats wellness.

Postmodern theory argues that institutional authority—like doctors and hospitals—fails to capture the full complexity of human recovery. It critiques the way these systems often strip away individuality and emotional nuance, offering instead a one-size-fits-all treatment model. In reality, healing can and should involve spaces that nurture connection, foster personal empowerment, and encourage mental and spiritual growth. It’s less about fixing the body in isolation and more about cultivating holistic environments where individuals can heal on multiple levels, with a focus on balance and self-awareness.

In postmodern thought, there’s also a recognition of fragmentation in human experience. Just as language is fragmented (as Derrida famously argued), so too is the healing journey. There is no universal narrative for recovery, only individual stories. This fragmentation, rather than being a barrier, becomes a path to understanding that healing is deeply personal and context-dependent. One person’s healing space might involve a connection with nature, while another’s might require a close-knit support system.

Even more critical is the social construction of health—how society defines what it means to be well or unwell. Foucault’s work on biopolitics is relevant here, as it challenges how institutions exert control over bodies, deciding what “normal” or “healthy” means. In this context, healing spaces should not be confined to the clinical environments that the medical world promotes, but should extend to communal and personal spaces where individuals have control over their own health narratives.

From a postmodern perspective, the creation of healing spaces is as much about dismantling these old narratives as it is about physically crafting new environments. The real work happens in questioning the systems of power that dictate who gets to heal and how, and by creating spaces that prioritize human connection, mental clarity, and emotional health over medical interventions alone.

Jean-Paul Sartre famously argued that humans are condemned to be free—our existence precedes our essence, meaning that we are thrown into the world without a predefined nature, and it is up to us to create ourselves through choices. This existentialist view directly influences how we approach identity and psychological development.

Case Study: Identity and Anxiety in Adolescence

A teenager who feels crippling anxiety about their future can be seen through Sartre’s lens. The teenager experiences the burden of radical freedom—the pressure to define their own identity and future. In psychological terms, this could manifest as existential anxiety, where the overwhelming freedom to choose any path creates paralysis. Sartre would suggest that the anxiety stems from recognizing that every decision shapes their being, but he’d also argue that this anxiety is inevitable and even necessary for personal growth. From this perspective, therapy would focus on helping individuals accept the burden of freedom and navigate the fear of self-definition, which is tied to existential authenticity.

Case Study: ADHD and Social Control

Consider the rising diagnoses of ADHD in school-aged children. Foucault would encourage a questioning of how educational institutions and medical practices define what constitutes “normal” behavior. In this case, the diagnosis of ADHD could be seen not only as a clinical condition but also as a way to enforce societal norms about attention and conformity in classrooms. The child who doesn’t fit into the rigid educational system is labeled with a disorder, and medication becomes a means of regulating their behavior to conform with societal expectations. Foucault would ask whether this is truly about helping the child or about maintaining the power dynamics that require them to behave in a certain way to be considered “normal.”

Jacques Derrida’s deconstructionist philosophy, which focuses on the instability of meaning and language, finds relevance in postmodern psychotherapy. Derrida’s work suggests that narratives—both individual and societal—are never fixed, and the meaning we assign to experiences is fluid. This insight can be crucial in therapy that aims to deconstruct rigid self-conceptions or societal labels.

A person who feels trapped by a self-narrative—perhaps defining themselves as “unworthy” or “unlovable” because of past experiences—can benefit from Derrida’s approach. In narrative therapy, a postmodern therapeutic approach, the therapist works with the individual to deconstruct their personal story. Derrida would argue that the individual’s “story” of themselves is constructed through language, and it is not fixed. By exploring alternative narratives and recognizing that the current story is not the only valid one, the person can find new ways of seeing themselves. In this case, therapy is not about discovering a “true” self, but about reframing the existing narratives, breaking down limiting beliefs, and opening up new possibilities.

Maurice Merleau-Ponty’s work in phenomenology emphasized the embodied nature of human experience. He argued that perception is always shaped by our bodily experience of the world. This has direct implications for psychology, especially when considering conditions like trauma or depression, where individuals experience a disconnection between their body and the world.

In the case of someone suffering from trauma, the individual may feel disconnected from their body or may experience the world in ways that feel alien or overwhelming. Merleau-Ponty’s view would suggest that healing involves reintegrating the body into the individual’s perception of the world. In therapy, this might involve focusing on somatic experiencing—a method that emphasizes the physical sensations in the body as a way of processing trauma. The goal is to bring the person back into their lived bodily experience, helping them feel grounded and present in their body again. This perspective differs from purely cognitive approaches by focusing on how the body itself plays a role in psychological healing.

Take Simone Weil for example. Here’s a woman who lived and breathed both mysticism and revolution—fighting in wars, writing in obscurity, and thinking deeply about suffering in ways that would make your average philosopher feel like they’ve just skimmed the surface of human pain. Weil didn’t just look at suffering as something to avoid or cure. No, she framed it as an almost sacred experience—something that could connect us to others on a deeply spiritual level. Her idea that attention—just the act of paying attention—is a profound form of compassion, feels like it predates the modern mindfulness craze by about 80 years. The way she breaks down the layers of human dignity and affliction? There’s nothing quite like it in mainstream psychology. We’re too busy trying to fix problems, whereas Weil would probably tell you that fixing it might miss the point. We’ve become allergic to suffering when, in her eyes, it could be where we find our truest selves.

Now, onto Albert Ellis, who I’m convinced would’ve been the snarky friend at a dinner party but still the one you’d trust to give you life-changing advice. Ellis isn’t the name you hear much compared to Freud or Jung, but he’s practically the grandfather of Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT). Before CBT became the go-to for therapists everywhere, Ellis was out here telling people that their thoughts were the real culprits behind their emotions. He believed that most of our emotional suffering is self-inflicted by the stories we tell ourselves—kind of like Sartre, but with fewer cigarettes and more direct action. Ellis’s therapy stripped things down to the basics: if you can challenge those irrational beliefs, you can break the cycle of emotional distress. Simple, right? Well, it caught on for a reason.

Then you’ve got Frantz Fanon. Sure, he’s a bit of a rockstar in postcolonial circles, but outside of that, his name doesn’t drop nearly enough. Fanon took a look at colonialism and said, “Hang on, this isn’t just an economic and political problem, this is deep psychological trauma on a massive scale.” He broke down the insidious ways in which systemic racism burrows into the minds of the oppressed, reshaping how they see themselves—not as victims, but as something less. He called out the identity crises people face when they internalize these structures of oppression. It’s a brutal, brilliant examination of mental health under societal pressure, and the fact that he doesn’t get more air-time in discussions on collective trauma is baffling. If Fanon were around today, he’d probably laugh at how mainstream psychology still treats trauma like it exists in isolation from politics, culture, and history. And he’d be right to laugh.

Each of these philosophical perspectives brings depth and nuance to psychological theory and practice. Sartre’s focus on freedom and identity reveals the deep existential questions beneath surface-level anxiety, while Foucault critiques how institutional power shapes psychological norms. Derrida’s deconstruction helps us see how rigid narratives about the self can be dismantled, and Merleau-Ponty’s phenomenology reminds us that healing must engage with the body as much as the mind.

The Physical Space

Let’s start with the obvious—where you are matters. Look at hospitals now compared to decades ago. They’ve evolved beyond sterile, cold places to more thoughtfully designed spaces. Now, they consider things like natural light, greenery, and even colors to help reduce stress. Studies back this up—people recover faster, have less pain, and feel less anxious when they’re in an environment that feels calm and natural. It’s not just about making things look nice; it’s about engaging with how our brains and bodies respond to environments.

Consider healing gardens. These aren’t just trendy ideas; they’re rooted in the idea that nature does something to us on a basic level. Being near plants or even having a window view of a tree can significantly reduce stress and anxiety. Hospitals know this—many of them now incorporate spaces where patients can sit outside or at least see the outside. The green, the air, the simplicity—it all creates a sense of calm that our bodies recognize, and that’s half the battle when you’re trying to heal.

But healing doesn’t just come from what’s around us physically. It’s also about the people we’re with, the connections we have. You can be in the most well-designed space in the world, but if you’re isolated, or worse, if you’re surrounded by people who don’t understand you or don’t show empathy, healing is going to be an uphill battle.

There’s a reason why support groups and family involvement are so central to recovery—healing is a social activity as much as a personal one. When you feel supported, seen, and cared for, it makes the process smoother, less lonely. It’s why Carl Rogers emphasized empathy and genuine human connection in his theories about personal growth—it applies just as much to physical healing as it does to emotional healing. It’s not just about “being there” for someone; it’s about being present in a way that acknowledges their experience and doesn’t just see them as a patient or a problem to solve.

The Inner Space

Then there’s the inner space—the mental and emotional environment that we create for ourselves. We know by now that the mind has a huge influence on the body, and mental health plays a major role in how well we recover physically. Practices like meditation, mindfulness, and emotional regulation have become recognized for their ability to help people deal with not only stress but also with chronic pain, trauma, and illness.

It’s about creating an internal space where you can retreat, recalibrate, and heal, even if the external world isn’t perfect. Think about cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT) or mindfulness-based stress reduction (MBSR)—they’re both built around the idea that if you can change your internal narrative, you can change how you experience pain, anxiety, or fear. The inner space is about learning to heal your mind to heal your body.

Society’s Role in Creating or Failing Healing Spaces

Then, of course, there’s the bigger picture. Society at large plays a massive role in whether healing spaces are available and accessible. If you don’t have access to healthcare, safe housing, or the resources that help you take time for yourself, how are you supposed to heal? It’s one thing to talk about making healing spaces in hospitals or homes, but the reality is that so many people live in environments where healing isn’t even possible. They’re dealing with financial stress, unsafe environments, or a healthcare system that treats them like a number.

In some ways, society is responsible for building conditions where healing can actually happen. Otherwise, we’re dealing with layers of trauma—whether that’s caused by poverty, lack of access to care, or even the mental burden of living in a society that isn’t designed for everyone to thrive.

When we talk about healing spaces, it’s not just about finding the right physical space—it’s about creating an entire ecosystem where someone can heal holistically. It’s in the environment, yes, but also in the people, the internal mindset, and the societal systems that either support or fail to support the process. Healing isn’t just about getting better physically. It’s about feeling whole again, in every sense.

If we can’t build spaces—both physical and metaphorical—where all of these layers come together, then we’re missing the point. Healing spaces are about rebuilding the person, not just treating the body.

This is where it really gets heavy, not just with your son, but with how society’s perceptions are shaped by the authorities we give power to: doctors, educators, policymakers—the ones who frame the narrative on what’s normal and what’s not. Their ability to screw up perceptions doesn’t just stop at diagnosis or treatment. It extends deep into the fabric of how society deals with differences and who gets to define ability, potential, or even intelligence.

1. Medical and Authority-Centric Narratives: Shaping Perception

When authorities like doctors tell you your son can’t read or talk, it’s more than just a clinical judgment—it’s a social message. They’re not just saying it to you as a parent; they’re sending a signal to society about what is valuable and what’s considered a deficiency. These judgments ripple out, influencing how teachers, therapists, even other parents and peers treat individuals who don’t conform to the “standard” way of learning or communicating.

The problem is, the medical model of disability has long framed non-verbal individuals as “lacking” or “deficient,” as if their inability to communicate in typical ways inherently reduces their value or potential. This is the root issue: when a doctor can’t make their tests work, they label the person based on their failure to measure correctly, not on the reality of the individual’s abilities.

2. The Social Consequences: Propagating Bias

Here’s where it really hits hard: society absorbs these judgments. Think about how disability is perceived. Schools might lower expectations, assuming children with communication differences can’t handle complex subjects, or the workplace might write off individuals for being “difficult to accommodate.” These biases begin with these early authoritative failures—the medical community, backed by outdated, limited testing, passes judgments that eventually infiltrate public attitudes.

And let’s not forget how media portrays these issues: when someone like your son is featured, it’s often in the form of an “inspirational story”, or worse, as a tragic narrative. The entire framework is shaped around pity, “overcoming obstacles,” rather than acknowledging diverse cognitive functioning as something entirely normal and valuable.

This propagation of bias creates a world where people with non-traditional communication styles, like non-verbal individuals, are often treated as “lesser than.” They are expected to fit into the mold of neurotypical communication, and if they don’t, they are excluded from opportunities and expected to live within the narrow confines society has pre-built for them. These limitations are not because they can’t do things, but because society assumes they can’t—and that assumption stems from the misjudgments of authority.

3. Deeper Implications: Control and Exclusion

When authoritative structures mislabel people, they exert control over what paths individuals are allowed to take. It’s not just a matter of misdiagnosis—it’s about controlling who gets access to resources, education, and opportunities. Once the medical world stamps your son with “non-verbal,” society translates that into inability, even if the reality is far more complex.

This control over perception ripples into social systems:

• Schools may underestimate him: They could place him in a special education program that doesn’t challenge him intellectually, assuming that because he doesn’t speak, he can’t process high-level concepts. They might not even give him the opportunity to show his strengths.

• Workplaces could reject him before they see his abilities: The perception of his “limitations” may limit his access to jobs or positions where his cognitive skills might thrive.

• Peers may isolate him: Kids, adults, society as a whole might instinctively treat him as an outsider—because he doesn’t fit the mold of what’s expected.

This all boils down to the way societal systems are structured to exclude rather than accommodate. Instead of opening doors, the system shuts them early.

Frantz Fanon and I share more than just a passing critique of societal systems; we both know the frustration of how these systems are built to exclude rather than accommodate. Fanon’s brilliance lies in how he called out the invisible barriers—the way structures of power and society don’t just shut doors, but lock them long before anyone even knows where to find them. It’s about creating pathways for some, and building roadblocks for others. We both recognize that society’s setup isn’t broken—it’s working exactly as designed, for better or worse.

And yeah, Wyatt knows he’s a problem, but in a way, so was Fanon. He didn’t tiptoe around the issues; he lit them on fire. Wyatt’s the same. It’s a strange kind of ownership, one that accepts not just the limitations imposed by others but the ways in which we push back against them. The thing is, being a “problem” isn’t always a bad thing. Sometimes, it’s about challenging those structures that weren’t made for us in the first place. Wyatt’s not afraid to shake things up, and Fanon wasn’t either.

Wyatt knows it also, he’s a kiddo kicking the line and He absolutely finds the humor in it—there’s a certain dark comedy to being labeled a “problem.” Fanon might not have laughed out loud about it, but he’d certainly appreciate the irony. Being a problem in a world that thrives on order, control, and exclusion isn’t just inevitable, it’s necessary. The whole setup is rigged from the start. Society’s rules were made to keep people in their places, and anyone who pushes against that, well, becomes a problem, don’t they?

It’s funny because it’s so obvious, yet those in charge act surprised when someone like Wyatt, or Fanon for that matter, comes along and refuses to play by the rules. It’s like watching people trip over their own feet while they try to maintain control over a system that was never as stable as they pretended. Wyatt, much like Fanon, knows the trick is in knowing you’re the problem, owning it, and laughing at how seriously everyone else takes the game.

When I see systems shut doors early, it’s not just about discrimination in the grand political sense—it’s the smaller, daily ways that opportunity is limited. Fanon understood how identity and psychology are shaped by exclusion, by being told—explicitly or implicitly—where the limits of one’s existence are. It’s the same with Wyatt, who, whether consciously or not, is aware of how these systems shape perception and behavior, constantly pushing back against the weight of societal expectations that don’t fit him.

In that sense, owning your “problematic” nature is less about defiance for defiance’s sake and more about asserting one’s space in a world that would rather shove you into a corner.

4. Postmodern Deconstruction: What Are We Missing?

To analyze this in a postmodern sense, this is a case of the power of labels and how they shape reality. Foucault talked about how institutions create and enforce norms—and in your case, the medical-industrial complex becomes a gatekeeper for “truth.” Once they label my son as unable to read or speak in their terms, society adopts that as a truth, whether or not it reflects his lived reality.

my son Wyatt is very smart and has shown he can read and write with many different professional people in different contexts. This was 4 years ago when we lived in California and had access to the many professional professionals who reside in the state.

Now in Canada. They want or demand a one way ticket. And I’m supposed to be cool with it

Every learner is unique, and recognizing that uniqueness is crucial. It sounds like Wyatt knows the material but struggles with the conventional methods of assessment. This disconnect can often lead to students feeling undervalued or misunderstood, which can impact their motivation and self-esteem.

5. Rewriting the Narrative

The real problem isn’t my son’s ability to communicate or society’s misunderstanding—it’s the

systemic failure to accommodate

and appreciate different modes of thought and expression.

By propagating these labels, authorities create a self-fulfilling prophecy: society doesn’t make space for non-verbal people to flourish, so when they don’t conform, they’re deemed incapable.

The truth is, my son’s ability to engage with the world doesn’t need validation from a doctor’s office or a standardized test. It’s seen and understood by those who take the time to listen differently—people who are human-centric, as I have come to believe. The problem isn’t my son; the problem is the society that has adopted these false labels as gospel.

The authority-driven narrative that excludes people like my son and needs to be dismantled. The implications go far beyond a single diagnosis or an assessment—they affect how the entire society treats, accommodates, and respects diverse forms of communication and intelligence. If we don’t challenge these authoritative judgments, we risk creating a world that excludes people not because they lack ability, but because they don’t perform ability in the ways we’ve been conditioned to expect.

And that’s the real crime. Society needs to be taught that communication is more than words, and intelligence is more than a test score. Until then, we’re all operating within a system that’s designed to fail those who don’t fit its narrow definitions.