therapy makes you uncool?

Think about it. Why does hip hop suddenly have a bad name? Or why do people treat poetry like some sort of self-proclaimed intellectual swag that you can’t just casually borrow? Flip it: what if poetry is the nerd’s escape, and hip hop the upbeat persona of depression? Why do they have to hate each other, when they’re basically saying the same thing?

Yes. Therapy has become a mixtape. Healing, meanwhile, is now content. Content that makes serious money for people who know how to sell it. Kendrick drops confessional albums, not guided meditations. Sylvia Plath wasn’t journaling for TikTok, yet her notebooks became therapy manuals for young girls with old souls. Capitalism, though, knew exactly when to catch that train of mass healing we didn’t even know we were waiting for.

And that’s the question: does chaos need to be managed? And if it does, does it strip away what makes us, us? Or at least who we think we are?

I used to be a Drake girl. Now I read Sylvia Plath for dopamine. Same sadness, just different packaging. Hip hop made pain loud. Poetry made it pretty. Therapy made it homework.

And of course, capitalism turned it all into merch. Crying, but with scented candles. Healing, but with a branded yoga mat. Self-awareness, but only if you can explain it in five slides at your next corporate offsite. Chaos, but only the kind that fits into a productivity hack.

So maybe therapy isn’t the thing that makes you uncool. Maybe the way it’s been packaged is. Maybe the coolest thing left is refusing to heal on command, refusing to turn your mess into content.

Or maybe chaos itself. Raw, unfiltered, non-monetised. Chaos is the last authentic thing we’ve got.