The Seduction of "Why": When Knowing Where It Started Isn't Enough

In the therapy world—and in pop culture too—there’s this ever-present lure of figuring out why something started. Why do I feel this way? Why do I keep sabotaging my relationships? Why am I so anxious all the time? For many people, there’s an almost intoxicating hope that if they can find the origin—the root cause—then everything will fall into place. They’ll understand it, and then they’ll fix it.

That idea isn’t new. It’s deeply rooted in traditional psychotherapy, especially the work of Sigmund Freud. Everyone knows Freud, whether you’ve studied psychology or just watched a few movies where the therapist says, “Tell me about your childhood.” Freud’s entire framework was about uncovering unconscious motivations and connecting them back to early life experiences. And to be clear, that kind of insight has value. Even Freud, as he neared the end of his life, reportedly let go of his belief that all unresolved childhood conflict was central to many of the emotional and psychological struggles people face.

But insight is not the same as progress.

The Catharsis of Insight

There is a real emotional release—what some would call a catharsis—that comes from naming where something started. When a client has one of those big “aha” moments and connects the dots, it can feel like a breakthrough. For a moment, it gives hope. Now I know. Now I can change.

And sometimes, yes, that’s true. But not always.

More often than we care to admit, clients become stuck in a cycle of rediscovery. They uncover an origin story, feel empowered by the insight, and then… nothing changes. Weeks later, they come back with another aha. And then another. It starts to feel productive, but it’s a mirage. They’re still stuck. The problems are still there. The pain hasn’t moved.

I’ve seen this play out in real clients:

• One client, depressed and isolated, kept tracing her hopelessness back to a neglectful mother. The insight gave her temporary relief—like things made more sense now—but it didn’t get her out of bed. It didn’t help her make that phone call she was avoiding. She’d come in and say, “I think it all started with how she used to talk to me when I cried,” and I’d gently respond, “That might be true… but what are you going to do today?”

• Another client, in active addiction, had countless insights into his trauma. He knew exactly how the emotional neglect of his childhood led to his craving for relief and comfort. But knowing that didn’t stop him from using. He’d even say things like, “I know where this comes from—I just don’t know how to stop.” That’s the key issue. Understanding isn’t change.

• A third client, who wrestled with chronic anxiety, traced her nervous system response back to childhood bullying. She understood it in detail. However, the fear still surfaced every time she had to speak in meetings or drive on the freeway. What eventually helped wasn’t more insight—it was practicing small, repeatable exposures and learning how to breathe through panic, again and again.

Modern Therapy: From Why to What Works

This is why so much of modern clinical work has shifted. Instead of focusing primarily on why something started, we focus on what works. How do we help people get unstuck? How do we build new habits, learn to face our fears, tolerate discomfort, and take small steps forward even when we’re scared?

This kind of therapy isn’t as flashy. It doesn’t feel as powerful in the moment. Insight can feel like a lightning bolt—“Ah! That’s it!”—but the real change happens in the trenches. It’s slow. It’s repetitive. It’s doing something different when you don’t feel like it. It’s falling down and getting back up. Again and again and again.

Mental health work is work. Real change is less about revelation and more about repetition. And that’s hard for a lot of people to accept. It’s easier to dig through the past than to commit to uncomfortable action in the present.

The Trap of the Emotional High

And there’s another hard truth: uncovering the past feels bigger. It’s emotionally charged. It feels like movement. But it often leads to emotional dependency on insight itself. People become addicted to discovery. They begin to believe that the next insight will finally unlock their healing. But healing usually isn’t a key—it’s a path.

And on that path, we stumble. We try. We fail. We regroup. We try again. That’s the real work. And it’s not glamorous. But it’s how people get better.

So Should We Ditch Insight Altogether?

No. Insight has value. Connecting the dots can be empowering, especially when it brings clarity and helps someone feel seen and understood. But insight alone isn’t transformation. At some point, we have to stop digging and start building.

We move forward by doing the small things:

• Facing what we’re avoiding.

• Learning how to tolerate discomfort.

• Taking steps even when it’s hard.

• Repeating new behaviors until they become second nature.

So if you’re in therapy—or thinking about therapy—and you find yourself constantly chasing the origin story, it might be time to ask a different question: What would it look like to do something different this week—even if I’m still not sure why I feel the way I do?