Philosophy begins in wonder. And, at the end, when philosophic thought has done its best, the wonder remains.
— Alfred North Whitehead
From as early as I can remember, I was haunted by questions others found inconvenient: why does anything exist at all, what does it mean to be free, why do we suffer? I wasn’t trying to be difficult. I was just wired for inquiry, a child tugging at the loose threads of meaning, compelled to see what might unravel.
Long before I read Socrates, I was unknowingly walking his path: questioning what others accepted, resisting the comfort of simple answers, and learning to live in the company of uncertainty.
Philosophy didn’t save me. It found me.
In college, I wasn’t pursuing a career path. I was chasing something I couldn’t yet name—a kind of metaphysical resonance. Philosophy gave me a language for that longing. But what began as an intellectual exercise eventually evolved into something else: a practice. A kind of internal activism. A spiritual discipline rooted in presence, curiosity, and the courage to stay with the unresolvable.
Today, I work as a 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline counselor, and it’s here, more than anywhere else, that my philosophical training feels most alive.
As a counselor, I don’t pathologize in these moments. I listen. I co-regulate. I hold. I stay.
It strikes me often how deeply philosophical this work is. Each call is a miniature encounter with what Martin Heidegger called Being-toward-death—the raw awareness of our own impermanence, vulnerability, and aloneness. But in that awareness, something else emerges: the possibility of connection.
When someone in crisis reaches out, they’re not always asking to be “fixed.” Often, they just want someone to witness their pain without flinching. To reflect it back without trying to erase it. That’s not just counseling. It’s the praxis of phenomenology. It’s existential accompaniment.
Working in suicide prevention has given me an answer: you can show up to suffering without needing to control it. You can name the void without trying to fill it. You can ask better questions when answers fail.
I don’t carry diagnostic manuals into a crisis conversation. I carry silence. I carry questions like:
One of the most humbling aspects of this work is realizing how often people just need permission––permission to grieve, to rage, to doubt, to feel lost. Not every call ends in resolution. Some end in quiet. Some end in tears. Some end with nothing more than a single breath that wasn’t taken before.
And that’s enough.
Philosophy asks us to live with paradox. Psychotherapy invites us to do the same. The intersection, I believe, is where some of the most sacred work happens between presence and uncertainty, holding on and letting go.
As therapists, social workers, peer supporters, and crisis responders, we are often taught to do. But what I’ve learned from both philosophy, and the hotline, is that our greatest power lies in our capacity to be, to sit still inside someone’s unraveling and trust that staying is in itself a form of intervention.
If you or someone you know is struggling, the 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline is free, confidential, and available 24/7 via phone, text, or chat.
And if you’re a clinician on the verge of burnout, compassion fatigue, or existential dread, you’re not alone either. This work changes us. Let it.
File under: A Day in the Life of a Therapist, Musings and Reflections
— Alfred North Whitehead
From as early as I can remember, I was haunted by questions others found inconvenient: why does anything exist at all, what does it mean to be free, why do we suffer? I wasn’t trying to be difficult. I was just wired for inquiry, a child tugging at the loose threads of meaning, compelled to see what might unravel.
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Long before I read Socrates, I was unknowingly walking his path: questioning what others accepted, resisting the comfort of simple answers, and learning to live in the company of uncertainty.
Philosophy didn’t save me. It found me.
In college, I wasn’t pursuing a career path. I was chasing something I couldn’t yet name—a kind of metaphysical resonance. Philosophy gave me a language for that longing. But what began as an intellectual exercise eventually evolved into something else: a practice. A kind of internal activism. A spiritual discipline rooted in presence, curiosity, and the courage to stay with the unresolvable.
Today, I work as a 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline counselor, and it’s here, more than anywhere else, that my philosophical training feels most alive.
Sitting with the Void
Since its rollout in 2022, the 988 Lifeline has radically reshaped how we respond to mental health crises in the United States. With phone, text, and chat options, people in acute distress now have access to real-time support 24/7. It’s a public health victory, but on the ground, it’s something more intimate: a space where people can speak the unspeakable.As a counselor, I don’t pathologize in these moments. I listen. I co-regulate. I hold. I stay.
It strikes me often how deeply philosophical this work is. Each call is a miniature encounter with what Martin Heidegger called Being-toward-death—the raw awareness of our own impermanence, vulnerability, and aloneness. But in that awareness, something else emerges: the possibility of connection.
When someone in crisis reaches out, they’re not always asking to be “fixed.” Often, they just want someone to witness their pain without flinching. To reflect it back without trying to erase it. That’s not just counseling. It’s the praxis of phenomenology. It’s existential accompaniment.
Myth-Busting as Moral Work
Many of us in the field are familiar with the myths surrounding suicide, but part of our task, especially those of us working outside traditional therapy offices, is to actively dismantle them:- “Suicide is selfish.” This myth misunderstands the psyche in pain. Most callers believe their death would be a relief to others.
- “Talking about suicide encourages it.” We know the opposite is true: silence kills. Dialogue saves.
- “Only the mentally ill die by suicide.” Suicide is a crisis of meaning as much as a crisis of mind. It stems from loss, trauma, disconnection, and despair, all deeply human experiences.
- “Once suicidal, always suicidal.” Suicidal ideation is often transient. With connection and care, people do recover.
Philosophy in a Clinical World
In my early years, I often felt that philosophical inquiry was dismissed as irrelevant to real-world problems. People would ask, “But what can you do with it?”Working in suicide prevention has given me an answer: you can show up to suffering without needing to control it. You can name the void without trying to fill it. You can ask better questions when answers fail.
I don’t carry diagnostic manuals into a crisis conversation. I carry silence. I carry questions like:
- “What’s keeping you here, even now?"
- “What would it mean to stay for just one more day?”
- “What part of you wants to be heard right now?”
One of the most humbling aspects of this work is realizing how often people just need permission––permission to grieve, to rage, to doubt, to feel lost. Not every call ends in resolution. Some end in quiet. Some end in tears. Some end with nothing more than a single breath that wasn’t taken before.
And that’s enough.
Philosophy asks us to live with paradox. Psychotherapy invites us to do the same. The intersection, I believe, is where some of the most sacred work happens between presence and uncertainty, holding on and letting go.
As therapists, social workers, peer supporters, and crisis responders, we are often taught to do. But what I’ve learned from both philosophy, and the hotline, is that our greatest power lies in our capacity to be, to sit still inside someone’s unraveling and trust that staying is in itself a form of intervention.
A Final Note
In a time when anti-intellectualism is rising, when nuance is collapsed into binary thinking, and when complexity is mistaken for elitism, practicing philosophy—practicing psychotherapy—is a quiet act of rebellion. It resists the machinery of numbness. It says: We are not here to obey. We are here to awaken.If you or someone you know is struggling, the 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline is free, confidential, and available 24/7 via phone, text, or chat.
And if you’re a clinician on the verge of burnout, compassion fatigue, or existential dread, you’re not alone either. This work changes us. Let it.
File under: A Day in the Life of a Therapist, Musings and Reflections