William Barrow Mentoring

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐚𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝘞𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬.
— 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘋𝘩𝘢𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘥𝘢

Something goes wrong.

Small.
Manageable.
No big deal really.

But the mind doesn't settle easily.
The mind has a tendency to look for problems.
Even when there are none.

𝙒𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙞𝙛?

What might go wrong here?

What is the bad outcome?

What is the version of events where everything falls apart?

What happens if it all goes sideways?
Because it could happen, right?

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This isn't a flaw.

This is a protective mechanism.

Your brain's primary function is to keep you safe.
And part of that mandate is projecting negative outcomes.

Assuming the worst before the worst arrives.

In a dangerous environment this could be the difference between life and death.

In your daily life, it just makes you anxious.

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The psychiatrist Albert Ellis introduced the term awfulising in the 1950s.

This eventually became 𝑐𝑎𝑡𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑜𝑝ℎ𝑖𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑔 — a form of cognitive distortion.

We form a distorted view that no longer serves the purpose of protecting us.

Instead it burdens us.

It limits us.

It creates anxiety in us.

The event that we catastrophise is rarely the problem.

The story the mind tells about it is where the suffering begins.

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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐞:

When the mind projects negative outcomes, let it.

Don't fight it.

Don't argue with it.

Just ask yourself one question:

𝘐𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭?

That single question is the Gap.

And in the Gap, the catastrophe almost always gets smaller.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐮𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐨𝐩

You made a mistake.
That’s in the past.
But the mind returns there.

Again.
And again.
And again.

Not to fix it.
Just to check if it's still there.

It always is.

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This is rumination.

Not processing.

This is replaying suffering.
Keeping suffering alive.
It’s a loop.

And there is no off switch.
But seeing it can change it.

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The Stoics recognized this.

You cannot control what happened.
But you do have some control over where your mind goes next.

Return to the mistake — or return to the present.

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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐞:

Notice the moment the mind turns back.

Name it out loud if you have to.

There it is. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐩.

You don't have to force it to stop.
You just have to stop feeding it.

Attention is fuel.

Withdrawal is the practice.

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"𝘞𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬."
— 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘋𝘩𝘢𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘥𝘢 (𝘛𝘩𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘴 𝘉𝘺𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯)

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐚𝐲: 𝐂𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐑𝐞𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐚𝐨 𝐓𝐞 𝐂𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠

There is a book that has sat on my desk for years.

I return to it often — not because it gives me answers, but because it asks better questions.

It doesn't lecture or instruct.

It simply holds up a quiet mirror and waits for you to look.

That book is the 𝐓𝐚𝐨 𝐓𝐞 𝐂𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠.

Over the past several weeks, I've been drawing on its verses as a framework for exploring some of the deepest themes in human psychology — the anxious need to arrive somewhere, the courage it takes to remain still, the wisdom of unlearning, and the profound relief of stopping the endless project of fixing yourself.

If any of those ideas landed for you, they didn't originate with me.

They are 2,500 years old.

𝐖𝐡𝐨 𝐖𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐞 𝐈𝐭 — 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐖𝐡𝐲 𝐈𝐭 𝐌𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬

The Tao Te Ching is attributed to Lao Tzu, a figure whose biography is more legend than history.

He may have been a keeper of archives in ancient China.
He may have been several people.
He may never have existed at all.

What survives, regardless of who wrote it, is a text of 81 short verses — some no longer than a paragraph — that map the nature of existence with extraordinary precision and economy.

It is one of the most translated books in human history, second only to the Bible.

It is not a religious text, though many have treated it as one.

It is not a self-help book, though it will quietly rearrange the way you see yourself.

It is, at its core, an observation about how things work — the natural world, the human mind, the relationship between effort and outcome, stillness and movement, holding on and letting go.

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐚𝐨 𝐇𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐒𝐚𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐌𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐧 𝐏𝐬𝐲𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐲

What strikes me most, returning to these verses through the lens of my work as a counsellor, is how precisely they anticipate what modern psychology has spent decades trying to articulate.

The image of muddy water that clears when you stop stirring — that is Radical Acceptance.

The invitation to travel without being intent on arriving — that is the shift from outcome-focused anxiety to process-oriented living that sits at the heart of so much therapeutic work.

The heaviness that roots you when everything around you moves — that is grounding.

The uncarved block — that resembles the Core Self that Internal Family Systems therapy invites us to reconnect with.

Lao Tzu didn't have the vocabulary of CBT or DBT or IFS.

But he understood the terrain.

Again and again, the Tao returns to the same essential insight:

𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘴𝘶𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘪𝘵𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘪𝘵.

Our need to control, to fix, to force, to arrive.

And that relief — real relief — comes not from effort, but from a quality of presence that effort often gets in the way of.

In my experience, both as a person navigating the inevitable difficulties of a human life and as a counsellor sitting with others in theirs, this is not a philosophical abstraction.

It is something you can feel in your body the moment you stop fighting what is.

𝐀𝐧 𝐈𝐧𝐯𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

If these ideas have resonated with you over the past few weeks, I want to encourage you to go to the source.

The Tao Te Ching is a short book.

You can read it in an afternoon.

But you will find yourself returning to it for years.

My personal recommendation is the 𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐩𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐌𝐢𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧.

Mitchell doesn't just translate the words — he translates the feeling.

His version is spare, modern, and quietly alive in a way that makes the ancient feel immediate.

https://tinyurl.com/TTC-SMitchell

This book has shaped the way I think, the way I work, and the way I try to live.

I hope it offers you something of the same.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐚𝐲: 𝐖𝐮 𝐖𝐞𝐢 — 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐀𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐋𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐆𝐨

"𝘌𝘮𝘱𝘵𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘴. 𝘓𝘦𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘢𝘵 𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘦."
— 𝘛𝘢𝘰 𝘛𝘦 𝘊𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳 16 (𝘚𝘵𝘦𝘱𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘔𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯)
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There was a moment in my life when those familiar words took on deep meaning.

I had read them before.

Many times.

But this time was different.

My life was at a major crossroads.

I was in early recovery from alcohol use disorder.

I had just begun the humbling process of getting sober — a process that would eventually lead me to train as a counsellor and devote my life to sitting with others in their own moments of surrender.

But at that point, I was simply a person who had finally run out of options.

I had to stop.

And what the programme was asking of me — what every spiritually grounded recovery tradition asks of the people who walk through its doors — was something that felt, at first, like an impossibility.

𝐋𝐞𝐭 𝐠𝐨.

Two words.

Impossibly simple.

Extraordinarily difficult.

𝐖𝐮 𝐖𝐞𝐢 — 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐔𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐚𝐨

Wu wei is one of the central concepts of Taoist philosophy, and it resists easy translation.

Scholars have rendered it as non-action, non-doing, effortless action, non-interference, or acting in accordance with the natural flow of things.

None of these quite captures it, because wu wei isn't really a technique or a strategy.

It is a quality of being.

It is what happens when you stop forcing.

When you stop gripping.

When you stop trying to manage, control, and manoeuvre every outcome in your life through sheer force of will.

Lao Tzu observed that the natural world operates entirely through wu wei.

Water doesn't force its way through rock — it finds the path of least resistance and, given enough time, moves mountains.

Seasons don't struggle to change.

Trees don't strain to grow.

There is an effortless intelligence at work in nature that human beings, alone among all living things, seem determined to resist.

And yet, when we finally stop resisting — when we finally let go — something extraordinary tends to happen.

Life moves.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐈 𝐔𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐨𝐝

In AA, there is a concept so fundamental that it runs beneath every step, every meeting, every conversation between a sponsor and the person they are supporting.

It is the idea of surrender.

Not surrender as failure.

Not surrender as giving up.

But surrender as the only sane response to a situation that your own efforts have made progressively worse.

For someone whose entire survival strategy has been built on control, this is not a small thing to ask.

It took some time, but when I finally let go, I didn't fall apart.

I landed.

And for the first time in years, I felt something I can only describe as peace — not the absence of difficulty, but the absence of the exhausting war I had been waging against myself and against reality.

𝘌𝘮𝘱𝘵𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘴.
𝘓𝘦𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘢𝘵 𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘦.

Lao Tzu wrote those words two and a half thousand years before Bill Wilson sat down to write the Twelve Steps.

And yet they are describing the same moment.

The same movement.

The same impossible, necessary, life-changing act of release.

𝐋𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐆𝐨 𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐏𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐞

What recovery taught me — and what the Tao confirms — is that letting go is not a single event.

It is a daily practice.

Sometimes a moment-by-moment one.

Wu wei is not a destination you arrive at and stay.

It is something you return to, again and again, every time you notice yourself gripping.

Every time the anxiety of needing to control an outcome tightens around your chest.

Every time you catch yourself stirring the mud and making the water murkier.

The practice is simply to notice.

And to release.

Not because releasing is easy.

Not because the thing you're holding isn't real or painful or frightening.

But because the holding itself is causing harm.

Because the river of life moves whether we fight it or not.

And because there is a version of moving through this world that doesn't require you to be at war with it every single day.

That version is available to all of us.

It doesn't require a spiritual tradition, though one may help.

It doesn't require a programme, though many have found their way through one.

It only requires the willingness to loosen your grip — just slightly, just for a moment — and see what happens when you do.

In my experience, both personal and professional, what happens is this:

The water clears.

The heart, given the chance, finds its way back to peace.

And you remember, perhaps for the first time in a long time, that you don't have to carry all of this alone.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐚𝐲: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐈𝐥𝐥𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐥

“𝘋𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥?
𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘪𝘵 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘣𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘯𝘦.
𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥 𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘢𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘥.
𝘐𝘵 𝘤𝘢𝘯'𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘥.
𝘐𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘢𝘮𝘱𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘪𝘵, 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘭𝘭 𝘳𝘶𝘪𝘯 𝘪𝘵.
𝘐𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢𝘯 𝘰𝘣𝘫𝘦𝘤𝘵, 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘭𝘭 𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘪𝘵.”
— 𝘛𝘢𝘰 𝘛𝘦 𝘊𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳 29 (𝘚𝘵𝘦𝘱𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘔𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯)
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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐀𝐧𝐱𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐍𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐅𝐢𝐱 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐥

We live in a culture that encourages us to fix, optimize, and control everything we touch — including ourselves.

When we experience emotional distress, our immediate instinct is often to treat the psyche like a machine that is broken and needs to be repaired.

We analyze, strategize, and try to force ourselves into a state of immediate betterment.

But when we approach our inner life this way, we are tampering with something sacred.

We reduce the human experience to an object to be fixed.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐬𝐲𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐂𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐓𝐚𝐦𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠

In therapy and personal growth work, we often see that the harder you try to forcefully change negative emotions, the stronger they become.

This is the paradox of control.

Anxiety and pain are not there to be conquered.

They are signals from your internal system that require understanding, space, patience, and compassion.

When you treat your mind as something to be fixed, you create an adversarial relationship with yourself.

You become both the warden and the prisoner.

𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐎𝐮𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐢𝐱-𝐈𝐭 𝐌𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐞𝐭

When you feel the anxiety of needing to “fix” yourself, your best move is to take that sideways step into the Critical Gap.

You stop trying to alter the natural landscape of your mind and observe it instead.

You allow the emotion to be exactly what it is without interfering.

And with the objectivity the Observer affords you, there is space to make healthy choices about how to move forward — or even to stay exactly the way you are.

Healing doesn't come from forcing a new state of being.

It comes from allowing the natural self to simply exist.

When you stop tampering with your experience, you rediscover the wholeness that was already there.

You are not a project that needs to be fixed.

You are a complex human being seeking balance in a turbulent world.

Often, simply witnessing this is enough to help you feel grounded, even when the world around you remains unstable.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐚𝐲: 𝐑𝐞𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐒𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐭𝐲

“𝘙𝘦𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘤𝘬, 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘢𝘭. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘤𝘬 𝘪𝘴 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘰𝘥, 𝘺𝘦𝘵 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘪𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦.”
— 𝘛𝘢𝘰 𝘛𝘦 𝘊𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳 28 (𝘚𝘵𝘦𝘱𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘔𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯)
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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐱𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐧 𝐌𝐢𝐧𝐝

In our efforts to understand ourselves, we often accumulate too much information.

We adopt strategies, analyze our emotions, and build mental structures until the mind becomes cluttered.

We become so focused on the intricacies of our thoughts that we lose touch with the simple, natural source of our being.

The state of the uncarved block is an invitation to return to simplicity.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐮𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐔𝐧𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐫𝐞

When you are overwhelmed or out of balance, you don't need a complex new framework to fix it.

You simply need to return to the block.

The uncarved block represents your Core Self before it is shaped, pressured, and fractured by external expectations and internal reactivity.

It is the simple, quiet awareness that remains when the noise of the world subsides.

𝐅𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐒𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐢𝐧 𝐀𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬

When the mind feels cluttered and reactive, we do not need more complexity.

We step into the simplicity of awareness.

If you practice mindfulness, then you know the state.

And if you are unfamiliar with it, don’t worry. It is nothing difficult or highly spiritual.

It doesn’t require special knowledge or training.

You do not need to know how to meditate or attain some higher state of being.

To be in awareness is simply to let go.

Whatever that means to you.

Just let go.

Stop trying.

And if this seems difficult, allow yourself to be distracted.

Nature helps.

Go outside and look at the sky — day or night.

Play with your pet.

Drink a glass of water.

Exercise.

Hug someone you love.

Just do something simple and don’t try.

Awareness is always with you.

You do not need to turn it on or off.

It is simply there.

Always.

But the complexity of our lives often gets in the way.

So if you are experiencing this sense of clutter or reactivity, try to do something — anything — that allows you to let go.

And this is important:

If you try to let go and it doesn’t work, don’t punish yourself for it.

It’s okay.

Sometimes it’s easy and sometimes it’s not.

You are the uncarved block.

Under all the layers that have been piled on top of you, it is still there.

For all of us.

When the moment is right, you will return to the source.

It is in every breath you take.

It is in every beat of your heart.

Beneath all the complex views of the world, you are still whole.

Just breathe.

And let go.