For a long time, I carried an unspoken belief that depth made me better.

Not in an obvious or arrogant way — more like a quiet inner story I didn’t question because it felt so linked to “growth.” I’d done the work. I’d sat with difficult feelings. I’d questioned myself relentlessly.

And somewhere along the way, that effort hardened into something subtle: a sense that inwardness was more developed than living externally.

I didn’t like admitting that. But I’ve learned that whatever we don’t admit tends to keep shaping us anyway.

This post is about letting that illusion fall — without replacing it with another one.

What I’m Noticing

I’m noticing a shift in how I relate to the word depth.

For years, depth felt like proof: proof that I was evolving, proof that I could tolerate complexity, proof that I was “doing it properly.”

I’ve always oriented inward — meaning, emotion, uncertainty. That’s where my attention naturally goes. And for a long time I treated that orientation like an achievement, as if I’d earned it through suffering or effort.

But I’m realising something far more ordinary — and far more grounding:

Depth isn’t an achievement.
It’s an orientation.

And importantly, I haven’t avoided the external world. I’ve done plenty of outward things: showing up, acting, building, participating, trying to live outwardly.

What didn’t work wasn’t the external world itself. It was forcing myself to live there as a primary mode when it wasn’t true to me.

That distinction matters more than I expected.

Because when I look back, the pain wasn’t “I should be more external.” The pain was the constant overriding of my own temperament — like trying to wear someone else’s nervous system.

Why I Think It Matters

It matters because the moment I made depth into a pedestal, it stopped being simple.

It became identity. And identity always comes with a shadow.

The shadow sounded like this:

I’ve done all this work — surely that makes me better at this.

That belief is tempting — and fragile. It builds a castle on sand.

Because the moment my sense of worth rests on “having done more work,” it collapses as soon as I meet someone who:

  • regulates well without introspection
  • connects easily without analysis
  • lives fully without examining their inner world

For a while, I didn’t know what to do with people like that. Part of me admired it. Part of me felt threatened by it. And part of me quietly dismissed it as “less deep,” which was a convenient way to protect the pedestal.

But I don’t want that in me. Not as a person, and especially not as a therapist.

Because if I need to be “the deep one” to feel valid, I’m already in comparison. And if I’m in comparison, I’m not truly in acceptance.

This has changed something in how I hold myself professionally too.

I don’t bring my personal material into the therapy room. I stay with the client’s world. I listen, reflect, and help them remain with what’s already present.

What has changed is how I locate my value.

I no longer see depth as something that elevates me. I see it as something that helps me stay grounded when clients go to certain places.

That isn’t superiority. That’s suitability.

Some therapists are better suited to clients who need:

  • structure
  • direction
  • external grounding
  • behavioural change

Others — including me — are better suited to clients who need:

  • presence
  • emotional tolerance
  • permission to explore
  • space without being fixed

Neither is better. Both are necessary.

And the more I can respect that, the more relaxed I become in my own lane.

This is what feels like maturation: not acquiring a new identity, but dissolving a hierarchy I didn’t realise I was carrying.

Depth can now rest. It doesn’t have to justify itself.

The Open Question

If depth is simply one way of being with life — not a moral achievement — then I’m left with a gentler question:

What parts of me still need to be “better” in order to feel safe and valid?

And what might happen if I let those parts soften too — not by proving anything, but by trusting that my orientation is enough?

Growth isn’t becoming more inward than others.
It’s stopping the attempt to live in ways that aren’t true to you.