I didn’t plan to specialize in hormones. I trained as a naturopathic doctor with a focus on mental health, drawn to questions of mood, anxiety, resilience, and meaning. And hormonal health found me anyway, as a language that explained everything I was already seeing.
It feels fitting that a naturopathic doctor would focus on hormones because hormones don’t belong to one organ or one diagnosis. They belong to systems that connect everything in us to everything else, like a tree with many branches and extensive root networks. They connect us to nature. They are shaped by food, sleep, stress, safety, relationships, and time. They respond to the world we live in, cycle with the sun, moon, and seasons, and undulate through the decades of our lives, affecting how we feel, think, crave, and cope.
Naturopathic medicine views the body as an interconnected ecosystem, and hormones serve as its communicators, keeping our parts in conversation. They respond to and influence our emotions, habits, cravings, fertility, and energy levels.
Hormones ebb and flow across the day, the month, the year, and the lifespan in predictable rhythmic waves. When those waves shift out of tempo, symptoms emerge: disrupted sleep or nighttime waking; anxiety, low mood, or increased emotional reactivity; fatigue or reduced stress tolerance; changes in body weight or composition, especially around the abdomen; and menstrual changes, such as heavier, more painful, or irregular cycles. This is when most of us seek help from the medical system.
The medical model is built on a reductionistic framework that assumes one symptom means one problem, and that the solution is to remove, replace, or suppress the malfunctioning part. Diabetics need insulin, depressed individuals need serotonin, and pain needs to be suppressed through analgesics or anti-inflammatories: one problem, one malfunction, and a neat one-drug solution.
Sometimes these interventions are coherent, necessary, or life-saving. And sometimes they oversimplify, making a more dynamic, rhythmic, and circular conversation linear. In the worst case, they override physiology and obfuscate the body’s attempts to find balance, sometimes worsening the underlying condition and causing unwanted side effects.
Hormonal conditions spill out of the clean lanes of the reductionist medical model. I often have patients come in or write to me with various concerns: anxiety, fatigue, weight gain, sleep issues, heavy periods, changes to skin, hair and nails. “I have so many things wrong with me,” many will exclaim, or “I know this sounds crazy, but I sometimes notice—” They often have a long history of being dismissed or medically gaslit by a system that can’t hold or make sense of their experiences. But these rather mysterious and chaotic symptoms often fit into a coherent, predictable pattern of imbalance once we understand how hormones work.
Hormones don’t behave like broken parts in a machine that can be tightened, tweaked, plucked, and patched up. Hormones are nodes in a network. The word hormone comes from the Greek hormao, meaning “to excite” or “to set in motion.” They are signalling molecules released from endocrine glands such as the ovaries, thyroid, adrenals, and pancreas that travel through the bloodstream to convey information to every body cell about metabolism, ovulation, energy, mood, cravings, and sleep.
These messages respond to and adjust to the body’s internal and external environments. They respond to physiology, stress, safety, meaning, nutrient levels, sunlight, time of day, and food. Oftentimes, they are trying to find balance in a system where communication is interrupted or distorted.
When one thread in this communication web is yanked, such as chronic stress, disrupted sleep, under-fueling, or inflammation, other parts shift to compensate in an effort to find balance. Symptoms often indicate that the system is not broken, but adapting.
Throughout my years of clinical practice, I have spent a lot of time teaching my patients about their hormones. I believe when we know better, we can help ourselves feel better. After all, the word doctor comes from the Latin word docere, which means “to teach.” One of the naturopathic principles is the tenet “doctor as teacher.” I firmly believe that healthcare providers have a duty to care for our patients through education, support, and empowerment. Informed consent is essential in medicine, and you cannot give it without the right information.
I wish we knew more about our hormones.
I’ve had several patients on oral contraceptives (“The Pill”) claim that their periods are regular, coming every twenty-eight days like clockwork. They were offered the pill to “regulate” their cycles, and none of them were taught that the pill doesn’t produce a menstrual period, regular or not, but a well-timed withdrawal bleed.
Regular cycles, more than being convenient, are important medically because they more often than not indicate regular ovulation. Ovulation is necessary for producing progesterone, a hormone that gets little attention compared to estrogen but that is essential for sleep, bone health, metabolism, skin health, and mood. Women with PCOS, or endometriosis, or perimenopause, or hypothalamic amenorrhea are not menstruating regularly because they are not ovulating regularly. Sometimes they are put on the pill to “regulate their cycles,” but the pill does not support ovulation; it suppresses it in order to prevent conception.
Oral contraceptives aren’t wrong; they are a miraculous technology that has revolutionized society, women’s rights, and women’s health. Many of my patients, upon learning that the pill isn’t actually regulating their cycles, choose it anyway. And that’s absolutely fine. However, we have a right to understand what interventions are doing in our bodies: what they suppress, what they add, and what effects to expect. We have the right to informed choice, not to be told that a medicine is doing one thing, like regulating cycles, when it is actually doing something entirely different: suppressing ovulation and creating a bleed at regular intervals once the hormonal pills in the pill pack are paused.
Many of my patients in their 40s are unaware that perimenopause can start in their late 30s, and that early symptoms include changes to mood, menstrual cycles, and sleep well before the first hot flash. In our youth, we were given books about our periods and taught how to use condoms. I wish, in our late 30s, someone would interrupt our work and caregiving responsibilities to hand us a manual on perimenopause and what to expect in our upcoming decade of hormonal change.
If we understood our hormones, we might be able to anticipate, recognize, and respond to these changes, rather than seeing them as concerning personality change, meeting them with fear, or consulting endless practitioners who might also be clueless about perimenopause. There are only 7,000 PubMed studies on perimenopause. In contrast, there are over 1.2 million studies related to pregnancy. Half of humanity is women, and every woman who lives long enough will go through perimenopause, yet this remains a niche area of research.
I wish my patients in their 40s could discern what information is useful and what is not when it comes to Google searches, long lists of supplements, or advice from influencers.
Not everyone may or should choose hormone replacement therapy, but I wish more of my patients were informed of its risks and benefits, how it works, and what each hormone does in the body, choosing based on values, symptoms, and health goals rather than fear.
Much of the hormone replacement conversation around perimenopause and menopause focused on estrogen replacement. Progesterone, however, is anti-inflammatory, acts on nearly every cell in the body, and declines once ovulation becomes irregular or absent, sometimes as early as age forty. Perimenopause has recognizable phases, and many of them begin with low or unstable progesterone.
I was once on a bus reading a book about hormones, and the woman beside me, glancing at the title, remarked, “Hormones, I’ve heard about those. They say they’re important.”
Hormones aren’t just important; they’re the web that keeps everything together, creating the very experience we were sharing, being on the bus, thinking about hormones, conversing with one another. This woman was somewhere in her 50s, and I supposed that she had no idea that vasomotor symptoms like hot flashes, and future bone, cardiovascular, and metabolic health are all deeply tied to hormonal levels and can all be affected by the hormonal change of menopause.
I’m not sure what her perimenopausal journey looked like, but an in-depth conversation about hormone therapy with her doctor might have improved her quality of life and health trajectory as she ages.
I’ve seen a myriad of patients told that their thyroid labs are normal, without context. Patients have come into my practice on dozens of supplements, spending hundreds on specialized hormone testing without understanding what they offer (or don’t) or how to interpret the results.
Many symptoms are dismissed by the medical establishment as “stress” or “aging.” Stress is an important hormonal input, as the stress response itself is hormonally driven, but stress is not one thing. It has phases, shapes, durations, and distinct manifestations. Stress hormones interact with and are impacted by nervous system capacity and resilience. These hormones shift ovarian, thyroid, and metabolic hormones in various ways.
Many of us (an estimated 88%) sit somewhere on the insulin-resistance spectrum, often without our awareness. This can result in abdominal weight gain despite no meaningful change in diet or exercise. It can also contribute to symptoms like anxiety, low mood, pain, fatigue, and low energy. Insulin resistance, or even diabetes, is not simply “a bad diet,” but a distinct hormonal pattern that is influenced by menstrual hormones like estrogen and progesterone, stress hormones, and circadian rhythms.
Many people with insulin resistance aren’t even aware they have it, instead reassured that their glucose levels are normal because we aren’t taught how insulin works or how to advocate for insulin testing.
This gap in hormonal research and healthcare leaves us open to influencers and social media marketers swooping in. We are inundated with conflicting health advice from online professionals and various health “experts” who all swear they have special knowledge and a unique solution. We’re sold complicated plans and protocols, and oversold supplements, in the hope that they will relieve our suffering. But these solutions are imposed without an understanding of what is causing symptoms. Understanding is everything because it helps you discern and choose wisely.
The most expensive, fancy supplements are often not the most indicated or effective for your particular pattern or condition. The most effective plans are often those chosen with context, and the right ingredients, forms, doses, and timing in mind, where the intervention is matched to the specific presenting pattern.
To understand hormones, our bodies, health, and nature, we must become systems thinkers of the Biopsychosocial Model. Systems thinking asks not what is broken, but how our parts interact. Instead of isolating a single symptom or lab value and treating it as a standalone problem, it examines how different systems in the body influence one another.
In hormones, this means understanding the ongoing conversation between the adrenal, ovarian, thyroid, and metabolic systems. These systems are connected and constantly communicating with our biochemistry, organ health, and external environment. A change in place, such as constipation or a lack of light exposure, ripples throughout the human body.
Systems thinking also requires a sense of time. Hormones don’t just fluctuate day to day; they shift across weeks, months, years, and lifetimes. Puberty, contraceptive use and disuse, peak fertile years, perimenopause, and menopause are transitions that reorganize the system, alter physiology and how we experience energy, mood, motivation, appetite, and even self-trust.
When hormones are viewed through a systems lens, symptoms stop feeling random and become information. We can start tracing the threads back to identify where the system might be under strain, what it is adapting to, and what support it is asking for.
This way of understanding hormones also requires interoception: the ability to sense and interpret what is happening inside the body. Interoception is how we perceive internal signals, such as hunger, fatigue, tension, warmth, restlessness, and calm, before they become symptoms or diagnoses.
Interoception is more than a “gut sense.” It is embodied awareness paired with understanding. Without context, bodily signals can feel confusing or alarming, but with context, they become useful data that we can learn to decipher and respond to. We can observe a gradual shift in menstruation or mood, including pain, sensations, energy levels, and swelling. We can learn to interpret shifts in stress exposure, blood sugar, inflammatory load, recovery, and felt sense of safety.
For most of human history, this kind of awareness was reflected in how we lived. Bodies were understood in relation to light and dark, hunger and satiety, and the seasons of activity and rest. Menstrual cycles were observed alongside lunar cycles. Energy rose and fell with daylight. Fertility, recovery, grief, and productivity were shaped by seasons, weather, and community demands. This wasn’t mystical knowledge so much as practical attunement, an understanding that bodies change in response to time, environment, and meaning.
Much of that literacy has been lost as modern life flattened time and disconnected us from natural cues. Regaining it requires paying closer attention. Through tracking, reflection, and education, we can rebuild a relationship with our bodies that was once cultural and natural knowledge.
Tracking can help build this awareness. When we track sleep, energy, mood, appetite, and cycles, and learn the signs of ovulation, we can shift our relationship with our bodies, riding the waves of hormonal rhythms with ease rather than being thrashed around by them. This is how we build agency.
Health is not the absence of disease or even the feeling of being well all the time. I believe health is an empowered state of connection with our bodies, where we become fully engaged in their care, as we are with a child or a pet. What am I feeling right now? What does my body need?
I also believe that naturopathic medicine is not just about the interventions: whether it be supplements, nutrition, acupuncture, or even medication like hormone therapy. There are many responses that might be appropriate for an individual depending on their context, values and health goals. The difference is collaboration and choice. No matter how gentle or effective the intervention, the best one is that chosen with information and consent.
Too often, we are handed a prescription without being told what it does, what it changes, what information it obscures, or what alternatives exist. That lack of context erodes trust not only in the medical system but also in one’s own body. The implied message is that the body is something to fear, manage, control, and override.
In other instances, we are actively taught to ignore our bodies, told the message is “all in our heads,” that labs are normal, and we are fine. This attitude can delay a diagnosis of endometriosis by as much as 10 years. During that time, people are often told their pain is normal, their symptoms are stress-related, or that they should simply manage. Interventions may be offered, but without curiosity about the underlying pattern that can be associated with infertility, anxiety, and bowel changes, along with painful periods.
Hormone therapy is another important topic of nuance. Women in midlife are prescribed antidepressants more often than hormone therapy, when the “root cause” is a shift in hormones, not brain chemistry. We need to have more conversations about hormone replacement grounded in evidence rather than fear.
Much of the public conversation about hormone therapy is shaped by outdated interpretations of research, incomplete explanations of risk, or oversimplified narratives that swing between panic and promises of anti-aging.
Bioidentical hormones, for example, are often discussed as if they are either a miracle or a marketing gimmick. In reality, the term simply refers to hormones that are structurally identical to those produced by the human body, such as estradiol or micronized progesterone. These hormones have been studied extensively. Their effects, benefits, and risks depend on dose, timing, route of administration, and the individual context of the person taking them. None of this can be reduced to a single headline or blanket recommendation.
Dose matters. Timing matters. Whether hormones are taken orally, transdermally, or vaginally matters. Age, symptom profile, metabolic health, inflammatory status, and cardiovascular risk all matter. Research reflects this complexity, but that nuance is rarely translated into patient-facing conversations. As a result, many people are either frightened away from therapies that could help them or pushed toward them without sufficient understanding.
Agency in hormonal healthcare does not require rejecting medical care, but we should be informed enough to participate in decisions. We should understand what therapies are intended to do, what trade-offs they involve, how success will be evaluated over time, and what testing can show. It means knowing when a symptom is expected, when it signals the need for adjustment, and when further investigation is warranted.
The patients who tend to have the best outcomes with hormonal health interventions are supported in understanding their bodies as dynamic systems. They are given time, information, and follow-up. They are allowed to ask questions. They are not rushed into decisions, nor are they left to navigate complex choices alone.
Understanding our hormones is not about memorizing biochemical pathways, hunting for a single root cause, taking on extensive lifestyle changes or expensive, heavily marketed supplement regimes, nor is it about approaching the body as something that needs to be fixed.
Instead, learning about hormones is about orientation and learning where you are in a larger pattern and how the system is shifting over time. You learn how to participate in decisions rather than feel subjected to them. You know what questions to ask, what information matters, and what changes are expected versus concerning.
Most importantly, it allows you to interpret change without panic. Hormonal systems adapt and fluctuate. When those fluctuations are understood within context, they can be met with curiosity, adjustment, and care rather than fear, urgency or self-blame.
I wanted to respond to this information gap by creating a course on hormone health. I didn’t want to offer a quick fix, another set of rules, protocols, or promises, but to share the framework I use clinically when people come in confused by their symptoms and unsure how to make sense of what their bodies are doing. I wanted to create a resource that walks you through your hormonal systems so you can feel empowered in your health.
This course replaces late-night Googling. In 10 modules, I teach you how to recognize patterns as they shift; understand hormonal changes across cycles, seasons, and life stages; ask better questions; interpret information without panic; and participate more fully in decisions about care.
I gathered everything I’ve learned from the hundreds of books, research papers, and courses I’ve taken, as well as the thousands of patients I’ve worked with to create a course for women who want to understand hormones without reducing themselves to a diagnosis, a lab value, or a label, and who want a way of relating to their bodies that is informed, grounded, and humane.
Because I wish women knew more about their hormones.
References:
Bluming, A., & Tavris, C. (2026). Estrogen matters. Penguin Random House.
Briden, L. (2018). Period repair manual. Pan Macmillan Australia Pty, Limited.
Brinton, R. D., Yao, J., Yin, F., Mack, W. J., & Cadenas, E. (2015). Perimenopause as a neurological transition state. Nature Reviews Endocrinology, 11(7), 393–405. https://doi.org/10.1038/nrendo.2015.82
Hitchcock, C. L., & Prior, J. C. (2012). Oral micronized progesterone for vasomotor symptoms—a placebo-controlled randomized trial in healthy postmenopausal women. Menopause, 19(8), 886–893. https://doi.org/10.1097/gme.0b013e318247f07a
Huberman Lab Podcast. (2024, June 3). Dr. Mary Claire Haver: How to navigate menopause & perimenopause for maximum health & vitality [Video]. YouTube.
Hussain, A. (2024). The period literacy handbook: Everything you need to know about your menstrual cycles, period. Period Literacy School.
Mattern, S. (2019). The slow moon climbs: The science, history, and meaning of menopause (1st ed.). Princeton University Press.
Mosconi, L. (2024). The menopause brain: The new science for women to navigate midlife, and optimize brain health for later years. Allen & Unwin.
Romm, A. (2021). Hormone intelligence: The complete guide to calming hormone chaos and restoring your body’s natural blueprint for well-being (Unabridged ed.) [Audiobook]. HarperCollins B and Blackstone Publishing.
Rossouw, J. E., Anderson, G. L., & Prentice, R. L. (2002). Risks and benefits of estrogen plus progestin in healthy postmenopausal women: Principal results from the Women’s Health Initiative randomized controlled trial. JAMA: The Journal of the American Medical Association, 288(3), 321–333. https://doi.org/10.1001/jama.288.3.321
Weschler, T. (2003). Taking charge of your fertility: The definitive guide to natural birth control, pregnancy achievement, and reproductive health (Revised ed.). Vermilion.
“If you try this and hate it, we’ll learn something.”
Sometimes a great plan brings no relief. Many patients come into my practice having read, researched, consulted, and asked thoughtful questions for years. They have tried different diets, bought various supplements, gone to therapy, and seen multiple practitioners. Some things may have helped briefly, then outcomes faded. Other protocols or so-called solutions felt overwhelming and expensive, preventing them from even starting.
We are surrounded by conflicting advice, and each new option carries the burden of dashed hopes, “What if this doesn’t work either?” Over time, choosing starts to feel more challenging than staying uncertain. We want to feel better, but the act of committing to a plan, a practitioner, or a direction feels utterly exhausting.
This is a common experience for patients entering the holistic and natural health space, where treatment plans often involve lifestyle changes. Sometimes, even well-meaning practitioners dismiss it as “noncompliance” or “lack of readiness.” But the issue is rarely a lack of will, motivation or intelligence. Patients in this state are often highly active and engaged in healing. Over time, enough disappointment, overwhelm, or contradictory guidance leads their bodies to expect that effort won’t lead to results. Their system isn’t refusing to heal; it’s protecting them from the emotional cost of choosing and the heavy shame of bearing the responsibility.
When people are actively seeking solutions but repeatedly struggle to initiate or sustain action, the system responsible for authorship is already overburdened. Low agency arises when we feel that authorship of our lives is unsafe, exhausting or futile. Many who struggle with follow-through have lived for years, often since childhood, in environments where choice wasn’t safe.
If you struggle with decision-making and commitment, you may have grown up learning that trying often came at a cost, such as overwhelm, criticism, or collapse.
Over time, your body may have learned to conserve energy by waiting rather than acting. This was never a conscious decision you made, but an intelligent adaptation. In nervous system terms, chronic stress, trauma, illness, or prolonged uncertainty can pull the system into shutdown or freeze states, where initiating action feels heavy, confusing, or risky. You want to change, but struggle to implement change over time.
I’ve seen this pattern many times, often in people with complex histories. A patient might come in carrying a heavy file of childhood trauma. Perhaps they come to me with a history of disordered eating, chronic pain and fatigue, emotional volatility, panic, and depression. They’ve been waiting, sometimes for months, for the “right” referral, the specialist who will finally have the answer. When that appointment arrives, the encounter is brief and decisive. The recommendation may be a strict diet, testing and supplement protocol, or medication. Collaboration is non-existent, follow-ups are sporadic, and the style of care is directive: do this to feel better.
And sometimes, remarkably, it works, at least at first. Symptoms ease within days. Pain lessens and mood lifts; the relief is real. Through my years of practice, sometimes watching this from the outside, I’ve found it disorienting. After many sessions of careful pacing with clients facing many struggles, they seemed miraculously cured by authoritative, sometimes heavy-handed interventions, and I’ve often wondered whether my slower, gentler, collaborative approach was wrong.
But, over time, I came to understand what often unfolds next. Without ongoing support, context, or integration, these intensive plans become unsustainable. For patients with a history of restriction, control, or collapse, the intervention slots perfectly into an old binge-shame-control-restrict-rebel-shame cycle. After a period of deprivation, without nervous system scaffolding and the structure in place to hold these significant changes, patients inevitably slip through the cracks, falling off the plan and spiralling into shame and self-defeat.
Not only does relief disappear, but so does the sense of being held by an authority that had the answer. Disappointment deepens, leading to further collapse, and what remains is paralysis: no clear way to continue, no internal compass for deciding what changes mattered, what helped, or how to adapt.
Healing doesn’t fail because the intervention was wrong, misguided, or useless, but because something essential, something required for healing, was never named or built.
In these moments, agency, or rather the lack of it, becomes visible. Intense, immersive fixes can feel irresistible precisely because they temporarily relieve the burden of authorship. We don’t trust our capacity to steer, decide, or stay with change because our system has never been taught to do so. And so an external structure feels like salvation. We are exhausted, miserable, and in pain and in these states, containers like retreats, protocols, charismatic practitioners, and tightly defined rules offer certainty. And certainty temporarily regulates a system that feels uncertain and chaotic.
When these structures disappear or fail to fit our realities of daily life, we’re left holding the responsibility for our health and lives, and without support, it becomes too heavy to carry. The resulting collapse under this weight is a predictable nervous-system response, not failure.
Early in my practice, I felt this tension acutely. I understood, intuitively and philosophically, that patients heal themselves, and that my role was to guide, explain, and support. This is explicit in psychodynamic psychotherapy, where healing comes not from answers, but from understanding oneself in the presence of a steady, attuned other.
I noticed, however, that in medical settings, many patients are understandably impatient with nuance. Patients are dealing with troubling symptoms that demand an answer. In our healthcare system, we are trained to defer our bodies, agency and choice to an authoritarian expert. In this context, I could feel the pull to become that leader: more directive, more convincing, even more “magical.” But, I knew that while this stance might improve short-term compliance, it would undermine the very thing required to heal: agency.
Patients struggling with low agency want to heal but don’t yet trust themselves to carry the process. When patients appear indecisive, demand authority, or continue gathering information, they’re often asking not for more answers but for help tolerating the vulnerability of change. As clinicians, we can misread this (I often have) and respond by adding more plans, complex explanations, and intense structure, thereby unintentionally increasing the load on a system already at capacity.
Many so-called miracle cures follow this arc. They rely on pressure, urgency, restriction, or intensity to push a nervous system into action. For a time, this can feel like a transformation. But without integration, these highs often collapse into more profound shame, fatigue, pain, or shutdown. The lesson isn’t that these experiences are meaningless; in fact, they can teach us a great deal if they’re reflected on and metabolized. The problem is that without support, the learning often never consolidates. We usually view these experiences as something out there that works, but that we failed somehow.
The problem was never the plan, or practitioner; it was the mismatch between the agency the intervention required and the agency the patient had access to at that moment.
In psychology and medicine, several concepts overlap with what I’m describing here, including self-efficacy, locus of control, autonomy, and learned helplessness.
Self-efficacy refers to a person’s belief that they can carry out a specific action. Self-efficacy predicts why confidence is needed for follow-through and why low confidence can trigger avoidance and early abandonment of plans, but agency is not just about beliefs. Low agency is not about a lack of doubt in one’s ability to act, but a system that can not tolerate the act of authorship itself. The problem isn’t confidence or belief, it’s capacity.
Locus of control describes whether someone experiences outcomes as internally or externally determined. In other words, do we believe our actions matter or that outside forces dictate them? An oscillating locus of control can overlap with the pattern of deference to authority, followed by rebellion and collapse when one struggles with agency. Still, it doesn’t account for the emotional or physiological costs of choosing.
In Self-Determination Theory, autonomy is a felt sense that one’s actions are self-endorsed. Research consistently shows that behaviour change is more durable when autonomy is supported rather than coerced. However, Self-Determination Theory assumes a baseline capacity for autonomy. This article points to something that lives upstream of that assumption: with patients whose systems are not yet able to tolerate autonomy without threat.
Learned helplessness comes closer to describing how repeated, uncontrollable stress can reduce action, even in the face of options. Learned helplessness maps well onto chronic illness, long diagnostic odysseys, healthcare trauma, and repeated disappointments over attempts to heal. However, it is often framed as passivity rather than high-effort, high-seeking, low-integration patterns that many chronically ill patients are trapped in.
In the late 1960s, psychologist Martin Seligman and his colleagues ran a series of experiments that came to be known as the Learned Helplessness Studies. In one version, dogs were placed in a situation where they received mild, unavoidable electric shocks. No matter what the dogs did, move, whine, or try to escape, the shocks continued. Later, those same dogs were placed in a new environment where escape was easy: a low barrier they could step over to stop the shock. But the dogs learned that their actions didn’t matter, and so many of them didn’t try. Their agency was extinguished.
In contrast, dogs who had never experienced uncontrollable shocks quickly learned to escape. This experiment has since been ethically criticized and is no longer conducted, but its implications have echoed through psychology, medicine, and trauma theory.
When we repeatedly encounter situations in which effort doesn’t change outcomes, we stop initiating action altogether. Seen through this lens, what we often call “lack of motivation,” “self-sabotage,” or “giving up,” can instead be understood as a learned nervous-system adaptation: why try, if trying hasn’t helped before?
Similar to learned helplessness, low agency is a state of the nervous system, not a personality trait. It often shows up alongside chronic fatigue, metabolic dysfunction that doesn’t respond to lifestyle change, health anxiety, autoimmune illness, and depression. Patients arrive depleted and foggy, frustrated by their inability to initiate or sustain change. They desperately want to feel better, so they ask for testing, supplements, diagnoses, and explanations. On the surface, they’re asking for energy. Underneath, they’re often asking for amelioration from the burden of choosing and carrying their lives. Their systems have been in collapse long enough that surrender feels like the only imaginable intervention.
Suggestions that require sustained action, like regular meals, movement, and supplement consistency, can feel intolerable because they demand a level of authorship the system doesn’t yet have access to.
As a clinician, I felt this as pressure to find the one thing: the right supplement, the proper test, the correct explanation that would finally ease all symptoms. Sometimes that treatment exists. More often, cases are complex and rooted in long-standing patterns that shift only with steady, consistent inputs: changes that require feeling the body change and tolerating what that change brings.
For years, I focused on insulin resistance and metabolic dysfunction as key root causes of hormonal, cognitive, and mood symptoms. Often, this framing was correct. When the labs finally provided a coherent explanation, it felt like a solace for both of us: now we know what to do. I’d suggest a small set of actions, such as movement, nutritional guidance, a supplement, and sending patients off with hope.
Sometimes they improved, then abandoned the plan for something more extreme or restrictive that actually worsened the problem. Frequently, the issue wasn’t the plan. It was that the body was changing faster than the nervous system could metabolize the responsibility of maintaining that change.
Anxiety often reflects this same struggle with authorship. Many patients are highly vigilant: researching, anticipating side effects, seeking reassurance, listening to podcasts, tracking opinions. On the surface, they look engaged. But the engagement is often in the service of control rather than action. The moment a concrete choice is made, like starting a supplement, stopping a food, or setting a boundary, anxiety spikes, and the system retreats into analysis.
Depression, particularly with states of shutdown, involves a profound loss of agency, a loss of the felt sense that actions matter.
In chronic illness, where one feels betrayed by their body, low agency can appear as endless consultation without integration. Patients might move from practitioner to practitioner, accumulating opinions, tests, and plans that never consolidate. Each new expert destabilizes the last, but choosing one path means letting others go, and that loss can feel threatening. Authoritarian care can worsen this by overriding agency through pressure or shame.
Low agency can also show up as over-identification with external authority. Some defer completely to doctors, diets, and ideologies, only to rebel or collapse when asked to sustain the change. Rather than defiance, this reflects confusion about where the self ends and the other begins, often rooted in early experiences in which separation and autonomy were shamed, forbidden, or unsafe.
In practice, this can look like repeated requests for plans that are never used. Meal plans sit untouched. Supplement lists are partially followed, altered, and questioned. The plan becomes a symbolic container for hope rather than a tool for change.
Trauma is often at the center of this pattern. Trauma isn’t only about what happened to us, but what happened to our agency. When initiative was punished, ignored, or exploited, the body learned to stay still. In adulthood, this can look like indecision or endless seeking without consistent action. Beneath it is an intelligent truth: staying small once kept me safe.
Agency can be grown, however, in small, meaningful and survivable steps. It doesn’t come from overhauling your life, but from choosing one thing and staying with it long enough to feel the consequences and survive them emotionally. Agency isn’t a trait that you have or don’t have; it’s a capacity that can be rebuilt.
Consider the smallest action you could take that could be repeated without resentment or collapse. Maybe it’s laughably simple. Eating protein at breakfast, taking your iron supplement consistently, walking for 10 minutes after dinner, or not responding immediately to a triggering email. These are not trivial actions; they are repetitions of agency. Like each rep of a bicep curl, each one is an opportunity for the nervous system to learn: I chose this; something happened, and I survived it. That learning is what builds capacity.
Agency is the nervous system’s bandwidth to make a choice, feel what happens next, and remain intact, emotionally and relationally, through the consequences. Often this means doing less, not more. Complexity can destabilize collapsed systems.
If a plan immediately triggers anxiety, obsession, or the urge to rebel or abandon it, that’s not a moral failure; it’s information. The system is saying, This is too much right now. Plans that are too detailed, too perfect, or too ambitious can actually erode agency by reinforcing the sense that healing is too big to hold.
Time-limited experiments can help. Rather than framing changes as permanent commitments, saying things like, “This is my new diet,” or “This is who I am now,” frame them as experiments with a clear beginning, middle and end. This reduces the existential weight of choice. The nervous system relaxes when it knows there’s an exit: at two, four, or eight weeks. And this makes follow-through more likely.
When agency is fragile, the real task is not optimization. It is learning how to stay with one small choice long enough to experience yourself as the author of it.
A helpful practitioner for rebuilding agency is not the most impressive, directive, or confident one. It’s someone who can tolerate uncertainty without rushing to fill it, who doesn’t escalate complexity when things stall, who respects pacing. Someone who can say, “Let’s try this and see what happens. If you hate it, we can try something else,” and mean it. Someone who doesn’t confuse care with control.
If a practitioner feels all-knowing, rescuing, or possessing secret knowledge, this can feel comforting at first, but often undermines agency over time. It invites outsourcing rather than authorship. On the other hand, you might feel abandoned by a practitioner who offers too many choices and no structure at all.
The sweet spot is containment without domination, and guidance that leaves room for choice. The work of the clinician is not to find the perfect solution but to scaffold agency gently, through simplicity, repetition, containment, and tolerable choice.
Tolerating authorship is often the most challenging part of building agency. Authorship means accepting that outcomes are not fully controllable and that success or failure will belong, at least in part (but never in whole), to you. For many people, this is where shame, grief or fear surface. We might think, if I choose this and it doesn’t work, what does that say about me? About my body? About my capacity to heal? If I feel better, can I sustain it? If I take responsibility, will I be blamed?
Learning to tolerate authorship means staying present with those feelings rather than fleeing into analysis, seeking reassurance, or endlessly choosing. It means practicing saying, internally, I don’t know, but I’m willing to find out by trying something. That is a profound nervous-system shift.
The most challenging part of healing is often not doing something new. It’s staying with it. It’s tolerating the uncertainty, the effort, and the sense that now the outcome depends partly on us. In this realization, there is often grief. On the other side of the grieving process, however, is healing.
Reflection is also part of agency, but it needs to be simple and embodied, asking questions like, Did this feel stabilizing or destabilizing? Did this give me more energy, or did it drain me? Do I feel more resentful or vigilant? Is what I’m feeling a high of healing, a sense of relief, or actual change? These are questions that build interoception, the ability to read internal signals, which is foundational to agency.
Agency is relational; most of us don’t lose it alone, and we don’t rebuild it alone. Safe relationships with a practitioner, therapist, friend, or group provide external regulation that supports internal and self-regulation. The goal is not dependence, but supported autonomy from someone steady enough nearby that you don’t have to outsource your decisions, but don’t feel alone with them either.
It helps to let go of the idea that agency means doing everything yourself. Agency does not mean isolation. It means choosing consciously where you accept support and where you take responsibility. It’s the difference between saying, “Just tell me what I should do,” and asking, “Can you help me think through my options?
When we develop agency, choices become easier, less dramatic, and less charged. Healing stops feeling like a series of make-or-break decisions and becomes a rhythm of choosing, feeling, adjusting, repeating, and creating sustainable change over time.
Healing is not about finding the perfect plan. It’s about building the capacity to stay with yourself while living one.
References:
Apigian, A. (2025). The biology of trauma. Simon & Schuster.
Dana, D. (2020). Polyvagal exercises for safety and connection: 50 client-centred practices (Norton series on interpersonal neurobiology) (1st ed.). W. W. Norton & Company.
Deci, E. L., & Ryan, R. M. (2000). The “what” and “why” of goal pursuits: Human needs and the self-determination of behavior. Psychological Inquiry, 11(4), 227–268. https://doi.org/10.1207/s15327965pli1104_01
Maier, S. F., & Seligman, M. E. (1976). Learned helplessness: Theory and evidence. Journal of Experimental Psychology: General, 105(1), 3–46. https://doi.org/10.1037//0096-3445.105.1.3
Maier, S. F., & Watkins, L. R. (2005). Stressor controllability and learned helplessness: The roles of the dorsal raphe nucleus, serotonin, and corticotropin-releasing factor. Neuroscience & Biobehavioral Reviews, 29(4-5), 829–841. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.neubiorev.2005.03.021
van der Kolk, B. (2014). The body keeps the score: Brain, mind, and body in the healing of trauma (1st ed.). Penguin Books.
“The patient is not a problem to be solved, but a mystery to be met.” — Rachel Naomi Remen
M was a mother of two, in her mid-50s. She booked an appointment because profound exhaustion had descended on her like a fog. She ate intentionally: fibre, fruits, and vegetables. She usually slept well. Recently, she started experiencing abdominal distension and a feeling of fullness. She read about intermittent fasting and decided to try it: skipping breakfast.
Her family doctor had ordered blood tests and called to tell her everything looked fine. I requested a copy and found that she had high triglycerides and liver enzymes. She said her doctor had mentioned something like that, but said nothing could be done. They advised her to keep eating well and exercising, and to repeat the tests in three months.
Within three months, the liver enzymes returned to the normal range. Her doctor offered her a statin drug for her elevated “cholesterol.” M declined, still feeling tired and bloated, but preferring to focus on lifestyle factors before trying medication.
L was in her 30s. She lived alone and worked from home—a repetitive and unfulfilling admin job. As a teenager, she was diagnosed with major depressive disorder and prescribed medication to correct the “chemical imbalance” in her brain. The medication might have helped a little; she wasn’t sure. Her depressive episodes would often last for weeks, during which she was unable to get out of bed.
When she booked her first appointment, she had tried more medications than she could remember and was currently taking three, her psychiatrist trying to get the cocktail right. She was still experiencing a chronically low mood, cloudy thinking, and troubling memory loss. Her doctor had recommended electroconvulsive therapy for her “treatment-resistant depression,” and suggested that her symptoms were worsening because of peri-menopause.
She wished she could pursue a more meaningful career, but with her depression, she didn’t think she could handle something challenging. She also needed the job security and health benefits to cover the medications for her chronic autoimmune disorder.
H was in his 40s and suffered from gastrointestinal bloating and erratic bowel movements most of his life. As a child, he was diagnosed with ADHD and generalized anxiety disorder. He remembers horrible stomach pain that would keep him home from elementary school. In many ways, this was a saving grace because he remembers the chronic bullying and devastating boredom he dealt with there.
His doctor ordered colonoscopies and gastroenterologist referrals, but when nothing showed up on testing, he was diagnosed with Irritable Bowel Syndrome (IBS), linked to stress.
To find relief, H researched alternative therapies like meditation, red light therapy, cold plunges, and ketogenic diets. Could his mental health issues be connected to his gut health? His doctor said that diet was unlikely to shift his symptoms and that his anxiety, ADHD and IBS were separate and unrelated.
These examples are from various patients I’ve seen over the years—their names and identifying details have been changed and combined with other patients to represent overarching patterns in everyday healthcare experiences. There are differences in the details, but they, I, and hundreds of other patients, have all found ourselves in a similar space: leaving an unproductive and invalidating healthcare encounter in tears, feeling utterly alone, unseen and unheard.
M, L, and H all presented with a constellation of symptoms affecting various body systems, including their digestive organs, brain and nervous system, hormones, immune system, muscles, and metabolism. Their doctors were supportive and well-meaning, ordering blood tests and imaging, making referrals, and providing solutions within their scope of knowledge.
However, when their tests were normal, medications failed to provide relief, or symptoms escaped defined diagnostic categories, they and their practitioners hit a wall.
Like many others, these patients are victims of a medical model that overlooks the broader context in which people seeking healthcare solutions often find themselves. Symptoms may be dismissed, data is prioritized over experience, mental health is either minimized or overmedicalized, and care is separated into systems: brain, body, digestive system, hormones, or heart.
What was the significance of M’s elevated liver enzymes on her bloating and fatigue? Did her history of caloric restriction and people-pleasing predispose her to the burnout and exhaustion she was experiencing? How might intermittent fasting and overfunctioning have perpetuated her condition? How did the absence of a clear and defined disease negate her experience of being unwell and prevent her from finding the tools and strategies that might have helped?
What is the connection between L’s longstanding untreatable depression, autoimmune disease, and inflammation? How did carrying her diagnostic labels since adolescence impact her identity, hope for the future, and career aspirations?
Is it true that H’s anxiety, ADHD, and IBS were unrelated? How might bullying have impacted his physical and mental health? How might biohacking give him a sense of agency, or even creativity (May, 1983)? When does striving to understand slip too far into micromanagement, health anxiety, orthorexia, and self-punishment?
One of the reasons I became a naturopathic doctor is to work within the space and framework to ask these questions: Who is the person in front of me? What is their story? How can I serve?
For all three case examples, their family doctor’s office was the first place they sought help. Patients in the current healthcare system are fragmented into signs, symptoms, diagnoses, and labels. They are offered reductionistic linear solutions: one drug, test, or treatment per problem. When solutions are exhausted, practitioners throw up their arms: “It’s peri-menopause/aging/stress.” The system leaves little room for curiosity, meaning-making, transformation, growth, or uncertainty.
The result is a breakdown in the doctor-patient relationship and a lack of faith in the healthcare system. For patients, this can lead to a sense of powerlessness and mistrust of their bodies. Practitioners can feel frustrated, compassion-fatigued, and burned out.
In 1977, the journal Science published a seminal paper by George Engel entitled “The Need for a New Medical Model: A Challenge for Biomedicine.” In it, Engel outlines the limitations of the biomedical model and introduces a new approach to healing: the Biopsychosocial model, a holistic framework that acknowledges the interplay of biology, psychological, and social factors on health and illness.
Even nearly 50 years after Engel’s paper, modern medicine still largely adheres to the biomedical model. The model is based on the tenets of reductionism and dualism, which offer relative simplicity and a sense of certainty. These dogmas are difficult to release in favour of a more complex, flexible, multifaceted, and interconnected holistic framework.
Reductionism is a philosophical approach that seeks to understand the whole by breaking it down into its constituent parts. Health and illness can, therefore, be understood at the molecular and chemical levels: type I diabetes is a disease characterized by insulin deficiency, and coronary artery disease results from high cholesterol levels. However, a Lego sculpture cannot be recreated by turning over and examining the little coloured plastic pieces; the human organism is more than the sum of its parts. Our bodies are layered, interwoven, and interdependent dynamic systems that depend on and interact with the social world and environment.
We are wild, magical, and endlessly puzzling, with pieces and parts that weave, knot, and untangle in molecular dances that connect, disappear, and remanifest from the unseen depths of the mysterious beyond. The truth is as horrifying as it is accurate: despite the degrees, papers and expert-level bravado, we understand very little about ourselves.
Emerson M. Pugh puts it famously and beautifully: “If the human brain were so simple that we could understand it, we would be so simple that we couldn’t.”
The Human Genome Project is a prime example of the limitations of reductionism. Launched in the late 1990s and early 2000s, it aimed to decipher the body’s genetic code to understand the language of disease. While the project helped advance science in many ways, it failed to provide significant breakthroughs in disease research. It turns out that there is more to understanding Shakespeare’s works than reciting the alphabet.
Some diseases are caused by specific mutations in individual genes. Still, the reality is far more complex, with the relationship between genes and health involving combinations of mutations and epigenetics —interactions with the environment, life experiences, and behaviours that impact our DNA.
The second feature of the biomedical model is mind-body dualism, developed and promoted by Descartes in the 17th century. He postulated that the body is a material entity that could be dissected, examined, and altered without impacting the mind, which was considered ethereal and non-physical. The body might have been considered a temporary vessel for the mind, but the two were governed by different principles and troubles of the mind were not thought to impact the body, and vice versa.
The healthcare system still presumes mind-body dualism. We have psychiatrists for the mind and neurologists for the brain. Dead-end symptoms that evade disease categories are hand-waved as “stress” or “psychosomatic” (which paradoxically assumes a connection between mind and body).
Centuries of adopting this ill-fitting assumption have led to the obvious and pervasive mind-body problem: if the mind and body are distinct, then how can anxious thoughts quicken our heartbeat, trauma impact our immune system, stress lead to indigestion, and a placebo produce a healing effect?
The biomedical model views the body as a machine, with diseases representing deviations from normal functioning, and healing involving the restoration or replacement of broken parts. But, despite the comforts of certainty and control, biomedicine is no more scientific than leeches, bloodletting, and celery juice. It provides us with rituals in the form of tests, diagnoses, and prescriptions. The amulets we hold onto to ward off the demons of disease are chemical fixes for depression and ADHD, antibiotics for viral infections, and medications to lower lab values.
The biomedical model is the folk medicine of our time. It promises answers to the more complex questions of what is wrong and what can be done about it, while failing to address the why, how, what for, and, importantly, what this means (for me, my life, my family, my future).
On the other hand, the biopsychosocial model invites us to see the person as a constellation of living systems: interwoven body, mind, relationship, and spirit. It considers the rhythms of our biology, such as blood sugar, hormones, nerves, and neurotransmitters, inseparable from our inner world of thoughts, emotions, defences, and longings. It honours how we move through the world: in families, communities, and systems that shape our choices and burdens. It also asks how we make meaning through purpose, ancestry, connection, and the implicit possibility that links others to our suffering: we belong to something larger than ourselves.
The biopsychosocial model rests on a web of interconnected pillars, each supporting and shaping the others in a living system of feedback loops and resonance. No part can be isolated and touched without creating ripples that contact the whole.
Even a single intervention, such as a medication, sends ripples through the entire system because a pill, even a placebo, is not inert. It holds our beliefs about healing and medicine, our relationship with the prescriber, the meanings we attach to illness, and the social stories we carry about being unwell.
In “Why Make People Patients,” Marshall Marinker (1975) distinguishes between illness, sickness, and disease. The medical establishment diagnoses and treats diseases based on symptoms, signs, and lab tests that fit into neat categories, with defined biological treatments.
Illness is the experience of dysphoria and dysfunction that brings people to the doctor. It is the interpersonal and subjective experience of how unwellness is experienced or lived. Therefore, it is possible to feel ill (or unwell) without meeting the criteria for having a disease.
Sickness is a social role that an individual adopts when they are seen or see themselves as unwell. Those with chronic illness may experience being sick (and ill) without having a disease.
Within the biomedical model, disease receives the most attention. Its cause and course are known, and its treatments are rational and specific (Engel, 1977). Biomedicine can offer patients disease labels and treatments. The biological, psychological, and social dimensions of suffering are medicalized and collapsed into the narrow definition of disease. Care is often dehumanized, and people are treated as problems to be fixed (Marinker, 1975). People with chronic, invisible, or unexplainable symptoms or conditions that have yet to be classified and recognized as diseases are often dismissed, a phenomenon identified as “medical gaslighting.”
The Latin root of the word “patient” means “one who suffers” or “one who endures.” Life is suffering, and in this way, we are all patients. However, patient is a half-word, like confidant or lover (Marinker, 1975). A patient exists as one half of a dyadic whole, the doctor, physician, or healer forming the other half. This therapeutic relationship is the unit from which healing occurs.
The patient enters the therapeutic relationship because either they are unaware of what is wrong or, if they are, they don’t know how to help themselves (Engel, 1977). In this therapeutic dyad, the physician is not just a mechanic, identifying and fixing the broken parts, but also a teacher, mentor, and psychotherapist, requiring knowledge of body systems and medicine, as well as psychological and interpersonal skills. Their task is not only to diagnose, but to soothe uncertainty, offer meaning, and strengthen the patient’s trust in their body.
The physician is an agent of hope.
Research has shown that the biopsychosocial model can be used to treat pain and improve mood and life satisfaction in patients; it enhances clinician skills and improves disability outcomes ( Dossett et al., 2020; Fricchione, 2023; Kusnanto et al., 2018; Mankelow et al., 2022; Nakao et al., 2020).
Though decades of research and clinical evidence support the biopsychosocial model, conventional medicine, shaped by hierarchy and tradition, has been slow to integrate it, preferring power and old dominance structures over change.
Furthermore, the limitations of time and attention in holding space for the biopsychosocial model, the nuance of taking a thorough history, and systems thinking make it difficult to standardize into a rigid and overly complex system.
We need practice to bring the biopsychosocial model to healthcare. Below are real-world, grounded examples of how practitioners and patients can embody the model.
For practitioners:
Listen to Serve. Rachel Naomi Remen says that the doctor’s role should not be to fix or even help, but to serve.
She says, “If helping is an experience of strength, fixing is an experience of mastery and expertise. Service, on the other hand, is an experience of mystery, surrender and awe.”
In her book Narrative Medicine, Rita Charon (2006) recommends that doctors invite patients to speak without interrupting, asking them, “What do you think I should know about your case?” She listens for symptom onset, location, duration, and so on, but she also listens for nuance. How do the patients describe their symptoms? How are their lives impacted? What is important to them? Sometimes, she asks a patient, “Tell me about your scars.” Then, she listens.
In the biomedical model, where the doctor is on a hunt to uncover the broken or missing piece, patients are interrupted an average of 18 seconds after they begin speaking.
In many naturopathic consultations I’ve conducted, patients speak for thirty minutes or more, while I quietly listen, reflect nonverbally, and take notes before asking a single question.
In medical school, we were taught how to take a case, including mnemonics to help remember the key questions to ask. Now, 10 years in, I find that simply listening to patients provides me with the information I need to know, and more.
Perhaps this is why naturopathic doctors are often referred to as “Physicians Who Listen.”
According to Engel, doctors must learn to be high-level interviewers, versed in the cultural determinants of how patients communicate disease symptoms. How we talk about our bodies reveals our relationships with them, our experiences with symptoms, and the early life experiences that shape our bodies.
In the doctor-patient interview, the doctor must listen to understand and validate the unfolding story that led someone to feel unwell and seek help. This means identifying biological symptoms and holding space for the psychological and social elements shaping how the person suffers, and healing might begin.
Charon posits that a medical interview must allow for a layered, nonlinear, and metaphor-rich narrative. How does the patient tell their story, and what are their experiences with symptoms? What details do they choose to include? Or omit? Narrative thinkers like Rita Charon and Gabor Mate argue that our stories, or biography, shape our biology. They are just as important, if not more so, than the classic signs and symptoms that typically characterize a particular diagnostic category.
The doctor’s task is to help patients name their feelings and bear witness to the patient’s experience of dysphoria or dysfunction. They must listen for and begin to untangle the threads that shape the suffering and the individuals’ desire to wear the mantle of “patient” and entrust their body to care.
Begin with humility. The patient is the expert on their own body. While you may have spent hours studying this particular organ or condition, the patient has spent years, even a lifetime, living with it.
Science, while the best methodology we have for encountering the truth, is still just an approximation that we use until something better comes along. Knowledge is always incomplete. According to Babette Rothschild (2021), even the most evidence-based treatment for post-traumatic stress disorder will not help more than 50% of clients.
Even the most thoroughly researched cure will not benefit everyone. Nothing in medicine, psychology, or sociology is a hard fact. Science is a big, unanswered question.
In the words of Rachel Naomi Remen, “The patient is not a problem to be solved, but a mystery to be met.”
Remember why you wanted to be a doctor. If you’re like me, you were captivated by the awe and mystery of not knowing. You’ve studied and practiced medicine for years, and the not-knowing still hangs before you, lighting the way on.
My question to practitioners is this: Can you meet your patient, head down in reverence and awe, with curiosity and compassion, without the need to fix? Can you sit in the discomfort of uncertainty?
Practice systems thinking. From a systems perspective, rather than a reductionist one, each part is integrated and interacts with its layers and within the whole. What layer must be addressed first?
Consider how social forces like poverty, racism, and social categories may affect patients’ symptoms and their ability to heal. Ask how organs, cells, molecules, diagnoses, lab results, and the social and psychological interact. What threads are present, and how might they weave and knot together?
See the person, not the problem. Michael White (2016), the developer of Narrative Therapy, is famous for saying, “The person is not the problem, the problem is the problem.” When we separate people from their problems, we leave room for stories of suffering and strength. We can hold and better listen to their stories, while tackling the problem without erasing the person.
Centre patients as the experts on their own lives and their bodies. Flatten hierarchies and de-centre practitioner power. Educate with curiosity, not to fix or dictate. Leave room for questions and doubt. Learn to roll with resistance rather than fighting against it.
Instead, get curious. Why might these recommendations not be landing for the patient? Ask if the diagnoses and treatment plans make sense to them. And then ask: What matters most? What do you notice? What are you ready for?
Ask patients what threads they would like to tug first. Addressing patient issues and developing plans involves a patient-centred, collaborative approach in which courses of action are suggested, tried, and evaluated for feedback. This way, an intricate dance happens between the patient and the practitioner (Graham et al., 2023).
Self-care. Finally, practitioner burnout is real. Ensure you regulate your nervous system, make space for reflection, and seek support as needed.
For patients:
Trust yourself. Health is not just the absence of symptoms or the relief of pain; it is the sense of wholeness, coherence, and aliveness in your body and your being. Normal lab results don’t cancel out your suffering; a diagnosis cannot fully contain your story. Your instincts and insights are also essential data.
You are not a broken part needing repair, but a whole person, complex, relational, and worthy of care. If something feels wrong, trust that. If you feel unseen, trust it. Your frustration is valid. Your symptoms are messengers.
You deserve understanding, presence, comfort, care, and a path forward.
Empower yourself within the system. Our healthcare system is stretched thin, and sometimes, your suffering may be overlooked. This is not because you don’t matter; it isn’t always because your doctor doesn’t care. Sometimes, even the most well-meaning practitioners work within an overwhelmed structure.
Before your appointment, take a moment to ground yourself. Breathe into your belly. Feel your feet beneath you. Gather your thoughts and write them down. Bring someone who can hold space, ask thoughtful questions, and accurately remember what is said.
Write down your questions before you go. Appointments move quickly, and it’s easy to forget. Describe your top two or three concerns and how they shape your days, energy, and life. Be honest about what you’ve tried, what’s helped, and what hasn’t.
If something feels off, you can gently point it out. “Could we look at this another way?” “This doesn’t quite fit.” “Would you be open to checking this?” If it’s difficult to speak, consider having someone speak on your behalf. You deserve to be witnessed.
Afterward, write down what was said, how it landed, and what you wish you’d asked. Over time, this will build a personal health narrative you can revisit and share with future providers.
Participate in your healing. Responsibility is not about blame. You are not expected to carry everything alone, but you are invited to become a curious, compassionate student of your own body. We can reclaim our agency.
Start by paying attention. Track your symptoms, not obsessively, but as an act of self-witnessing. Look for patterns: what soothes, what aggravates, what precedes the flare or the crash. Learn the basics of your biology and mind: how stress ripples through your system, blood sugar, trauma, hormones, sleep, and your nervous system speak. What are their symptoms, signs, and sensations? You don’t need to diagnose yourself, but knowing your inner landscape helps you recognize when something feels true and when it doesn’t.
Your voice matters, too. Healing is a dialogue. Informed consent is about being an active participant in the conversation. This means learning to describe what you feel, notice, and need.
Pain, for instance, can be more than just “it hurts.” What kind of pain is it? Where does it live? Is it burning, tight, dull, or pulsing? Does it move or stay in place? Is it eased by warmth, made worse by movement, or does it come on with memories or moods? The more we can narrate what we carry, the more we can be seen.
When it comes to tools, focus on what’s within reach. You don’t need a life overhaul or expensive therapies. Sometimes, healing begins with the most minor shift: more rest, a nourishing meal, honouring a boundary, a walk in the sun, or a moment of joy.
The human body requires fresh air, water, sunlight, physical activity, restful sleep, nutritious food, and social connection. While finding a balance of these isn’t always easy, sometimes, the solutions are simpler than we think.
Build yourself a circle of care. No single practitioner can hold everything we carry. If it’s within reach, widen your support: consider consulting a naturopathic doctor to explore root causes, a therapist to help map your inner world, a nutritionist, an acupuncturist, or a massage therapist. Each practitioner can offer a different lens and a different kind of listening. Ask about referrals, covered services, sliding scales, or community programs.
You are allowed to ask for more, to want a second opinion, and to assemble a community of support that sees you more fully. If you have coverage, use it. If you need a referral, ask. If a door closes, it’s ok to knock on another.
Seek information from people you trust. Let wisdom be relational and guided intuitively. Be cautious of algorithms, especially those that induce fear or urgency.
Above all, refuse to give up on yourself. I always believe there is a path toward feeling better. Even when we can’t fully restore the body, healing can still occur through meaning, connection, presence, and peace. Your body is not betraying you. I believe symptoms are cries from the body that deserve to be heard.
Healing begins when we stop reducing people to their symptoms and begin seeing them as whole beings, complex, feeling, and worthy. You deserve care that honours not just your biology, but your personhood, spirit, and life.
You deserve to tell your story and have someone receive it with attention and care.
You deserve a physician who listens.
References:
Charon, R. (2006). Narrative medicine. Oxford University Press.
Dossett, M. L., Fricchione, G. L., & Benson, H. (2020). A new era for mind–body medicine. New England Journal of Medicine, 382(15), 1390–1391. https://doi.org/10.1056/nejmp1917461
Fricchione, G. (2023). Mind body medicine: A modern bio-psycho-social model forty-five years after Engel. BioPsychoSocial Medicine, 17(1). https://doi.org/10.1186/s13030-023-00268-3
Graham, K. D., Steel, A., & Wardle, J. (2023). The converging paradigms of holism and complexity: An exploration of naturopathic clinical case management using complexity science principles. Journal of evaluation in clinical practice, 29(4), 662–681. https://doi.org/10.1111/jep.13721
Kusnanto, H., Agustian, D., & Hilmanto, D. (2018). Biopsychosocial model of illnesses in primary care: A hermeneutic literature review. Journal of Family Medicine and Primary Care, 7(3), 497. https://doi.org/10.4103/jfmpc.jfmpc_145_17
Mankelow, J., Ryan, C., Taylor, P. C., Atkinson, G., & Martin, D. (2022). A systematic review and meta-analysis of the effects of biopsychosocial pain education upon health care professional pain attitudes, knowledge, behavior and patient outcomes. Journal of Pain, 23(1). https://doi.org/10.1016/j.jpain.2021.06.010
Nakao, M., Komaki, G., Yoshiuchi, K., Deter, H.-C., & Fukudo, S. (2020). Biopsychosocial medicine research trends: Connecting clinical medicine, psychology, and public health. BioPsychoSocial Medicine, 14(1). https://doi.org/10.1186/s13030-020-00204-9
The first time I saw a naturopathic doctor was a few years before I contemplated becoming one myself. I had finished my undergrad degree and was bumming around for the summer, working on film sets, trying to get help for some underlying hormonal condition which I now know to be caused by burnout.
The doctor’s office was warm and carpeted. He had a shelf of books, although I don’t remember what they were or were about. I imagine some were medical textbooks. He performed a physical exam that seemed at the same time unnecessary and strangely medical. Still, I hoped would be injected with this particular kind of magic and systems thinking that I expected—that he would look at me and declare me to have too much phlegm or give me some insights into my general state and appearance that had been handwaved as “normal” by the blood tests and various other medical practitioners I’d been to.
I had tracked my food for a week. For breakfast, I had cereal (the healthy kind), skim milk, coffee, and fruit. He held this paper in front of him, and I awaited his thoughts.
“You should stop eating dairy,” he said, not looking up, “It’s not that good for us.” I assumed “us” meant “us humans.” He didn’t elaborate, stating it as if I were apparent.
I remember this 16 years later, although I’m sure he said more things in that appointment.
What does it mean to make these statements to patients? Sometimes, I find myself explaining things, elaborating, discussing how we might try a dairy elimination diet, and making connections between the properties of dairy or this client’s experience with dairy (bloating, inflammation, eruptions of cystic acne).
I was bloated and inflamed with cystic acne, but I don’t remember if I stopped putting milk in my cereal that day. I distinctly remember a year later indulging in a frothy milk latte in a café in Cartagena, Colombia, writing in my journal that I expected it would bloat me and combine poorly with the insufferable heat and humidity outside.
The other day, I was visiting with my friend and naturopathic colleague, playing with her baby on the floor and talking about practice, health, and medicine. I was speaking about the pressure I feel when working with a new patient to solve their problems in the first visit. Often, no one had even acknowledged their problems before, and here was my task to not only acknowledge but already know about and have a solution for these problems. I remember attributing this same magic to the naturopathic doctor I saw in 2008.
My friend nodded, “Many of our solutions are just band-aids. It takes years to shift our thinking and behaviours to make long-term changes to our health.” I remember eating Tiramisu years after this 2008 appointment, developing painful cysts the next day.
One thing was certain: I remembered his (perhaps offhand) remark and started making connections, even if they didn’t lead to long-term behavioural changes.
I still sometimes eat dairy. At this friend’s house, we each had a Greek salad with chicken and all the fixings, including feta cheese. It was delicious. The next day, my skin looked okay. All in all, I’m pretty good at avoiding cow’s milk.
I am more meticulous about avoiding gluten.
I don’t necessarily agree that dairy isn’t good for “us [humans].” I’m not even sure if it’s not good for me. Like most things, it’s nuanced and depends on the terrain (my stress levels, gut health), the type of dairy (organic, fermented) and the amount. So, maybe I’m not entirely convinced. Sometimes, it tastes so darn good, and I don’t care.
I suppose that hearing something is “not good for us” is insufficient for learning. Experiencing how something is not good for us, while better, is still probably not sufficient.
I suppose that sometimes we humans do things that aren’t good for us.
I suppose our lives, like healing, are works in progress.
I, like most of my colleagues became a naturopathic doctor because of my own extremely disempowering experiences with the healthcare system.
In my late teens and early 20s I was suffering from what I now know were a series of metabolic and hormonal issues and I, like almost all of my patients and colleagues experienced confusion, gaslighting, frustration and a complete lack of answers for what I was dealing with. I tell my story more in depth in other places, but I was told to “stop eating so much”. I was told everything was normal in bloodwork (or simply not called back). I was weighed incessantly. I was chastised for doing my own research (I had to–no one would tell me anything). I was interrupted, cut off and dismissed.
And so, I did what most of my colleagues do–I got educated. I went to school. First for biomedical sciences and then, when that degree left me with more knowledge gaps than answers (and no one who would indulge, let alone answer, my questions), I became a naturopathic doctor.
Throughout my 8 years as a practicing ND, I have encountered thousands of similar stories of disempowerment and confusion and frustration. We patients are trained to see our doctors when we feel depressed, fatigued, or debilitated by PMS, menstrual pain, headaches, and mood issues. Most of us don’t care what answer we get–fine, if it’s a medication I need, I’ll take it! But if we experience lack of benefit from the solutions and a lack of answers, then what? I’ve heard this story over and over.
And so, like many of my colleagues I use the privilege of my education to help me navigate the system. I ice a sore foot for 2 days and then get an x-ray (picking a non-busy time to visit the ER). I take the orthopaedic surgeon’s advice with a grain of salt and implement my own strategies for bone healing. I ask for the bloodwork I need (and know my doctor will agree that I need) and pay for the rest out of pocket. I know my doctor’s training and I understand her point of view and I don’t get frustrated when diet and nutrition or lifestyle are never mentioned. I don’t get upset if my doctor doesn’t have an explanation for symptoms that I now know are related to functioning and not disease, and that it is disease which she is trained to diagnose and prescribe for.
And thankfully, my experience with the healthcare system has been quite limited as I’m able to treat most things I experience at home and practice prevention.
My good friend, who is a naturopath as well, and who has given me permission to share her story, had the same experience up until this summer. She too used the healthcare system quite judiciously and limitedly until a series of stressors and traumas landed her in in-patient psychiatric care (i.e.: a psychiatric hospital) for a psychotic episode–her first.
…And until she started experiencing debilitating gastroesophageal symptoms that were beyond what one might consider “normal.”
And in both cases she sought help from the medical system. She told me recently that her experience was quite different from the ones she’d had in her 20s when her long-standing parasite was misdiagnosed as IBS and she was repeatedly dismissed by doctors. She told me “I’ve been having great experiences with the healthcare system. It’s not like it was before. My doctors have listened to me. They’ve been helpful. Yes, they’ve recommended drugs but when I tell them that I don’t want to take the medications because I know what they do and how they work and don’t think I need them, they respect that. They treat me like I’m a real person. They’re all our age, too. The procedures are more state-of-the-art. The facilities are pleasant. Something has changed in healthcare.”
I know that my friend’s experience might be different from yours. I’m not saying her experience is universal. In fact, if I reflect on my interactions with the fracture clinic in St. Joe’s hospital in Toronto, I had a fairly good experience as well (except for long wait times and booking errors). Sometimes medical trauma can blind us to reality–sometimes we aren’t willing to re-evaluate our assumptions until someone points out a piece of reality that is hard to deny. I actually haven’t had a direct negative experience with healthcare in years– and yet I had chalked that up to the fact I rarely need to use it.
But my friend had had two quite intense experiences and came away from them feeling positive about the care she received. I wondered what was different. Here are my thoughts.
Medical care has evolved. It is inevitable that this happens. Sometimes we might have just had a bad doctor, or someone who was having a bad day or maybe was triggered by our experience. I sometimes think not knowing how to help triggers doctors—I think this might have been the case with the doc who told me to eat less. She might have felt helpless and incompetent at not being able to help me and projected those feelings onto me as a “difficult patient”.
Ultimately health professionals got into their field to “help people”. If you’re not helping people you might feel triggered. But then, if you’re a competent professional, and I believe most are, you look for new ways to help. You open your mind to other practitioners, like NDs. You might not understand why or how what they do works, but “whatever works.”
Healthcare is constantly evolving, and so is the way we communicate its advancements. My friend’s experience highlights how much has changed—not just in medical technology and treatment approaches, but also in how healthcare professionals engage with patients. As understanding deepens and patient-centered care becomes the norm, it’s crucial to share these stories in ways that foster trust and transparency.
Doctors are increasingly open to new studies on nutrition. They recognize treatment gaps in their care and in medical knowledge and guidelines. Nutrition and alternative practices are entering mainstream and are dismissed as “woo woo” less and less, particularly by doctors who embrace science and research.
With the evolving landscape of medical care, doctors and health professionals are adapting to new perspectives and approaches to help their patients effectively. Acknowledging that some past encounters might have been influenced by various factors, professionals are increasingly open to alternative practices and unconventional methods. They are embracing the significance of research and scientific advancements, often exploring innovative solutions such as the MAS Test to bridge treatment gaps and enhance patient care. By incorporating cutting-edge tools like the MAS Test, doctors are demonstrating a commitment to understanding diverse approaches, ensuring they provide comprehensive and personalized healthcare solutions to their patients. This openness to holistic methods and ongoing research not only enriches medical knowledge but also fosters a more inclusive and effective healthcare system for everyone.
I always say, when picking a doctor pick one that listens, that is curious and that is humble. I strive to be these things, although it’s not easy. Practicing medicine is as much an art as it is a science–we need to be able to not only admit but carry with us the absolute truth that we do not know everything. It is literally impossible to know everything. The body and nature will constantly present us with mysteries on a daily basis, but the gift of being a clinician is that we are constantly learning.
“I don’t know, but I will try to find out” should be every doctor’s mantra (along with Do No Harm).
In a busy and overloaded system we need to help healthcare workers help us. This means being informed. My friend is highly informed and educated in healthcare. I believe her healthcare providers could sense this. She was respectful in denying medications and wasn’t pushed (because she had informed reasons that the healthcare practitioners ultimately agreed with, “no, you shouldn’t go on a PPI long-term, that’s right” “yes, anti-psychotics do have a lot of side effects, and taking them is a personal choice”).
A significant element of my medical trauma was the feeling of disempowerment. I was completely in someone else’s hands and they were not communicating with or educating me. I was left feeling lost and hopeless. Empowerment is everything. It allows you to communicate and make decisions and weigh options. You know what healthcare can offer you and what it can’t.
Of course we can’t always be empowered, especially when we’re very sick and when we’re suffering. In this case, having advocates in your corner are essential. Perhaps it’s having an ND who can help you navigate the system, think clearly and help you weigh your options.
I also recognize that it is hard to be empowered in emergencies. Fortunately, modern medicine handles emergencies exceptionally well. Still, in this case, having an advocate: friend, practitioner or family member, is an incredible asset.
Physicians are burned out. Patients are burned out. I believe this is because of responsibility. Neither the medical system nor the individual can possibly be solely responsible for your health. I believe that responsibility is better when shared. We need help. We can’t do things alone: we need someone’s 8+ years of education, diagnostic testing, clinical experience and compassion. We also need our own sense of empowerment so that doctor’s don’t succumb to the immense pressure of having to fix everyone and everything.
My sister in law is an ER nurse and once remarked (when asked if the ER was busy and chaotic) “people need to learn self-care”. She didn’t mean self-care as in bubble baths. She meant: learning how to manage a fever at home, when a cut needs stitches or how to determine if a sore ankle is a sprain, strain or break. A lot of people were coming in with colds—self-limiting, non-serious infections that could easily be treated at home. This was burning her out. Of course, she meant, go to the ER if you’re not sure. But, there are many non-grey areas in which we can feel empowered to manage self-limiting, non-serious health conditions as long as we know how to identify them or who to go to for answers.
Education is power. In a past life (before becoming an ND and while studying to become one) I was a teacher. I am still a teacher and in fact the Latin root of the word doctor, docere, means “to teach.” Healthcare is teaching. No doctor should say “just take this and call me in the morning” and no patient should accept this as an answer. We have the right to ask, “what will this pill do? When can I stop taking it? How does it work?” This is called Informed consent: the right to know the risks and benefits of every single treatment you’re taking and the right to respectfully refuse any treatment on any grounds.
You have the right to a second opinion. You have the right to say, “Can I think about this? I’d like to read more about it.” You have every right. You have the right to bring a hard question to your doctor, like “do I really need this statin? A study in Nature found that the optimal cholesterol level for reduced all-cause mortality is around 5.2 mmol/L, which is much higher than mine. Do I really need to be on something that lowers my cholesterol?”
If we can’t speak to our doctors, we turn to Google. Being a good researcher is a skill. This is what I was trained to do at naturopathic medical school and in undergrad. How can you tell if a study is a good study? Does the conclusion match the results? What does this piece of research mean for me and my body? Your doctor should be able to look at you and answer your questions to your satisfaction. This is basic respect.
You deserve to access the results of your blood tests and be walked through the results, even if everything is “normal”. Even a normal test result tells a story. We deserve transparency.
I was once told in a business training for healthcare practitioners (NDs, actually) that “people don’t want all the information. They don’t want to know how something works. They just want you to tell them what to do.”
Now, I sincerely disagree with this. In my experience, patients listen vividly when I walk them through bloodwork, explain what I think is happening to them and try to describe my thought process for the recommendations I’m making. I’m sure a lot of what I say is overwhelming–and then I try to put it differently, and open the conversation up to questions to ensure I’m being understood. Again, doctor as teacher, is a mantra we should all live by. There are few things more interesting than learning how our bodies work. In my experience, patients want to know!
When our bodies occur as a mystery, we are bound to live in fear. We are bound to feel coerced and pressured into taking things that our intuition is telling us to wait on, or seek a second opinion for. When we are scared to ask our doctors questions or take up their time, we end up having to deal with our concerns on our own. When we are dismissed we end up confused and doubting ourselves. We end up disconnected from our bodies. We are anxious. We catastrophise. We give away our power to strangers.
Empowerment is everything. It helps us connect to our bodies. It strengthens our intuition. We know where to go or who to go to for answers (or at least a second or third, opinion). We can move ahead with decisions. (i.e.: “I’m going to take this for 8 weeks and if I don’t like the side effects, I will tell my doctor that I want to wean off or ask for another solution”). We are aware of the effects and side effects of medications. We are aware of our options. We know if something isn’t right for us. We can make food and life style choices in an informed and empowered way. We can feel in our bodies who is trustworthy. We can trust ourselves and our bodies.
When patients are empowered, I believe doctors experience less burnout. The responsibility is shared evenly among patients, friends, family and a circle of care of helpers. No one faces the entirety of the weight of their health alone. No one should.
Empowerment and health don’t mean that you’ll be completely free of disease, or that your body will never get sick, or that you will be pain and suffering free. We all get sick. However, empowerment can help you notice something is off. Increased awareness helps you advocate for yourself to get the care you need in a timely fashion. It helps you take necessary steps, even if you’re afraid. You might be less afraid when you have more information. You might have more hope when you know all your options.
Empowerment in healthcare is everything. And here’s the thing: your doctor wants you to be empowered. Empowered patients are fun to work with. They ask good questions. They are respectful. They are open. They give us practitioners an opportunity to learn. My friend experienced this. I’m sure she was a joy of a patient to work with because she was knowledgeable, alert and present. She maintained her own power. She asked questions when she was unsure. She knew what questions to ask. She knew where to go for answers on her own time. She knew which information was relevant for her practitioners to know. She knew how to ask for time and space before making a decision. She knew how to maintain her sense of autonomy. Most of all, empowerment gives us the strength to find a new practitioner if the therapeutic relationship we’re in isn’t respectful or supportive.
I believe we get into the helping professions to help–to heal, to learn and to alleviate suffering. We all swore an oath to “do no harm”.
What do you think? How has health empowerment helped you navigate your own healthcare?
We’ve been hearing quite a lot about The Science these days. So, what is science? How does science guide medical practice and naturopathic medicine?
The science council defines science as, “the pursuit and application of knowledge and understanding of the natural and social world following a systematic methodology based on evidence.” The answer is, science is a methodology.
It is applied in medicine through Evidence Based Medicine (EBM) which starts with the individual patient and incorporates: clinical expertise, scientific evidence (that best that exists according to a hierarchy), and patient values and preferences.
“Evidence medicine is the conscientious, explicit, judicious and reasonable use of modern, best evidence in making decisions about the care of individual patients. EBM integrates clinical experience and patient values with the best available research information.”
The Evidence-Based Pyramid
In EBM, evidence exists in a hierarchy, represented by the Evidence Based Pyramid (shown above). Animal studies are at the bottom, case reports (clinical anecdotes) somewhere in the middle and randomized control trials and meta-analyses (the Gold Standard of evidence) at the top.
Dave Sackett (the Father of EBM) et al. write in the British Medical Journal (1996),
“Good doctors use both individual clinical expertise and the best available external evidence and neither alone is enough.”
In addiction to scientific evidence, EBM must incorporate:
Patient values
A bottom-up approach (it is patient-centred, not guideline-centred)
The needs of the individual (EBM is not a one-size-fits-all formula)
Clinical expertise
The best available evidence: this does not mean using only randomized control trials. Sometimes the best evidence we have are case reports, historical and traditional use of an herb or animal studies. We still owe our patients the opportunity to see if a treatment works for them, especially if the risk of a given treatment is low.
As clinicians, we use our knowledge in different ways. We start with an assessment of the individual in front of us. This assessment takes into account the factors that influence this patient’s life, their lifestyle, their health condition and their overall health goals.
We then turn to clinical experience, research, our scientific knowledge and guidelines.
We share this information with our patient. Our job is to educate and convey the options so that the individual can provide informed consent. How does this knowledge fit into the patient’s life? How does it inform their choice?
Science is not a set of values. It is not a religion. We do not follow it.
Science provides us with a methodology for seeking the answers to questions we might ask about how the principles of nature, including the human body, are organized.
Science encourages us to ask questions and testing hypotheses in order to find answers.
It is never settled.
Most of all, science doesn’t tell us how to use scientific knowledge.
Our choices are governed by our goals, preferences and values.
So, “follow the sicence?”
No. Follow your goals, preferences, values and dreams.
And use science to help guide your way.
Reference:
Sackett, D. L., Rosenberg, W. C., Gray, J. M., Haynes, R. B., & Richardson, W. S. (1996). Evidence based medicine: What it is and what it isn’t. BMJ, 312(7023), 71–72.
Brett Weinstein and Heather Heying have a t-shirt that says “Welcome to Complex Systems” on it.
Indeed.
Many patients and biological reductionism want to know what caused my anxiety, depression, hormonal issues, and autoimmune disease? What did I do wrong, or that went wrong for me? What was the food I failed to eat, the ingredient I was missing or the thing that caused the house of cards that represented my health to topple?
I think it’s appropriate to answer, “welcome to complex systems.”
Like everything else in nature, your body, your mental health is a complex system. This means that it consists of many factors, many of which have yet to be identified, virtually all that have yet to be correctly understood, that drive its function—even seeing health as an absence of disease, which is essentially how our medical system is organized, is a product of biological reductionism. Biological (or rather mechanical reductionism), the attempt to identify the loose screw or the spring that’s out of place, works for your car, but it doesn’t work for your brain, body, mental or physical health.
Understanding health might be better done using the Biopsychosocial Model, a framework for understanding where we sit today in terms of our health from the context of our biology, psychology, and social environment. Further, the biology part of the biopsychosocial factors that drive our health can be considered triggers and drivers rather than cause and effect.
This understanding is crucial when setting health goals. Because health is more than just the absence of disease, goals should extend beyond simply treating symptoms. They should encompass improvements in all aspects of our lives. While a balanced diet and exercise are foundational, some people may find that ideal supplements can address specific nutritional deficiencies or provide additional support for their unique needs. Whether it’s managing stress, improving sleep, or boosting energy levels, a personalized approach that considers the interplay of biological, psychological, and social factors will ultimately lead to a more sustainable and fulfilling path towards a healthier you.
Say you are feeling terrible. You’re feeling exhausted and agitated, and you’re constipated, and your hair is falling out. You see your doctor, and they tell you everything is great. You push for some bloodwork. Your doctor says your thyroid is slightly off, but it’s likely nothing.
So you take the bloodwork to your naturopathic doctor, who tells you your stimulating thyroid hormone, or TSH, is out of range, indicating that your thyroid seems to be under-functioning. They order more testing to understand what else lies under the hood and find your anti-thyroid antibodies are sky-high. It turns out you might have Hashimoto’s thyroiditis or a condition of under-functioning thyroid driven by autoimmunity.
You also have celiac and a family history of multiple sclerosis, thyroid issues, and other autoimmune diseases. How did this happen?
For months you were dealing with a ton of stress. You also haven’t been eating the greatest. But you haven’t been sleeping well either, and it’s hard to eat well when you’re so darn tired. You’ve been working a lot, dealing with a global pandemic and all, and things haven’t been great. But this is compounded by the fact that you’re not feeling great, which makes it harder to deal with the stress, making the condition worse–a vicious cycle.
At least now you know that something is going on, and it’s not all in your head, but what caused this?
We want to know the exact cause of something to find the specific treatment. This is biological reductionism. Something is missing; we’ve identified the thing, so here’s the magic bullet that will target the exact issue and either replace it or weed it out.
The problem with complex systems is that when we pull one thread on this ball of yarn that is your health, a knot gets tightened somewhere else. Like the post on Chesterton’s fence, complex systems are difficult to understand. So we must assume we don’t fully understand them, and therefore I believe we should exercise humility when it comes to tugging on pieces of yarn that comprise the whole operation.
For example, the side effects of drugs aren’t side effects; they’re effects. Some of these effects are wanted. But all the other effects that happen, such as weight gain, agitation, or migraines from anti-anxiety medication, are unwanted. And they are still effects of the drug. Side effects of drugs are indications that we have failed to understand the implications of messing with complex systems entirely.
Sometimes this might be warranted. The system might be so far out of bounds that it could kill you unless we intervene. Sometimes the drug is more specific–if you don’t have a thyroid, you need thyroid hormone. However, does the thyroid have a role beyond simply producing T4 (thyroid medication)? While thyroid hormone medication might be indicated or necessary, is it fully completing the thyroid’s function in the complex system? What about T3? (or T1 and T2)? What about iodine? What about the driver contributing to thyroid dysfunction? Is it still driving disease? Might it start to create other symptoms elsewhere in the body?
In other words, have we entirely dealt with the problem when we reduce thyroid dysfunction down to deficiency of a single hormone?
So, I explain to my patient; there isn’t a cause of autoimmune disease or a thyroid condition. There are drivers, such as chronic inflammation (which might be triggered by a specific food your immune system doesn’t like). There might be a driver like chronic stress triggered by a more stressful event. Genes can be drivers or susceptibilities triggered by environmental factors, such as nutrient deficiencies. So, it’s not gluten that caused your thyroid issue, but it might start or driveimmune system overactivation and chronic inflammation, contributing to the problem.
So what does this mean for treatment? It means we need to look at the ball of yarn respectfully. We need to appreciate how many symptoms are a healthy response and compensation by the body. If we randomly attack a symptom like fatigue with a stimulant, we might further drive the inflammation, nutrient deficiencies, or stress that underly that symptom. We need to understand what the body lacks (what’s it deficient in?) and when it might have too many environmental toxins, allergens, chronic stress, blue light, etc.
We need to look at the system and help it re-establish its equilibrium. Cleaning up garbage in a pond is likely a good idea–it probably shouldn’t be there in the first place. The pond didn’t create the trash. But what about something else we don’t want, like an algae overgrowth? But if we throw an algaecide in the water, what unseen harm might we be doing to the pond’s ecosystem if we mess with it? Has the pond created algae for the reason that currently escapes us, but wouldn’t if we looked a little deeper?
Why doesn’t our modern medical model treat our bodies as complex systems? I’m not sure. A few guesses, though. Complex systems are complicated, if not impossible, to understand. They require time to unravel. They need patience and education. They require effort on the part of the patient to try to shift their environment to eliminate or adjust possible triggers. They are impossibly hard to market and profit from.
Getting our concept of a complex system “right” can take time. It might take trial and error, collecting information, curiosity, and a willingness to try. It might take admitting that our culture has many aspects to it that are inherently unhealthy.
We might have to find a mini culture where people get sun, eat well, move, and sleep early to support our health. We might have to be “stricter” than the people around us. These people may have similar drivers working below the surface, but their symptoms may look different. They do not display symptoms like fatigue or anxiety until their systems have completely shifted beyond balance.
We are all a manifestation of complex systems. Laini Taylor says, “Inside each of us, there is a world that no one else can ever know or see or visit.”
“There’s a sunrise and a sunset every day and you can choose to be there or not. “You can put yourself in the way of beauty.” – Cheryl Strayed, Wild Yellow and orange hues stimulate melatonin production, aiding sleep. Melatonin is not just our sleep hormone, it’s an antioxidant and has been studied for its positive mood, hormonal, immune, anti-cancer, and digestive system effects. Our bodies have adjusted to respond to the light from 3 billion sunsets. While we can take melatonin in supplement form, use blue light blocking glasses, or use red hued light filters and, while tech can certainly help us live more healthfully, it’s important to remember that the best bio-hack is simply to remember your heritage and put yourself back in nature’s way. The best tech of all is in the natural rhythms of the planet and encoded in your beautiful DNA. Optimal health is about re-wilding. Optimal health is about remembering who you are and coming back to your true nature. You have the code within in you to live your best, healthiest life. I believe healing is about tapping into that code, supporting our nature, and allowing the light of our optimal health template to shine through.
The proximity to water can improve focus, creativity, health and professional success according to marine biologist and surfer Wallace J. Nichols in his book, Blue Mind. A “blue mind” describes a neurological state of of calm centredness. Being around water heightens involuntary attention, where external stimuli capture our attention, generating a mind that is open, and expansive, and neurochemicals like dopamine and serotonin are released. He says, “This is flow state, where we lose track of time, nothing else seems to matter, and we truly seem alive and at our best”. Contrast a blue mind to a red mind, where neurons release stress chemicals like norepinephrine, cortisol in response to stress, anxiety and fear. From the book Mindfulness and Surfing:
“Surfing is not just about riding a wave, but immersion in nature: the aching silence of a calm sea is punctuated by a cluster of blue lines. The point is to spend a little more time looking and listening than doing.
“Maybe this is not just about being but about what the philosopher Heidegger called “becoming”–a being in time, an unfolding sense of what he further called ‘dwelling’.
“When we dwell, we inhabit.”
Jungian Psychoanalyst, Frances Weller posed the question, “What calls you so fully into the world other than beauty?” In other words, “Without beauty what is it that attracts us into life?” Our human affinity for beauty is perhaps the greatest pull of all into aliveness. And yet so many of us feel purposeless, or that life is meaningless. In our world we are suffering from a “Meaning Crisis”, which perhaps partially explains the epidemic of mental health issues that plague us. We spend so much time bogged down in the business of being alive: bills, chores, work–“dotting Ts and crossing Is” as I like say 😂 This is part of the reason why 1/6th of my 6-week Mental Health Foundations program (Good Mood Foundations) involves getting into nature. For there is nothing more beautiful than the gorgeous imperfection of the natural world. We are called by it. There are myriad scientific studies on the power of “Forest Bathing” for de-stressing, for mental health, for supporting our mood, hormonal health, immune systems, social relationships, and so on. And yet so often when we say words like “beauty” we call on images of “perfection”: symmetrical youthful faces, bodies with zero fat on them, etc.
We are focused on the missing parts instead of how the effect of nature’s imperfect beauty has on us–and thus we rob ourselves of the pleasure of being in the presence of beauty. For what is pleasure but beauty personified? And what is depression other than a lack of deep, embodied soulful pleasure? I find being in nature brings me closer, not so much to beauty as a concept of commercial idealism, but a sense of pleasure. It pulls me into my body.
I feel my feet on the ground, my breath timing my steps, the birdsong and wind in my ears, and I feel calmed, and centred, called into the experience of being fully alive.
If you’re struggling to find meaning, practice showing up to your sunsets for a few evenings in a row.
Put yourself in the way of beauty. When the sunsets show up everyday, will you show up too?
It’s day one of my period and I’ve been healing a broken foot for 6 weeks. The weather is overcast, thick, humid and rainy.
My body feels thick and heavy. Clothing leaves an imprint on my skin–socks leave deep indentations in my ankles. My face and foot is swollen. My tongue feels heavy. My mind feels dull, achey, and foggy. It’s hard to put coherent words together.
I feel cloudy and sleepy. Small frustrations magnify. It’s hard to maintain perspective.
My muscles ache. My joints throb slightly. They feel stiffer and creakier.
This feeling is transient. The first few days of the menstrual cycle are characterized by an increase in prostaglandins that stimulate menstrual flow and so many women experience an aggravation of inflammatory symptoms like depression, arthritis, or autoimmune conditions around this time. You might get. a cold sore outbreak, or a migraine headache around this time of month. The phenomenon can be exaggerated with heavy, humid weather, and chronic inflammation–such as the prolonged healing process of mending a broken bone.
Inflammation.
It’s our body’s beautiful healing response, bringing water, nutrients, and immune cells to an area of injury or attack. The area involved swells, heats up, becomes red, and might radiate pain. And then, within a matter of days, weeks, or months, the pathogen is neutralized, the wound heals and the inflammatory process turns off, like a switch.
However, inflammation can be low-grade and chronic. Many chronic health conditions such as diabetes, arthritis, PMS or PMDD, depression, anxiety, migraines, even bowel and digestive issues, have an inflammatory component.
As I tell my patients. Inflammation is “everything that makes you feel bad”. Therefore anti-inflammatory practices make you feel good.
Many of us don’t realize how good we can feel because low-grade inflammation is our norm.
We just know that things could be better: we could feel more energy, more lightness of being and body, more uplifted, optimistic mood, clearer thinking and cognitive functioning, better focus, less stiffness and less swelling.
Obesity and weight gain are likely inflammatory processes. Insulin resistance and metabolic syndrome are inflammatory in nature. It’s hard to distinguish between chronic swelling and water retention due to underlying low-grade chronic inflammation and actual fat gain, and the two can be closely intertwined.
It’s unfortunate then, that weight loss is often prescribed as a treatment plan for things like hormonal imbalances, or other conditions caused by metabolic imbalance. Not only has the individual probably already made several attempts to lose weight, the unwanted weight gain is most likely a symptom, rather than a cause, of their chronic health complaint. (Learn how to get to the root of this with my course You Weigh Less on the Moon).
Both the main complaint (the migraines, the PMS, the endometriosis, the depression, the arthritis, etc.) and the weight gain, are likely due to an inflammatory process occurring in the body.
To simply try to cut calories, or eat less, or exercise more (which can be helpful for inflammation or aggravate it, depending on the level of stress someone is under), can only exacerbate the process by creating more stress and inflammation and do nothing to relieve the root cause of the issues at hand.
Even anti-inflammatory over the counter medications like Advil, prescription ones like naproxen, or natural supplements like turmeric (curcumin) have limiting effects. They work wonderfully if the inflammation is self-limiting: a day or two of terrible period cramps, or a migraine headache. However, they do little to resolve chronic low-grade inflammation. If anything they only succeed at temporarily suppressing it only to have it come back with a vengeance.
The issue then, is to uncover the root of the inflammation, and if the specific root can’t be found (like the piece of glass in your foot causing foot pain), then applying a general anti-inflammatory lifestyle is key.
The first place to start is with the gut and nutrition.
Nutrition is at once a complex, confusing, contradictory science and a very simple endeavour. Nutrition was the simplest thing for hundreds of thousands of years: we simply ate what tasted good. We ate meat, fish and all the parts of animals. We ate ripe fruit and vegetables and other plant matter that could be broken down with minimal processing.
That’s it.
We didn’t eat red dye #3, and artificial sweeteners, and heavily modified grains sprayed with glyphosate, and heavily processed flours, and seed oils that require several steps of solvent extraction. We didn’t eat modified corn products, or high fructose corn syrup, or carbonated drinks that are artificially coloured and taste like chemicals.
We knew our food—we knew it intimately because it was grown, raised, or hunted by us or someone we knew—and we knew where it came from.
Now we have no clue. And this onslaught of random food stuffs can wreck havoc on our systems over time. Our bodies are resilient and you probably know someone who apparently thrives on a diet full of random edible food-like products, who’s never touched a vegetable and eats waffles for lunch.
However, our capacity to heal and live without optimal nutrition, regular meals that nourish us and heal us rather than impose another adversity to overcome, can diminish when we start adding in environmental chemicals and toxins, mental and emotional stress, a lack of sleep, and invasion of blue light at all hours of the day, bodies that are prevented from experiencing their full range of motion, and so on.
And so to reduce inflammation, we have to start living more naturally. We need to reduce the inflammation in our environments. We need to put ourselves against a natural backdrop–go for a soothing walk in nature at least once a week.
We need to eat natural foods. Eat meats, natural sustainably raised and regeneratively farmed animal products, fruits and vegetables. Cook your own grains and legumes (i.e.: process your food yourself). Avoid random ingredients (take a look at your oat and almond milk–what’s in the ingredients list? Can you pronounce all the ingredients in those foods? Can you guess what plant or animal each of those ingredients came from? Have you ever seen a carageenan tree?).
Moving to a more natural diet can be hard. Sometimes results are felt immediately. Sometimes our partners notice a change in us before we notice in ourselves (“Hon, every time you have gluten and sugar, don’t you notice you’re snappier the next day, or are more likely to have a meltdown?”).
It often takes making a plan–grocery shopping, making a list of foods you’re going to eat and maybe foods you’re not going to eat, coming up with some recipes, developing a few systems for rushed nights and take-out and snacks–and patience.
Often we don’t feel better right away–it takes inflammation a while to resolve and it takes the gut time to heal. I notice that a lot of my patients are addicted to certain chemicals or ingredients in processed foods and, particularly if they’re suffering from the pain of gut inflammation, it can tempting to go back to the chemicals before that helped numb the pain and delivered the dopamine hit of pleasure that comes from dealing with an addiction. It might help to remember your why. Stick it on the fridge beside your smoothie recipe.
We need to sleep, and experience darkness. If you can’t get your bedroom 100%-can’t see you hand in front of your face-dark, then use an eye mask when sleeping. Give your body enough time for sleep. Less than 7 hours isn’t enough.
We need to move in all sorts of ways. Dance. Walk. Swim. Move in 3D. Do yoga to experience the full range of motion of your joints. Practice a sport that requires your body and mind, that challenges your skills and coordination. Learn balance both in your body and in your mind.
We need to manage our emotional life. Feeling our emotions, paying attention to the body sensations that arise in our bodies—what does hunger feel like? What does the need for a bowel movement feel like? How does thirst arise in your body? Can you recognize those feelings? What about your emotions? What sensations does anger produce? Can you feel anxiety building? What do you do with these emotions once they arise? Are you afraid of them? Do you try to push them back down? Do you let them arise and “meet them at the door laughing” as Rumi says in his poem The Guest House?
Journalling, meditation, mindfulness, hypnosis, breath-work, art, therapy, etc. can all be helpful tools for understanding the emotional life and understanding the role chronic stress (and how it arises, builds, and falls in the body) and toxic thoughts play in perpetuating inflammation.
Detox. No, I don’t mean go on some weird cleanse or drinks teas that keep you on the toilet all day. What I mean is: remove the gunk and clutter from your physical, mental, spiritual, and emotional plumbing. This might look like taking a tech break. Or going off into the woods for a weekend. Eating animals and plants for a couple of months, cutting out alcohol, or coffee or processed foods for a time.
It might involve cleaning your house with vinegar and detergents that are mostly natural ingredients, dumping the fragrances from your cosmetics and cleaning products, storing food in steel and glass, rather than plastic. It might mean a beach clean-up. Or a purging of your closet–sometimes cleaning up the chaos in our living environments is the needed thing for reducing inflammation. It’s likely why Marie Kondo-ing and the Minimalist Movement gained so much popularity–our stuff can add extra gunk to our mental, emotional, and spiritual lives.
Finally, connect with your community. Loneliness is inflammatory. And this past year and a half have been very difficult, particularly for those of you who live alone, who are in transition, who aren’t in the place you’d like to be, or with the person or people you’d like to be–your soul family.
It takes work to find a soul family. I think the first steps are to connect and attune to oneself, to truly understand who you are and move toward that and in that way people can slowly trickle in.
We often need to take care of ourselves first, thereby establishing the boundaries and self-awareness needed to call in the people who will respect and inspire us the most. It’s about self-worth. How do you treat yourself as someone worthy of love and belonging?
Perhaps it first comes with removing the sources of inflammation from our lives, so we can address the deeper layers of our feelings and body sensations and relieve the foggy heaviness and depression and toxic thoughts that might keep us feeling stuck.
Once we clear up our minds and bodies, and cool the fires of inflammation, we start to see better—the fog lifts. We start to think more clearly. We know who we are. Our cravings subside. We can begin to process our shame, anger and sadness.
We start to crave nourishing things: the walk in nature, the quiet afternoon writing poetry, the phone call with a friend, the stewed apples with cinnamon (real sweetness). We free up our dopamine receptors for wholesome endeavours. We start to move in the direction of our own authenticity. I think this process naturally attracts people to us. And naturally attracts us to the people who have the capacity to love and accept us the way we deserve.
Once we start to build community, especially an anti-inflammatory community—you know, a non-toxic, nourishing, wholesome group of people who make your soul sing, the path becomes easier.
You see, when you are surrounded by people who live life the way you do–with a respect for nature, of which our bodies are apart–who prioritize sleep, natural nutrition, mental health, movement, emotional expression, and self-exploration, it becomes more natural to do these things. It no longer becomes a program or a plan, or a process you’re in. It becomes a way of life–why would anyone do it any other way?
The best way to overcome the toxicity of a sick society is to create a parallel one.
When you’re surrounded by people who share your values. You no longer need to spend as much energy fighting cravings, going against the grain, or succumbing to self-sabotage, feeling isolated if your stray from the herb and eat vegetables and go to sleep early.
You are part of a culture now. A culture in which caring for yourself and living according to your nature is, well… normal and natural.
There’s nothing to push against or detox from. You can simply rest in healing, because healing is the most natural thing there is.
Whenever I sit with a new patient for an initial intake, I ask about cravings.
From my many conversations about food, appetite and cravings, the most common responses are cravings for salt, or sugar, with many people falling on one end of the preference than the other: “I’m a salt craver” or “I’ve got a sweet tooth”.
However, cravings are so much more than that.
I believe that they are a beautifully intricate process, in which our body is trying to speak to us about what it needs.
Our cravings often feel like random urges, but they can reveal deeper insights into our body’s needs.
A sweet tooth, for instance, might be more than just a love for desserts—it could signal anything from a need for quick energy to an emotional response tied to comfort and nostalgia. While indulging in sugary treats can be a joyful experience, it’s also important to strike a balance.
Our bodies have developed taste receptors to detect quality nutrients from the environment. While these days sugar is abundant wherever you turn, during our hunter-gatherer times, it was a relatively scarce and highly sought after taste–the taste of ripe fruit, rich with nutrients, the taste of quality calories from carbohydrates, which may have been scarce in times of food shortage or famine.
Salt or “savoury” or umami cravings, often represent a need for more protein. Unfortunately, many of my patients who crave salt (and often calories) find themselves the bottom of a bag of chips, rather than grilling up a chicken breast.
Our modern environment doesn’t necessarily set us up to adequately translate and respond properly to certain cravings. Salted chips were probably not a thing in a natural environment and the only way to satisfy a salt and savoury craving would have been through hunting, consuming meat, or eggs and poultry.
When I was travelling in Colombia I was obsessed with broccoli–it was like I couldn’t get enough of it.
The same thing happened on a month-long trip to Brazil in 2019. Broccoli is rich in vitamin C, sulphur, and certain amino acids. It’s also a decent source of calcium. I’m not sure what nutrient I may have been lacking on my travels, but it’s possible that those cravings meant something for my body. And so I honoured them–I sought out broccoli like it was a magic elixir of health and ate as much of it as I could.
After developing significant iron deficiency after spending a few years as a vegetarian, I became suddenly attracted by the smell of roasting chicken from a local Korean restaurant I was passing by while walking the streets of Toronto.
The wafting smell of roasting poultry was majestic and impossible to ignore. It didn’t smell like sin, or temptation–my body betraying my moral sensibilities or whatever else we often accuse our cravings of—it smelt… like health.
There was no doubt in my mind as the delicious fumes touched my nostrils that I needed to honour my body and start eating meat again. I did and my health and nutrient status has never been better.
Patients will report craving carbs and chocolate the week before their period. The eb and flow of estrogen can affect serotonin levels. A large dose of carbs allows tryptophan, the amino acid that forms the backbone of serotonin, to freely enter the brain. This explains the effect “comfort foods” like starchy warm bread and pasta have on us, creating that warm, after-Thanksgiving dinner glow.
Chocolate is rich in magnesium, a nutrient in which many of us are deficient, that is in higher demand throughout the luteal phase of our cycle, or our premenstrual week.
Cravings are not just nagging, annoying vices, thrust in the path to greater health and iron discipline. They’re complex, intuitive and beautiful. They may be important landmarks on the path to true health and wellness.
Disciplines like Intuitive Eating and Mindful Eating have based themselves on the idea that our bodies hold intuitive wisdom and our tastes, cravings and appetites may be essential for guiding us on a road to health. Through removing restriction and paying more attention to the experience of food, we may be better guided to choose what foods are right for us.
The book The Dorito Effect outlines how our taste cues have been hijacked by Big Food. Like having a sham translator, processed foods stand between essential nutrients and the signals our bodies use to guide us to them. A craving for sweet that might have led you to ripe fruit, now leads you to a bag of nutrient-devoid candy that actually robs you of magnesium, and other nutrients in order to process the chemicals. A craving for salt and umami, or hunger for calories leads you to polish off a bag of chips, which are protein-devoid and laden with inflammatory fats, and only trigger more cravings, and shame.
It’s no wonder that we don’t trust our cravings– we live in a world that exploits them at every turn.
Clara Davis in 1939 was curious about the instintual nature of human cravings and devised a study that was published in the Canadian Medical Assoication Journal (CMAJ). The study was called Self-Selection of Diets by Young Children.
Clara gathered together 15 orphaned infants between 6 to 11 months of age who were weaning from breast-feeding and ready to receive solid food for the first time. These infants, before the study had never tried solid food or supplements. They were studied ongoing for a period of 6 years, with the main study process was conducted over a period of months.
The babies were sat at a table with a selection of simple, whole foods–33 to be exact. The foods contained no added sugars or salt. They were minimally cooked. Not all 33 were presented to each baby at each meal, however the babies were offered an opportunity to try everything.
The foods they were offered were water, sweet milk, sour (lactic) milk, sea salt, apples, bananas, orange juice, pineapple, peaches, tomatoes, beets, carrots, peas, turnips, cauliflower, cabbage, spinach, potato, lettuce, oatmeal, wheat, corn meal, barley, Ry-krisp (a kind of cereal), beef, lamb, bone marrow, bone jelly, chicken, sweetbreads, brains, liver, kidneys, eggs, and fish (haddock).
The nurses who were involved in running the study were instructed to sit in front of the infants with a spoon and wait for them to point at foods that they wanted. The nurses were not to comment on the choices or foods in any way, but wordlessly comply with the infants’ wishes and offer them a spoonful of the chosen foodstuff.
Throughout the study Davis noted that all the infants had hearty appetites and enjoyed eating.
At first, the babies showed no instinct for food choices, selecting things at random, and exploring the various foods presented to them. All of them tried everything at least once (two babies never tried lettuce and one never explored spinach). The most variety of food choices occurred during the first two weeks of the study when they were presumably in their experimentation phase.
Their tastes also changed from time to time, perhaps reflecting some hidden, internal mechanism, growth spurt or nutritional need. Sometimes a child would have orange juice and liver for breakfast (liver is a source of iron, and vitamin C from the orange juice aids in its absorption), and dinner could be something like eggs, bananas, and milk.
Many infants began the study in a state of malnourishment. Four were underweight and five suffered from Rickets a condition caused by extremely low vitamin D. One of the babies with severe Rickets was offered cod liver oil in addition to the other food options. Cod liver oil is a rich source of vitamin D.
The infant selected cod liver oil often for a while, after which his vitamin D, phosphorus and calcium blood levels all returned to normal range, and x-rays showed that his Ricket’s healed.
It is often thought by parents that children, if left to their own devices will eat themselves nutrient-deficient. While that may be true in todays’ landscape of processed frankenfoods, the infants in Davis’ study consumed a diet that was balanced and high in variety. They got 17% of their calories from protein, 35% from fat and 48% from carbohydrates and intake depended on their activity levels.
During the 6 years in which the infants’ eating habits were under observation, they rarely suffered from health issues. They had no digestive issues, like constipation. If they came down with a cold it would last no more than 3 days before they were fully recovered.
In the 6 years, they became ill with a fever only once, an outbreak that affected all of the infants in the orphanage. The researchers noticed their appetites change in response to the illness.
During the initial stages of the fever, they had lower appetites. And, once the fevers began to resolve, their appetites came back with a vengeance. They ate voraciously, and it was interesting that most of them showed an increased preference for raw carrots, beef and beets–which may indicate a need for vitamin A, iron and protein, which are needed for immune system function and recovery.
The habits of the infants to crave and select medicinal foods during times of fever and nutrient deficiency is such compelling evidence of Clara Davis’ craving wisdom hypothesis—were their bodies telling them what they needed to heal?
The self-selected, whole foods diets seems to have a positive impact on the mood and behaviours of the babies, all of whom were living full-time at the orphanage.
A psychiatrist, Dr. Joseph Brennemann wrote an article on them entitled “Psychologic Aspects of Nutrition” in the Journal of Pediatrics on their mood, behaviour and affect, “I saw them on a number of occasions and they were the finest group of specimens from the physical and behaviour standpoint that I have even seen in children of that age.”
In our world we often try to mentalize our food choices: going vegan or low-fat, counting calories, or reducing carbs. We time our eating windows, fast, or try to exert discipline and will over our bodies’ inherent desires.
So often my patients need to be coached through food eliminations, or given meal plans and templates. The art of listening to the body: properly identifying hunger, thirst, fatigue, inflammation, and even emotions like boredom, anxiety, sadness, anger, and hurt, can be a long process.
And yet, I wonder if we clear our palates and offer them a variety of whole, unprocessed, fresh foods, if our bodies will settle into their own grooves–perhaps our health will optimize, our bodies will be able to more readily communicate what they need, our taste receptors and cravings will adjust, and our cravings and appetite will serve the purpose they were meant to–to tell us what we need more of and what need less of or not at all.
I wonder if we listen, what our bodies will tell us.
I wonder if we let them, if our bodies will exhibit the pure instinctual wisdom of nature and the quest for harmony and homeostasis that lies at the heart of our natural world.
