It’s time to dive back into the history of self-help and consider its impact on our understanding of how and who we are. In this episode of The Gentle Rebel Podcast, we are looking at the 1937 book, Think and Grow Rich by Napoleon Hill.

Think and Grow Rich sits on millions of bookshelves worldwide. It has remained one of the most enduring self-help books since its publication during the Great Depression. Despite documented controversies and allegations concerning the author, Napoleon Hill is still regarded by many contemporary self-help influencers as an important figure.

For this special episode, Napoleon Hill invited me to meet with him, where he promised to reveal the secret to becoming a successful self-help guru. He tasked me with turning this into a formula, which I could then share with the world. If you are ready to hear this secret, you will. But not all are. Which is why, despite it being mentioned in every part of the episode, I have not spelt it out in the starkest terms. For to do so would diminish its potency.

We will explore these twelve keys to becoming a successful self-help grifter—sorry, I mean self-help guru—that we can learn from Napoleon Hill’s Think and Grow Rich.

Your recipe should promise clarity, control, and a sense of certainty in an uncertain world.

Don’t be shy about telling people how your life changed from implementing your now tried and tested formula.

Be flexible with your words so that in the face of pushback and criticism, you can use them as reinforcement rather than undermining your idea.

Join (or build) a fortifed circle of mutual back-scratching allies to grow authority by association and encourage aspirational sycophancy in your readers who dream of one day belonging to it.

Create and nurture a mystical secret, which sustains in your reader the sense that there is still something graspable they haven’t quite embodied – reinforce this with testimonials from those who appear to get it

Your appeal hinges on your origin story, which should follow a hero’s journey arc that starts with you in the reader’s current position (facing a challenge, wishing for change, etc). Describe the moment when everything changed for you and how this epiphany led your life to transform into what it is now. Firmly suggest that reading your book might be that wake-up call for the reader’s own heroic journey towards the life they’ve dreamed of but never yet dared follow.

Speak with confidence even if you are full of doubt and fear. The human mind is suggestible; the projection of confidence creates the perception of confidence. If you believe in your idea, it doesn’t matter if it’s true or not; you know that it’s for the ultimate good of your reader to trust and follow you. Confidence is also what you are selling – people want to feel more of it, so if they see you wearing it, they will follow you.

Reinforce a picture of the world your readers want to believe in. Pick stories, metaphors, and research that move the frame of reality to one where your idea can be universally applied, and would be if all people were receptive to its power.

Empower your readers to see reality primarily created by them as individuals. Emphasise the power of mindset, desire, and hard work, reinforcing the idea that taking personal responsibility for the quality of their life is what will bring the change they desire.

Help your readers focus attention inwards to expose the biggest enemies of personal progress: fear, doubt, and indecision. Use militarised language to impress the urgency of the situation, which your method will help them emerge victorious.

Stoke the fire of individual power by showing the reader that they are the protagonist and other people are supporting characters (obstacles or aids) in their life.

Nurture loyalty in your readers by turning them into followers, so they will defend you and your ideas if envious people criticise and attack you. And always remember that your people are your easiest source of future profit.

Of course, while these might sound absurd, they’re the very mechanisms that keep the self-help industry turning.

Think and Grow Rich is an excellent demonstration of the technical tricks at play. A picture is beginning to form of how, as a genre, self-help is about more than its content. It’s about influencing beliefs and behaviours about ourselves, one another, and the way the world works.

Hill’s techniques rely on narrative, authority, perception, and engagement rather than the presentation of researched and documented knowledge. And when we view it in its historical context, we can see how important that was in the success of Think and Grow Rich. People were in vulnerable positions, still suffering from the effects of the Great Depression in the wake of the Wall Street Crash. They were seeking hope and practical solutions to the real material precarity created by a crisis inherent in the capitalist system. But rather than looking to the cause of that crisis and organising collectively for accountability to the real causes, and to ensure a safer future, Hill sold a story of individuals as personally responsible for the crash and responsible for pulling themselves up and following their dream to riches and success.

Hill’s formula has been replicated, adapted, and updated by thousands of self-help authors in the years since.

If you want to dive deeper into the truth about Napoleon Hill and the context of Think and Grow Rich, several resources do a great job highlighting the pattern of deception, fraud, and opportunism that was his true legacy. Think and Grow Rich isn’t an exception to that pattern – along with his other books, his emergence as a self-help success author sits squarely in his life as a con artist and snake oil salesman.

I hope that, by showcasing some of the techniques Hill employed in his self-help writing, we might be better equipped to recognise these same tactics used by influencers and gurus today. And to help those who are vulnerable to its allure, to notice before they spend thousands of dollars on promises that can’t come true.

In tracing its roots, we can begin to see how the mythology of self-help continues to shape our understanding of who and how we are today.

In this episode of The Gentle Rebel Podcast , I speak with psychiatrist and author Dr Judith Orloff about her new book, The Highly Sensitive Rabbit . She wrote it to help sensitive children, their parents, and educators see sensitivity as a natural trait rather than a problem to be solved. She describes it as an invitation to reconnect with the sensitive inner child within each of us; the part that remembers how to play, imagine, and wonder.

Life can easily become overly serious, mundane, and disconnected from its natural magic. Judith’s story sets out to remind us to stay in touch with the loving, curious, and deep parts of ourselves. Creativity, she says, begins when we release our expectations and allow things to unfold. Writing a children’s book challenged her to express complex ideas in short sentences, paired with illustrations (by Katy Tanis) that speak directly to the heart.

It’s a lovely example of trying new ways to communicate familiar truths. How would you explain your favourite ideas if you were talking to a five-year-old?

Judith often read The Highly Sensitive Rabbit aloud in different settings to see how people responded. This wasn’t a formal research process, but a natural extension of her curiosity. It was a way to sense how the story landed with children and adults alike.

At the heart of the book lies a simple question: What do you love to do?
Through the character of Aurora, a gentle rabbit who prefers quiet and reflection to the boisterous games of her siblings, Judith highlights the importance of honouring individual needs. Aurora shows what it looks like to follow her own rhythm, even when others don’t understand.

This is an invitation for sensitive children (and the adults guiding them) to trust intuition and stay close to what feels true, even when it seems different from the norm.

In one scene, Aurora’s mother worries about her spending too much time alone. Her siblings complain, “She cries all the time.” Their reactions mirror common misunderstandings about sensitivity.

It’s easy to assume that solitude means loneliness, or that tears signal weakness. However, without genuine communication, we cannot determine whether someone’s withdrawal is a healthy choice, meeting a need, or responding through fear. Judith’s story reminds us to stay curious rather than judgmental; to ask, listen, and support instead of prescribing what “should” be.

Supporting a sensitive child means helping them identify their needs, manage their emotions, and develop simple strategies to cope with overwhelm.

Judith offers suggestions for children (and adults) to manage big feelings and model healthy boundaries:

These practices cultivate self-awareness early in life, enabling children to grow up knowing how to take care of themselves.

The Highly Sensitive Rabbit expresses Judith’s wider mission to equip highly sensitive people with tools for thriving in an overstimulating world. When children learn early that their sensitivity is natural, they no longer need to define themselves by it later. It simply becomes part of who they are.

I asked Judith if there are plans for a sequel. It would be interesting to see Aurora explore her sensitivity through different experiences, applying it through friendships, challenging current events, and creativity. Many adults who discover their sensitivity have that same question: now what? Recognising it is one thing; integrating and normalising it is something else.

Is the audience more than a gaggle of consumers? What role do they play in the creative process of an artist? Should they, as Rick Rubin says, “come last”? Are they always right? Or is there a more nuanced and sustaining way to approach this question?

In this episode of The Gentle Rebel, I explore this question with Steve Lawson.

I bumped into Steve towards the end of the summer at Greenbelt Festival. We rapidly got deep in conversation about his recently completed PhD, A Study Towards a New Model for Subscriber Audience Involvement in Improvised Music.

Steve’s approach to music-making and creative practice has always resonated with me. Over the past twenty-five years, he has carved out a living as a solo improvisational bass player, developing a thoughtful and sustainable model for art that resists the common assumptions that drive an obsession with numbers and scale. His thesis turns that lived experience into a lens for questioning many of the assumptions baked into how we think about creativity today.

Notes from our conversation…

What happens if we treat the audience as part of the story that shapes and sustains our practice?

A way of looking at the influential relationship between artist and audience is to create spaces where the rationale (the philosophical approach) can be presented, and work can emerge as part of a conversation with the audience. For Steve, listening to how people (who respect your work) engage with it, whether “that reminds me of…” or “my Dad just died and all I can listen to is you,” becomes so much more meaningful than having a reviewer who doesn’t know what you are doing or why, and place it in a pile of other CDs. What matters is how people relate it to their lives, and what it means to them. Creating spaces for this dialogue became central: a mailing list, website forum, Twitter, and eventually a subscription model through Bandcamp.

This meant integrating community with the economic rationale for making music. The audience emotionally sustains the music and financially supports its creation, along with the maintenance of the space where both artist and audience belong as equals. When the audience has already paid for the music before it is made, there is no need to rationalise it with hype or spectacle. Instead, it connects with people who already share the philosophical approach. This is a form of patronage, supporting the artist because of how they create, not only what they make.

Genius is not an individual trait but the manifestation of the collective intelligence of a scene. Famous names are simply the visible tip of a larger iceberg, as with Russian painters in the early twentieth century.

Audiences actively interpret media texts by encoding and decoding. They may align with the intended meaning (dominant reading), reject it (oppositional reading), or negotiate it. Instrumental music does not encode meaning in a concrete way. Its sense of meaning emerges cumulatively, with artist and audience encoding together. Decoding and recoding become a collective process, shaped by new work and ongoing observations.

Great works expand the “space of the talkaboutable,” an invitation to discuss ideas and broaden horizons. While Darke sees this as arriving around the work, Steve sees the space as built first (through mailing lists, forums, Twitter, Bandcamp), with the work then released into it. Meaning is collectively encoded, decoded, and recoded in this shared space.

The PhD began with the desire to make better music. What became clear was how much the audience contributes to the process, and what happens when that is denied. Rubin’s statement that the audience should be ignored overlooks the wisdom, care, and vulnerability that listeners bring. If the artist reflects the collective experience of a community, then the soundtrack emerges from what is shared.

This model does not scale, and that is the point. It does not rely on 200,000 monthly Spotify listeners or disconnected fame. That pressure brings entitlement and expectation. Within the subscriber community, no one tells the artist what to do. Even when people do not understand, they ask in good faith why, rather than demanding change.

In transactional dynamics, the audience and the artist are set against each other, either dictating the work or being ignored. But a community of practice is about shared growth around a central practice. Interest in process can deepen listening and appreciation, rather than feeding competitiveness or exclusivity.

In a culture of shortcuts and AI-generated outputs, curiosity about how something is done can add depth. Seeing how a sound is made can enhance enjoyment, provided it is not reduced to transactional comparison.

When everyone strives for spectacle, nuance disappears. Storytellers risk being drowned out by carnival barkers. The demand for more outrageous content comes at the cost of honesty and integrity. In this context, honesty itself becomes an act of resistance.

Incremental change adds more of what already exists, such as new ways to sell CDs. Transformative change shifts the whole landscape, such as the move from a scarcity economy to a digital economy. Streaming services illustrate this. It takes 100 premium streams or 600 free streams to equal one paid download in the UK charts. A fan listening 50 times counts for little. This model discourages deep audience and artist relationships, favouring scale and safety over innovation and depth.

“Art is how we decorate space, and music is how we decorate time” (Basquiat).

The value of music is not in how it is made or delivered, but in what it does to us when we hear it. It lives in memory and anticipation carried in the present moment of listening.

“How can I keep doing this?” Creators want to make meaningful work in ways that are true to their vision and voice. But the new market risks corrupting that relationship, bending art to serve algorithms and demand. The pressure for novelty creates a treadmill of spectacle rather than depth.

Nostalgia plays a powerful, often unexamined, role in media consumption. While loving music from the past is natural, unexamined nostalgia can become life sapping, pulling us into yearning for an imagined past at the cost of present possibility. Complaints that “nobody writes like X anymore” undermine new work, and algorithms rarely prioritise sharing others’ new music.

When Steve was diagnosed with cancer, he recorded a piece immediately after leaving hospital and shared it on Bandcamp. The audience was present, part of his journey, and the music carried meaning in that shared context. It was not “music about cancer” from a safe distance. It was a raw reflection of his brain on cancer, sparking connection and healing with those who were already part of the story.

Steve’s music

Emily Baker

Dirty Loops (Henrik Linder)
House of Waters (Moto Fukushima)

In this week’s episode of The Gentle Rebel Podcast, we look at the relationship between sensory processing sensitivity and hypervigilance.

As we finish our journey through the first HSP Owner’s Guide , we turn our attention to hypervigilance. that feeling of being permanently “switched on,” unable to stop scanning for danger, even when we’re safe.

For highly sensitive people, vigilance is a natural part of sensory processing sensitivity. It helps us read the room, pick up subtle cues, and stay attuned to what is happening beneath the surface. But when vigilance tips into hypervigilance, it can leave us in a state of chronic over-arousal, disconnection, and exhaustion.

In the episode, we explore why hypervigilance is such a common experience for HSPs, how it shows up in everyday life, and ways we might support our nervous systems in returning to a sense of safety and connection. I examine hypervigilance within a social and cultural context for HSPs, rather than from a clinical or individual psychological perspective.

Vigilance is an intrinsic feature of sensory intelligence. It anchors us in the awareness to notice and predict useful information to help us survive and thrive together.

Hypervigilance is what happens when vigilance overspills, and we get stuck in a state of alertness with limited capability to move our nervous system into a state of connection.

This can have roots in early life (especially for HSPs who are more impacted by their formative environments). But it can also develop over time because of the pressures and rhythms of the modern world, with constant notifications, cultural glorification of busyness, and a never-ending expectation to perform and prove our worth.

Hypervigilance is not always dramatic. Often it shows up quietly and gradually, for example you might notice:

If these feel familiar, they may be signs that your nervous system has been in “stay safe” mode for a long time.

Hypervigilance is the nervous system’s over-lean into the message, “stay safe by staying alert.” This is obviously appropriate in certain contexts, but when we carry this story everywhere, it takes its toll and can be a difficult pattern to get out of.

Some common contributing factors include:

These are rarely isolated and often overlap in ways that reinforce one another.

A helpful (though, not easy) way to meet everyday hypervigilance is to slow things down. Not necessarily by stopping altogether, but by letting engagement become gentler and more deliberate. Rather than rushing to solve, fix, or control, we can allow space to notice small sensory glimmers, those subtle cues that tell us we are safe, connected, and welcome in the moment.

Sometimes hypervigilance disguises itself as a need to gather more knowledge or prepare more thoroughly before we act. The desire to have the perfect plan, the ideal response, or the flawless understanding can be part of the protective pattern itself. Learning to sit with uncertainty, to laugh about situations (especially with others), and to experiment imperfectly can be a gentle way of softening the grip of hypervigilance.

We do not have to do this work alone. Bringing trusted people into our experiments, letting them see us try, fail, and try again, can help retrain our nervous system to experience safety and belonging in moments of vulnerability. Over time, these practices reshape our inner landscapes, reassuring the nervous system that imperfection is safe.

I had not heard of James Allen before I started exploring this history of self-help. I saw references to his book, “ As a Man Thinketh ”, which was frequently cited as an influential text around the power of thought on manifesting circumstances. With our “It’s the thought that counts” theme in The Haven this month, my curiosity took me into a James Allen rabbit hole.

I read three of his books: From Poverty to Power (his first), The Divine Companion (his last), and As a Man Thinketh (his most famous). I wanted to try getting a sense of where he was coming from in his philosophical worldview. He published around twenty books, all written within an eleven-year period, before he died in 1912 at just 47 years old. I do wonder how his ideas would have evolved if he had lived longer.

In this episode of The Gentle Rebel Podcast , I share my response to As a Man Thinketh. I reflect on Allen’s ideas and their implications for the way we think about ourselves, one another, and the nature of reality.

You may be wondering why I’m exploring self-help…Good question. I’m not completely sure. But I think it’s because I’ve felt an intuitive nudge to explore this world and its function in culture.

I don’t know where it will take me (I have no overriding purpose or vision with it – sorry James!), or what I will find, but I have a sense that there are interesting things to discover by examining, not just the content that is common in the self-help genre, but the role the field plays in how we understand and judge ourselves, others, and the horizons of possibility for the world.

As I find in this book, there are some interesting insights and invitations to explore. But it also carries the potential to be understood, embodied, and applied in dangerous and harmful ways, especially when Allen’s metaphors are mistaken for literal truths. This is where his philosophy, which initially sounds positive and empowering, becomes reductive and destructive when we examine its logical implications.

It demonstrates rhetorical tricks that are echoed in modern-day personal development literature, such as metaphorical literalism. This is where poetic imagery and aphorisms are employed to support and prove otherwise baseless philosophies.

As a Man Thinketh is intentionally short. Allen described it as a pocket book with teaching that all can easily grasp and follow. He said it shows how, in their own thought-world, each human holds the key to every condition, good or bad, that enters into our life. By working patiently and intelligently upon our thoughts, we may remake our life and transform our circumstances.

The question I keep coming back to throughout this exploration is, does he mean this as a description or a prescription? And what difference does this make to our reading, interpretation, and application of these ideas?

“A man is literally what he thinks, his character being the complete sum of all his thoughts.”

A person is the product of thought alone. The mantra “change your thoughts, change your life” is still repeated as if it were a scientific law rather than a metaphor.

“Every man is where he is by the law of his being. The thoughts which he has built into his character have brought him there, and in the arrangement of his life there is no element of chance.”

Prosperity and poverty, joy and suffering, always mirror the state of an individual’s mind.

“The body is the servant of the mind. It obeys the operations of the mind, whether they be deliberately chosen or automatically expressed.”

Thought is the source of health and sickness.

“He who has conquered doubt and fear has conquered failure.”

To avoid suffering, an individual needs a central life purpose. We should find the straight pathway to the achievement of purpose, and never deviate from its path.

“Before a man can achieve anything, even in worldly things, he must lift his thoughts above slavish animal indulgence.”

A virtuous life is about achievement, accomplishment, and sacrifice.

“Dream lofty dreams, and as you dream, so shall you become.”

Just as the oak sits in the acorn and the bird in the egg, every life is where it deserves to be based on the way they have manifested their dreams.

“Self-control is strength; Right Thought is mastery; Calmness is power.”

Calmness of mind is the hallmark of strength. The serene person is better positioned to achieve power, influence, and moral authority.

Reading As a Man Thinketh today, it’s striking how much of modern self-help traces back to these chapters. Its metaphors endure, and sit in us like self-evident truths.

The appeal of serenity continues in modern stoicism and mindfulness trends.

Allen’s neat system suggests that thought alone determines who we are and what happens to us. It is an idea that has proven remarkably persistent, even though it collapses under the weight of real life. Human experience is not simple, not consistent, not something we can manage through the power of will. We are shaped by chance, by biology, by history, by one another. To be alive is to live in the contradiction and messiness. Any philosophy that denies this may be comforting for a moment, but it asks us to reject the very things that make us human.

This post elaborates on the ‘overstimulation’ section of The HSP Owner’s Guide.

In this week’s episode of The Gentle Rebel Podcast, we look at the relationship between sensory processing sensitivity and overstimulation.

Overstimulation is a term we often hear when people talk about high sensitivity. It’s the second word in the DOES acronym after Deep Processing and before Emotional Responsiveness or Empathy, and Sensing Subtleties as a description of core characteristics of the trait.

But what do we actually mean by overstimulated? What does it look like? And is there anything we can do about it other than avoiding stimulating environments and situations? At the get-go, I want to answer that question with a resounding yes. We don’t have to write ourselves out of the situations, environments, and experiences that really matter to us. We have the capacity to build sustainable approaches to this stuff.

Because highly sensitive people are all different, it’s important to remember that sensitivity isn’t who we are. It’s more like the rails our nervous system runs on. It is often described as a spectrum of sensory responsiveness. Those on the high end take in a huge amount of sensory data and process it deeply. Those on the low end take in less, and most people are somewhere in the middle. As a species, we have evolved and benefit from individuals existing along this continuum.

Environmental Sensitivity researchers describe this variation through the concept of differential susceptibility. Some individuals are more profoundly influenced by their environment, for better or worse. It’s not about weakness or fragility. It’s about responsiveness and depth of processing. Studies show that highly sensitive individuals flourish in supportive settings but face greater challenges in chaotic ones.

I like to visualise this difference using microphones. A sensitive condenser mic is uniquely effective in quiet, controlled spaces. It picks up every subtle detail. But in a loud environment, it can get overwhelmed by noise. A dynamic mic has a narrower field of responsiveness and can work in almost any environment because it picks up less background noise. Both are useful, but for different purposes. This helps us remember that high sensitivity isn’t a flaw or superpower, it’s just a variation in human temperament, useful in some contexts and less so in others.

Overstimulation can look different from individual to individual. It is caused by an overload of the nervous system with environmental, emotional, social, or cognitive information.

It’s not always evident to others when a highly sensitive person is overstimulated. Despite appearing calm or composed, HSPs may be grappling with intense physical discomfort or emotional distress due to nervous system overload. Rising levels of stress hormones such as adrenaline, noradrenaline, and cortisol exacerbate this heightened sensitivity, leading to strong reactions to excitement, tension, temperature changes, or sensory stimuli in the environment.

What looks like calmness in a person might be a kind of shutting down. This happens to me when I’ve had too much stimulation – I can look really chilled out, but in actual fact I’m unable to function properly.

You might experience:

Overstimulation may be subtle. It can build gradually like a low background hum. And sometimes it hits all at once, like flood defences breaking. I remember experiencing it in shops as a child. The fluorescent lights, drudging through aisles, would leave me suddenly feeling drowsy and disconnected, despite being excited at the idea of going shopping.

When overstimulated, the nervous system activates stress responses.

This explains why two people can enter the same environment and one feels energised while the other feels overwhelmed. It’s as much about the state of your nervous system as the external situation, and also about the cumulative load of stimulation you carry between contexts. This is also why it’s important to consider Deb Dana’s words, “story follows state,” which remind us that for highly sensitive people, it’s not as simple as choosing our mindset. We need to start by selecting environmental elements that lead to a calm and less stimulated nervous system before particular thoughts may be able to change.

We might think of regulating overstimulation through two broad filters: proactive and responsive.

Proactive regulation involves preparing your nervous system before entering a stimulating environment or situation:

Responsive regulation is what you do when you feel your nervous system becoming overstimulated. Again, different things work for different people, and what works for one person might make it worse for someone else. It’s about experimenting with things like:

Long-term adaptation might include:

The goal isn’t to shut down your sensitivity or avoid life. It’s to notice, understand, and collaborate with your nervous system so you can navigate stimulating environments more comfortably.

Social interaction is a major source of overstimulation. It’s rarely just the conversation. It can be the context, the unknowns, and the processing afterwards (reliving the conversations, wondering why you said what you did and didn’t say what you should have!) You might really enjoy someone’s company and still leave drained.

Noticing red flags and green flags helps. Big groups with unstructured conversation might deplete you, while small gatherings feel energising. Individual differences matter too. Someone might be draining even if you share interests, while another person energises you despite little obvious common ground.

After-care is crucial. Sometimes being fully drained can feel good if recovery time is planned. The real challenge is when life leaves no margin, stacking one overstimulating event on another. For people with full-time caring responsibilities, this lack of margin is a constant reality.

I believe sensitivity has an important social role. Highly sensitive people often notice gaps in care and justice, and their responsiveness and empathy support social cohesion. Noticing and responding to sources of stimulation isn’t just about individual survival; it’s tied to our capacity to change the world around us. It’s about shaping communities, environments, and expectations to work for different people. Not least because when we make the world conducive for individuals to flourish, it is good for all of us.

I’m starting a project exploring the history of self-help; where the ideas came from, how they’ve changed over time, and what they mean for us today.

This episode of The Gentle Rebel Podcast is my chance to set some intentions, explain why I feel drawn to do this, and share how you can get involved if you want to join me for the ride.

I’m not starting this project with the end in mind. Sorry, Stephen Covey, but I’m rebelling against the second habit of highly effective people. I honestly don’t know how this will look or where it will take me. I’m just intrigued to dig into the backstory of personal development and positive thinking, and explore how it became an industry worth an estimated around $40 billion in 2024, projected to more than double by 2033.

Self-help shapes how millions of us think about ourselves, our relationships, our struggles, and our potential. I want to look at where it came from, how it works, and what it’s doing to us now.

I want to approach this with a curious and critical open mind, not a cynical one. I’ve personally gained insight, tools, and practices from authors in the personal development space. So, I have experienced the value of resources and authors under the broad self-help umbrella.

But I do have some questions.

One in particular that has long been on my mind…with the ideas in self-help are as widely adopted as they are, why haven’t they “worked” in the big-picture sense?

We’re living in a strange mix of economic precarity, post-pandemic disorientation, the maturing of influencer culture, and now AI churning out self-help style advice at industrial speed.

If self-help reflects and responds to the anxieties of its time, then this moment feels like a perfect point to ask whether it might be contributing to those same anxieties it claims to ease.

About 12 years ago, I read The Antidote: Happiness for People Who Can’t Stand Positive Thinking by Oliver Burkeman.

One idea in it has stuck with me ever since:

“Perhaps you don’t need telling that self-help books… rarely much help. This is why some self-help publishers refer to the ‘eighteen-month rule’, which states that the person most likely to purchase any given self-help book is someone who, within the previous eighteen months, purchased a self-help book—one that evidently didn’t solve all their problems.”

I was a big reader of personal development books at the time, especially those that spoke to building online businesses around creativity. They gave me a sense of forward momentum and excitement about future possibilities, but I could also feel myself on a treadmill. Old dissatisfaction was replaced with new.

That quote made me wonder if the self-help industry insists on not solving our problems. Which makes sense when you think about it…why would a market secure its own demise? It needs to keep inventing new problems to solve. Otherwise it collapses.

Some people enjoy the sense of growth that comes from reading a new book, and there’s nothing wrong with that. But from my experience, a lot of them say the same thing in different clothing.

Different anecdotes. Different metaphors. Same structure.

So why do we keep reading? And why does the market keep producing more?

Earlier this year, I looked into whether Mel Robbins had plagiarised a poem by Cassie Phillips and made up the story that inspired her book The Let Them Theory.

I bought and read the book as part of my research. It’s not my usual reading choice, and I hadn’t read a new personal development book in years. Two things struck me:

This persuasive, “I’m your friend” style of marketing is common in self-help influencer culture. Whether intended or not, it can exploit people who are in vulnerable and precarious positions. It nurtures parasocial bonds to build and potentially exploit trust.

Another thread I want to follow is whether self-help historically booms during moments of economic, political, and social instability. When the world feels out of control, we can focus on the things we think we can influence, such as our choices, responses, and mindset.

But I also wonder if this helps keep the larger system running as it is, without actually changing anything meaningful.

In Bright-Sided (Smile or Die in the UK), Barbara Ehrenreich wrote about how positive thinking became prevalent as a way to turn responsibility onto employees during times of corporate downsizing. Painting redundancy as an opportunity, rewarding those who keep smiling, performing, and pretending to be fine under the precarious ruthlessness of neoliberal capitalism.

I’m defining self-help books as works that position individual change as the path to life transformation. When built around an author’s personal story or branded method, they often focus on abstract notions like success, wealth, happiness, and fulfilment.

They usually sit at the front of a funnel that leads to courses, coaching, and memberships. The underlying message is: “You alone are responsible for your future success, happiness, and suffering.”

I want to explore what happens when this narrative dominates both individual and cultural thinking.

I’ll be working through some of the biggest titles in the genre, as well as obscure but influential works. Sometimes one book per episode, sometimes clusters based around particular themes or authors.

I’m aiming for one or two episodes per month. I’d love your suggestions and stories along the way. All of this is subject to evolve and change, but this is the first step I’m taking on this path. I’m sure it will evolve once I get going.

The internet is full of memes about positive thinking. I saw this quote a few days ago:
“The only difference between a good day and a bad day is your attitude.”

At first glance, it contains some truth. Of course, the way we think about things can influence our relationship with them. But taken too far, this kind of thinking turns into something insidious and destructive.

In this episode of The Gentle Rebel Podcast, we explore the darker side of positive thinking.

I remember hearing someone suggest replacing ‘have to’ with ‘get to’ as a way to live with more gratitude for things we take for granted. Again, that can definitely be a useful reframe at times. But the associated claim that words impact thoughts and thoughts are the only thing that create our reality can quickly become an imprisoning and judgemental superstition. Toxic positivity encourages emotional suppression and shame, where anything other than optimism is considered weakness or failure.

If we follow the logic that our thoughts dictate our reality to its extreme, we land in a society shaped by what philosopher Byung-Chul Han calls the achievement imperative. In this world, external rules are replaced by internal commands. We no longer respond to “you should” or “you must.” Instead, we internalise the injunction to perpetually “live our passion,” “find our purpose,” and “optimise our potential.”

Han quotes Tony Robbins, who promotes this mindset by saying,
“When you set a goal, you’ve committed to CANI (Constant, Never-Ending Improvement)! You’ve acknowledged the need that all human beings have for constant, never-ending improvement. There is a power in the pressure of dissatisfaction, in the tension of temporary discomfort. This is the kind of pain you want in your life.”

This leads to a permanent state of temporary discomfort. There is always something to optimise, improve, and change. Never rest. Never be satisfied.

Toxic positivity – we might describe it as pathological positivity (though I’ve seen a book of that name painting it as a desirable state of being, so that’s a bit odd)- thrives on the belief that we should reframe negative thoughts. But there is a big difference between resistance and repression. A good comparison comes from Viktor Frankl, the Holocaust survivor, founder of logotherapy and author of Man’s Search for Meaning. He wrote:
“We who lived in concentration camps can remember the men who walked through the huts comforting others, giving away their last piece of bread. They may have been few in number, but they offer sufficient proof that everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms—to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one’s own way”.

Unlike self-help slogans, Frankl’s words do not offer easy comfort. He was not promoting positive thinking. He was describing something he observed in those who were stripped of their humanity and subjected to unimaginable suffering. For Frankl, attitude was not a shortcut to happiness or material prosperity, but a form of resistance and an expression of power over an oppressor. It was a way to maintain dignity in the face of dehumanisation. His message was not about pretending things are okay, but about facing reality with courage and integrity.

This contrasts with James Allen’s 1903 As a Man Thinketh, often credited with laying the foundation for mindset-focused personal development and the Law of Attraction. Allen writes:
“All that a man achieves and all that he fails to achieve is the direct result of his own thoughts.”
“Suffering is always the effect of wrong thought.”

These statements are simplistic. But they can also be dangerous. They suggest that all suffering is self-inflicted, that illness, grief, or injustice are failures in a person’s thinking. This mindset promotes shame and silence. Far from being a response to an oppressive power, it becomes an oppressive force. It encourages people to internalise systemic issues and to blame themselves for pain that is often out of their control.

Frankl offers a different path. He did not believe that the mind creates suffering. He believed that suffering is a real part of life. In one of his stories, he counsels a man grieving the loss of his wife. Instead of offering platitudes, Frankl invites the man to see the pain as a reflection of deep love. The meaning was not imposed from outside. It emerged from the man’s own experience. The grief was real, and so was the love that gave rise to it.

Meaning, in Frankl’s work, is not about positive thinking. It is about finding light in dark places. And when suffering is avoidable, the most meaningful response is to change its cause, not to accept or reframe it. This perspective is far more compassionate and responsible than the toxic positivity that dominates much of modern self-help culture.

The Black Mirror episode, Nosedive speaks to this. The protagonist, Lacie, lives in a world where everyone rates each other’s behaviour in real time. Life becomes a game of masking and performance. But after a series of events, her social rating plummets, and she ends up in a jail cell. It looks like she has lost everything, but for the first time, she is free. Free from the endless can of achievement society. Liberated from the permanent loop of self-correction and optimisation.

This post elaborates on the ‘moral sensitivity’ section of The HSP Owner’s Guide.

Have you ever felt like you’re carrying the weight of the world’s wrongs inside your body? You may feel torn between staying true to your values and going along with what is considered “normal”?

For many Highly sensitive people (HSPs), this quiet inner tension is familiar. Sensory processing sensitivity often comes with an instinctive concern for fairness, justice, and the well-being of the world around us. This moral sensitivity is woven into how many HSPs notice, feel, and respond.

Alongside this internal compass, many HSPs naturally hold strong values that influence how they interact with life. This can fuel a desire for harmony and social cohesion, while also heightening their awareness of injustice or harm. Their choices are often guided by the impact on others, including people, animals, and the environment.

Every HSP is different. Our beliefs naturally vary. We do not all approach, value, or hold things with the same convictions. But there are characteristics and patterns that are common for many HSPs.

While moral clarity can be an anchor, holding too tightly to rigid expectations often leads to disappointment, resentment, or burnout. It can help to remember that most decisions and situations exist in shades of grey.

Being attuned to injustice can take an emotional toll, especially when exposed to distressing news, conversations, or environments that feel out of alignment with core values. Use creativity to process situations.

A creative practice can help you explore your thoughts and develop a positive approach to addressing and responding to things like injustice. This also provides options for action. Whether you want to make art, take direct action, or let go, when you know that there is nothing more you can personally do.

It is easy for highly sensitive people to feel responsible for solving every moral issue they encounter, but this can quickly lead to overwhelm or compassion fatigue. Recognising and accepting that no single person can solve every problem is essential for long-term well-being. Many HSPs benefit from focusing their energy on causes, relationships, or actions where their input feels both meaningful and sustainable. This is instead of trying to carry the weight of the world.

As Dorcus Cheng-Tozen writes in Social Justice for the Sensitive Soul, not everyone responds in the same way. Working toward a fairer, more just world is not a one-size-fits-all process. It calls for each of us to be who we are rather than trying to force ourselves into unsustainable boxes we don’t need to fit into.

Moral sensitivity can sometimes feel isolating, especially if others dismiss it as unnecessary or excessive. Connecting with others who share a similar perspective on the world can help reduce feelings of alienation and loneliness. This is especially true when you don’t have to explain yourself or feel defensive about the things you naturally care about.

Moral sensitivity is neither a flaw nor a superpower. It is simply one way many highly sensitive people process and engage with the world around them. For some, it can deepen relationships and decision-making. For others, it may feel like a heavy weight to carry.

The key lies in self-awareness, recognising when this sensitivity is guiding you toward meaningful action. Additionally, it is essential to recognise when it may be beneficial to cultivate patience, gentleness, or compassion with yourself and those around you.

What impact does sensitivity to moral and ethical issues have on your approach to decisions and the things you care about? Does any of this resonate with your experiences? Drop a message or leave a comment on YouTube.

Some tools are built to help us grow; to learn, connect, or reach meaningful goals. But eventually, we might ask: are these tools still working for us, or have they hooked us and quietly turned us into their tool?

This question has been on my mind since I started using Duolingo seventy-six days ago. I had just returned from a trip to Finland and wanted to keep learning a bit of Finnish: nothing too intense, just some gentle exposure to the language each day. From what others had said, Duolingo seemed like the ideal tool.

I started on the free version. It offered just enough. However, I was soon being nudged constantly toward the premium upgrade. Eventually, I gave in and accepted the offer of a 7-day trial. Before I knew it, £68.99 was taken from my account. Dagh! I had forgotten to cancel in time. That was frustrating. But what I noticed next was fascinating.

Over time, I realised I was no longer using Duolingo to expand my learning outside of the app. I was using it to keep my streak alive inside it.

It works. And it works well. But it also works against us (and our bigger picture aspirations).

This shift in behaviour mirrors the “Hook Model” described by Nir Eyal in his book Hooked, which outlines how habit-forming products are designed to draw us in and keep us there.

This system is incredibly effective at building engagement, but it often does so by subtly shifting our focus from what we originally cared about to what keeps the platform profitable.

What starts as a helpful tool can morph into a system that prioritises retention over transformation.

Only 0.1% of Duolingo users ever complete a full course. That isn’t a design flaw; it’s the business model. The goal is not to help us complete something, but to keep us inside the ecosystem.

Duolingo began nudging me toward other courses I hadn’t asked for. Music theory. Chess. It was no longer about Finnish. It was about keeping me engaged, clicking, and coming back.

This is when a tool becomes a trap, not because it stops working, but because it starts working too well at the wrong thing (keeping us engaged).

This isn’t just about language apps. It’s about how many of our digital experiences are shaped by systems designed to extract our wealth and capture our attention, energy, and even our identity.

In Punished by Rewards, Alfie Kohn warns that external motivators like badges, praise, or pizza vouchers for reading not only influence behaviour but also diminish it. Over time, we stop asking “Why do I care about this?” and instead ask “What do I get for it?”

In The Burnout Society, philosopher Byung-Chul Han argues that we have shifted from a culture of external discipline to one of internalised self-optimisation. We no longer rely on a manager or teacher to pressure us; instead, we pressure ourselves. Rest is viewed as a failure. Play is considered wasted time. Self-worth is now linked to productivity.

Apps like Duolingo thrive in this cultural moment. They don’t just support our goals; they reshape them. We start wanting to learn a language and end up wanting to maintain a streak. What once felt like growth begins to feel like a contract we’re stuck in.

Good tools (as well as teachers, programs, coaches, therapists, etc) should be like solid rocket boosters: they help us launch, but they’re meant to fall away once we’ve reached a certain point.

The presence of a badge, a streak, or a cheer from a virtual friend shouldn’t be the thing keeping us there. There must be something more intrinsically motivating.

It’s difficult to walk away from something we’ve invested in, especially when it gave us value at some point. But growth often requires us to assess whether something useful has now become a hindrance.

Letting go of the streak, app, system, or partnership can seem like failure. If it feels that way, it might be a sign that it’s got other interests at heart. So, letting go might be an act of gentle rebellious liberation.

Just because something “works” doesn’t mean it’s working for us.

Many of the platforms we use today were born out of a positive vision: to help us learn, connect, and form habits. But in a system that prioritises engagement and monetisation, that original purpose often becomes secondary.

When we start to notice what’s holding us involved, and why, we create room to choose differently.

We can honour the tools that helped us without becoming dependent on them. We can jettison what no longer serves us. And we can return to a way of learning, creating, and growing that is rooted in meaning, not metrics.

Maybe it starts with a simple act: letting the streak die.

It took from Thursday to Monday to finally kill my streak – without consent, I received streak freezes and gifts to keep it going. It was interesting to see how hard it was in the end and how desperately Duolingo wanted me to maintain that investment.