The Master’s Tools and the Therapist’s House: Decolonising Mental Health Care
Reclaiming Ancestral Wisdom and Building Inclusive Spaces for Healing
Trigger Warning: This article discusses therapy, its colonial underpinnings, and my personal experiences with a massive autistic shutdown, hospitalisation, and subsequent therapy. It is deeply personal and may be triggering for those reflecting on their own mental health journeys.
It’s New Year’s Day, a time when many people in the Global North commit to resolutions of self-improvement. Among the most common is the decision to “get into therapy”—to work on themselves, to heal, or to overcome life’s challenges. Therapy is often seen as the ultimate tool for bettering oneself, a path to understanding and growth. But for me, therapy wasn’t the liberating experience I had hoped it would be. In fact, it became a space where the very richness of my being—my autistic, Gestalt Language Processing self—was diminished into something that had to be fixed, shaped, and forced into compliance.
In my twenties, long before I was diagnosed as autistic or learned that I process language and the world through gestalt frameworks, I experienced a massive shutdown that led to hospitalisation. Growing up, I had always felt out of step, like I was trying to speak a language I could never fully grasp. I was constantly navigating a world that demanded things from me I couldn’t quite articulate, let alone deliver. The shutdown was a breaking point, a complete collapse under the weight of expectations and misunderstandings. Therapy, I thought, would be the place where I could finally make sense of it all. I wanted to understand what had happened and why so that I could prevent it from happening again.
What I didn’t realise was that my goals for therapy were not the system’s goals. I sought understanding, clarity, and agency. The system, however, was interested in something entirely different: compliance. The therapist’s focus wasn’t on helping me unravel the intricacies of what I had experienced but on ensuring I didn’t disrupt the order of things again. The unspoken agenda was clear—my distress was a problem to be managed, not a story to be understood. It was a shock-and-awe approach to “fixing” me, and it left no room for the deeper exploration I so desperately needed.
At the time, I couldn’t articulate why therapy felt so misaligned, why it seemed to suffocate rather than support. But years later, as I began to understand my autism and Gestalt Language Processing, the pieces started to fall into place. I realised that therapy, as it exists within Western frameworks, is deeply embedded in colonial ideologies. These ideologies prioritise control, conformity, and productivity, often at the expense of true healing. For someone like me, whose experiences and feelings are inherently multisensory and multidimensional, therapy’s insistence on linear verbal expression was not just limiting—it was harmful.
Therapy, in its current form, was never designed for people like me. It was not built to honour the richness of diverse ways of being or to embrace the complexity of autistic and neurodivergent experiences. Instead, it reflects the colonial systems that birthed it—systems that categorise, pathologise, and discipline difference rather than celebrate it. What happens, then, when therapy, built on these colonial foundations, fails to account for the full spectrum of human existence? What happens when it reduces our vast, intricate inner worlds to words we do not have or cannot use?
As we step into another year, and as many turn to therapy as a tool for self-improvement, I find myself reflecting on these questions. Therapy, as it stands today, is not inherently liberating. For those of us whose experiences fall outside the narrow confines of its design, it can feel like yet another space of oppression, a place where our truths are too big, too complex, or too inconvenient to fit.
Perhaps it is time not just to resolve to work on ourselves but to reimagine what healing can look like—healing that centres liberation, honours difference, and refuses to bow to systems that were never built for us in the first place.
Colonial Foundations of Western Therapy
Western therapy, as we know it today, is not an apolitical or neutral practice. Its foundations are deeply rooted in colonial ideologies that sought to categorise, control, and ultimately enforce compliance on human behaviour. Much of this categorisation emerged from pseudo-scientific practices that were less about understanding the intricacies of the human mind and more about maintaining the social order. By placing people into rigid categories of “normal” and “abnormal,” early Western psychology and psychiatry aligned themselves with colonial projects that sought to standardise, commodify, and discipline human lives.
The colonial underpinnings of therapy can be traced to its origins in 19th and early 20th-century Western thought, where the so-called “science” of the mind was intertwined with racial hierarchies, eugenics, and oppressive social norms. Indigenous ways of knowing and healing were dismissed as primitive or superstitious, often criminalised outright. These traditions, which were deeply communal, holistic, and interwoven with the environment, were systematically erased in favour of Eurocentric frameworks that prioritised individualism and compliance. Where indigenous healers saw interconnectedness and balance, Western therapists sought to isolate and “treat” the individual, often severing them from their cultural and spiritual contexts.
This erasure of non-Western approaches to healing wasn’t accidental—it was a deliberate act of colonial dominance. Colonisers viewed indigenous practices, such as ceremonies, rituals, or shamanic journeys, as threats to their authority. Healing traditions that centred collective care, spiritual connection, and non-linear processes of understanding were replaced by rigid, hierarchical models that reflected the values of their creators. Therapy, like many other Western institutions, became a tool to enforce conformity, aligning individuals with the needs of capitalist and colonial systems rather than addressing the root causes of their suffering.
For neurodivergent individuals like myself, this framework presents additional challenges. Western therapy’s insistence on linear, talk-based methods reflects the colonial drive to impose order on what it perceives as chaos. Neurodivergent ways of processing—often non-linear, multisensory, and holistic—don’t fit neatly into these structures. For Gestalt Language Processors (GLPs), whose experiences of the world are multidimensional and often difficult to verbalise in a linear fashion, these models can feel alienating and oppressive. Therapy asks us to condense the richness of our feelings into sentences, to explain our inner worlds in terms that the system finds palatable. But what happens when those words don’t exist for us? What happens when our ways of being resist simplification?
For many of us, the inability to conform to the expected model of verbal processing is pathologised, labelled not just as a deficit or disorder but often as defiance. This labelling carries profound consequences. From my own experience, being seen as defiant turned what should have been a brief hospitalisation into more than a month of trauma. Instead of seeking to understand my experience, the system punished me for failing to comply, reinforcing its power through control and coercion. The cost of noncompliance was steep—in my case, days spent strapped to a bed, ostensibly to teach me the system’s lessons. Therapy, in these moments, became indistinguishable from punishment, a brutal reminder of the power it holds to enforce compliance at any cost.
My release from hospitalisation was not determined by any meaningful progress in therapy or a carefully developed plan for my “recovery.” Instead, it was delayed by my inability to generate the right words, in the right order, to prove to the system that I could be trusted to live safely outside its walls. As a GLP, this process required time and access to others—their conversations, their scripts, shared in group settings. Only then, through careful observation and practice, was I able to adopt and consistently use the “correct” scripts that signalled to staff that I was stable enough to leave. When I finally left, it was not with a diagnosis or a clear path forward but with their satisfaction that I had learned to perform the expected behaviours.
Much like indigenous healing traditions, neurodivergent processing styles such as mine are dismissed or treated as problems to be fixed rather than unique and valid ways of engaging with the world. The tools of Western therapy—diagnostic manuals, behavioural interventions, and standardised talk therapy sessions—become instruments of control, categorisation, and erasure. These tools mirror the mechanisms of colonialism, reducing rich and complex ways of being to “issues” requiring discipline and correction, all whilst ignoring the harm inflicted in the process.
By centring the individual and prioritising verbal articulation, Western therapy erases the communal, the sensory, and the relational. It demands that we engage with it on its terms, terms that are often inaccessible or harmful to those of us whose experiences fall outside its narrow design. For someone like me, whose thoughts and feelings are inherently gestalt, therapy’s linearity feels like trying to flatten a four-dimensional world into a single sheet of paper. The richness of my internal experience simply cannot be contained within such constraints.
The colonial foundations of therapy aren’t just historical—they are woven into every aspect of the system today. They are visible in the diagnostic labels that strip away context, in the interventions that prioritise compliance over understanding, and in the persistent refusal to honour the richness of diverse ways of being. Until these foundations are dismantled, therapy will remain a tool of control rather than liberation. For healing to truly take place, we must move beyond these colonial frameworks, embracing approaches that honour the complexity, interconnectedness, and humanity of our lives.
The Problematic Nature of Talk Therapy for GLPs
Gestalt Language Processors experience and express feelings in ways that are multisensory, multidimensional, and often defy the constraints of linear verbalisation. For GLPs, a single word or simple phrase can stand in for an entire complex of thoughts, emotions, and sensory impressions. It is a language of richness and depth, but one that is fundamentally misunderstood—and frequently pathologised—by systems that prioritise neurotypical communication styles. Instead of being recognised as a valid and nuanced form of expression, the world of the GLP has been relegated to the exclusive domain of Speech and Language Pathologists, who predominantly work with children. Meanwhile, psychiatrists, psychologists, and therapists often lack any knowledge of GLP communication and its complexities, leaving us without meaningful support in therapy settings.
In my own experiences with therapy, I often struggled to “find the words” that would satisfy the therapist’s expectations. At first, I didn’t know what to say or even what they wanted me to say. The words I could produce—usually single, meaningful terms—were seen as openly defiant. From their perspective, I clearly spoke English, so why couldn’t I respond “correctly” to their commands? What they didn’t understand was that my single words were not refusals but rich, layered responses, encapsulating thoughts and emotions far too complex to break down into the simplistic answers they expected.
One particularly jarring moment occurred when a therapist misinterpreted my word choice as anger. He invited me into the gym, ostensibly to help me vent, and handed me a baseball bat to strike a heavy boxing bag. He encouraged me to “get the anger out,” framing this as a therapeutic exercise. What he didn’t know—and what I couldn’t articulate—was that I wasn’t angry. My choice of words reflected a different emotion entirely, but his neurotypical assumptions had already coloured his interpretation. I followed his instructions, striking the bag with full force. What neither of us anticipated was that my years of martial arts training and sheer physical strength would knock the massive bag clean off its chain. At the time, I stood 6'7" and weighed 325 pounds of nearly solid muscle. His reaction wasn’t relief or understanding—it was fear. This fear only further distanced me from the support I needed, reinforcing a cycle of misinterpretation and alienation.
Talk therapy, as it is currently practiced, privileges neurotypical forms of expression, leaving GLPs like me without the tools or scaffolding to meaningfully engage. Again, it operates on the assumption that thoughts and feelings can be neatly packaged into sentences and that the “correct” use of language—conforming to the therapist's expectations—reflects compliance and “progress.” But for GLPs, language doesn’t work that way. Our communication is layered, sensory, and deeply personal. Linear verbalisation often feels inadequate, like trying to reduce a rich tapestry of meaning into a single thread. When therapists expect us to “speak their language,” they fail to recognise that we are communicating; they just don’t know how to listen.
This dynamic mirrors a troubling colonial history of linguistic erasure. In Residential Schools, for example, Indigenous children were punished for speaking their home languages, forced instead to conform to English or French under the guise of assimilation. The aim wasn’t understanding or connection; it was control, achieved through the violent suppression of their authentic ways of being. More recently, here in Los Angeles, the school district stationed hall monitors to listen for students speaking Spanish, punishing them for using their mother tongue in what should have been a space of learning. These practices weren’t about communication—they were about enforcing compliance, reinforcing the dominance of a narrow, oppressive standard.
Therapists often serve a similar role, acting as the modern-day equivalent of those “speak English, son” John Wayne types. Their tools may be softer—diagnostic labels, behavioural interventions, or simply the subtle pressure to conform—but their impact is no less harmful. By centring neurotypical forms of expression, they turn therapy into a space where GLPs and others with diverse communication styles are punished, pathologised, or excluded for not fitting into a pre-approved mould.
This fundamental disconnect creates a therapeutic environment that is not only unhelpful but actively harmful. When therapists privilege conformity over understanding, they reinforce a system that diminishes our natural ways of being. Until therapy evolves to embrace and accommodate diverse communication styles, GLPs will remain marginalised within spaces that claim to offer healing but instead perpetuate harm. The echoes of colonialism will continue to resonate in every session where our voices are silenced, our language misunderstood, and our rich, multidimensional expressions dismissed. Healing can only begin when therapists learn not just to listen but to value the full spectrum of human communication.
Therapy as a Tool of Compliance
Therapy, as it is widely practiced today, often functions less as a tool for healing and more as a mechanism for enforcing compliance. For GLPs like me, the limitations of talk therapy are deeply tied to this broader role. The expectation that we conform to narrow, neurotypical models of communication isn’t just frustrating—it’s part of a system that prioritises productivity, conformity, and “individual responsibility” over collective care or sensory-based approaches to healing. Therapy becomes less about addressing the root causes of suffering (often systemic) and more about moulding individuals to fit into a world that often harms them.
The alignment of therapy with colonial and capitalist goals is starkly evident in its emphasis on verbal processing. In colonial systems, language has long been wielded as a tool of control—whether through suppressing Indigenous languages in Residential Schools or demanding that students in Los Angeles schools “speak English only” under threat of punishment. These same patterns echo in therapy rooms today, where the ability to articulate thoughts and emotions in “acceptable” ways becomes a marker of progress. For GLPs, this insistence on verbal conformity feels alienating and oppressive. It reduces the richness of our internal worlds to simplistic scripts, dismissing the full depth of our experience.
This focus on conformity is perhaps best exemplified by Cognitive Behavioural Therapy (CBT), one of the most commonly prescribed forms of therapy, especially for autistic individuals. CBT is a structured, goal-oriented approach designed to help individuals identify and challenge “negative” thought patterns. Whilst its premise might sound helpful, its underlying message can be incredibly damaging for autistic people: gaslight yourself into happiness. CBT encourages you to reframe your thoughts to align with societal expectations, regardless of whether those expectations are fair, inclusive, or even realistic. When it doesn’t work—and for most of us, it doesn’t—the failure is placed squarely on the individual. The system convinces you that you’re the problem, rather than acknowledging that the world might be the source of your distress. This can leave you feeling broken, isolated, and trapped in a cycle of self-blame.
Even Gestalt Therapy, which might seem like a natural fit for GLPs due to its emphasis on holistic and present-focused experiences, is often misunderstood and misapplied. Gestalt Therapy (GT) is a psychotherapeutic approach rooted in 20th-century pseudo-science, focusing on the integration of thoughts, feelings, and actions in the present moment. Whilst it shares a name with Gestalt Language Processing, the two are entirely unrelated. Yet, therapists often conflate them, prescribing GT to autistic GLPs under the mistaken assumption that it aligns with our needs. In practice, this often results in more frustration, as GT fails to accommodate the unique structure and richness of GLP communication and thought processes.
These frameworks—CBT, GT, and traditional talk therapy—often serve to invalidate or minimise the experiences of GLPs, autistic individuals, and others who process or communicate differently. By prioritising conformity over authenticity, they reinforce the idea that our ways of being are problems to be fixed rather than valid, meaningful expressions of human diversity. Therapy, as it currently operates, frequently demands that we adapt to it rather than meeting us where we are. Until this changes, therapy will remain a tool of compliance, failing to offer the true healing and liberation that so many of us seek.
Indigenous Healing Traditions as a Better Way Forward
Western therapy, as it exists today, is a product of colonial frameworks that prioritise conformity, individualism, and verbal expression. Whilst it may dominate the modern discourse on mental health, it is far from the only way—or even the best way—of understanding and fostering healing. Indigenous healing traditions remind us that the path forward often requires a return to the source, a reconnection with ancestral wisdom that prioritises balance, interconnectedness, and the wholeness of being. These traditions are not just an alternative but a better way forward, rooted in practices that honour the fullness of human experience.
In many indigenous cultures, healing is deeply intertwined with the understanding that the body, mind, and spirit are not separate entities but aspects of a unified whole. These practices recognise that disconnection—from the self, from others, and from nature—is at the heart of much human suffering. Healing is not a process of compliance or conformity; it is about restoring harmony within and around us. My own ancestors in the West Highlands of Scotland practised shamanistic traditions that reflected this worldview. They used ritual, storytelling, and engagement with the natural world to address not just the individual’s struggles but the broader imbalances within the community and environment. For them, the land itself held wisdom, and healing was a communal act of rebalancing.
These practices align with the teachings of many other indigenous cultures. For example, in indigenous American traditions, the concept of wetiko—a spiritual sickness or “mind virus”—highlights the dangers of greed, disconnection, and ego-driven behaviour. Healing from wetiko involves collective ceremonies, storytelling, and rituals that re-establish balance, both within the individual and the larger community. This perspective resonates deeply with me as a GLP. For GLPs, whose thoughts and emotions are non-linear, richly textured, and often beyond words, these multisensory and communal methods of healing feel profoundly accessible and natural.
Contrast this with the framework of Western therapy, which so often reduces healing to a transactional, individualised process. The insistence on verbal articulation, linear narratives, and measurable outcomes reflects a colonial mindset that prioritises productivity and control over genuine connection and understanding. For GLPs like me, whose feelings and ideas exist as complex gestalts, this approach can feel suffocating. Therapy becomes an exercise in translation—attempting to fit a symphony of experiences into the narrow confines of a sentence. Indigenous practices, by contrast, make space for expression beyond words. Drumming, dance, art, listening to stories, and connection to the natural world allow for a fuller, more holistic engagement with our inner lives.
Returning to ancestral wisdom offers a way forward not just for GLPs but for anyone seeking a deeper, more authentic form of healing. My West Highland ancestors understood that the land, the seasons, and the cycles of life are mirrors of our inner worlds. They didn’t see healing as a linear process but as a spiral, a journey of reconnecting with the rhythms of life. This perspective feels urgently needed in a world that has become so disconnected from itself.
The resurgence of indigenous healing traditions globally reflects a growing recognition that Western therapy, as it stands, cannot address the full spectrum of human suffering. These practices are not simply an alternative; they represent an opportunity to reclaim what has been systematically erased—a chance to restore balance and harmony not only in our individual lives but also in our communities and ecosystems. To embrace ancestral practices is not to weave them into the fabric of modernity but to reject modernity itself. Modernity is inseparable from whiteness, patriarchy, and colonialism, systems that have wrought profound harm through their relentless quest for control and domination. These forces have not only erased ancestral wisdom but also pathologised identities and experiences that defy their narrow frameworks. Consider the term hysteria—an enduring relic of this oppressive history. Sharing its root with hysterectomy, it reflects the ancient patriarchal belief that the uterus was the source of women’s supposed emotional instability. Though discredited as a medical diagnosis, the legacy of hysteria persists in modern language and attitudes, reducing valid emotional and somatic experiences to something irrational or disordered.
Embracing the wisdom of our ancestors is, in essence, a correction of these grievous errors—a rejection of the systems that pathologise and dominate, and a return to what was always rightfully ours. It is a reclamation of the balance, connection, and shared humanity that modernity has sought to sever, an act of resistance against the forces that continue to marginalise and silence.
The wisdom we need to heal is not something external; it is already within us, passed down through generations, waiting to be reawakened. The teachings of wetiko or the shamanistic traditions of my West Highland ancestors show us that healing is not about conforming to the systems imposed by modernity. Rather, it is about dismantling those systems and returning to wholeness—honouring the interconnected web of life that modernity has sought to sever. These traditions remind us of the power of community, the sacredness of balance, and the necessity of creating spaces where every voice and every way of being is recognised and celebrated.
By embracing our ancestral past, we reject the false narratives of modernity that have elevated individualism over community, exploitation over harmony, and control over connection. In doing so, we reclaim not only our heritage but also our rightful place within a world that values and nurtures every form of life. Healing becomes not an act of compliance but an act of resistance, a way to undo the damage of colonialism and reimagine a future rooted in the wisdom of the past.
Toward a New Paradigm of Healing
Audre Lorde once wrote, “The master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house.” This profound truth applies as much to systems of healing as it does to systems of oppression. Therapy, as it is currently practiced, is built upon the foundations of colonialism, patriarchy, and capitalism. These are the very structures that create and perpetuate much of the harm it claims to address. To truly meet the needs of people marginalised by its current models, therapy must evolve—not by patching over its flaws but by dismantling its oppressive frameworks and rebuilding with tools of liberation and inclusivity.
A new paradigm of healing must decentre verbalisation as the primary mode of engagement. For GLPs, language alone is rarely enough to capture the depth of experience. Instead, therapeutic practices must incorporate multimodal expressions such as art, movement, and sound. These modes allow for a richer, more authentic exploration of emotions and experiences, making space for those who cannot—or will not—conform to the verbal expectations of traditional therapy.
This new approach must also embrace silence, gestures, and sensory experiences as valid and powerful forms of communication. Silence, so often pathologised in Western therapy, can be a space of reflection, healing, and connection. Gestures and sensory cues, meanwhile, can express emotions and ideas that words cannot contain. By expanding the ways people are allowed to engage, therapy can become a space that truly honours the diversity of human expression and experience.
Most importantly, this new paradigm must be rooted in liberation rather than compliance. Inspired by indigenous and neurodivergent approaches to healing, it should prioritise balance, connection, and collective care over the narrow goals of productivity and conformity. Liberation-focused frameworks do not seek to mould individuals to fit oppressive systems; instead, they aim to support individuals in reclaiming their autonomy, their voice, and their wholeness.
This transformation will not be easy, nor will every system survive it. Institutions like the American Psychological Association (APA), which have long prioritised profits and their ties to the pharmaceutical industry over individual lives and cultural diversity, may find themselves unable—or unwilling—to adapt. The APA’s entanglement with capitalism and its historical complicity in pathologising marginalised identities make it ill-equipped to lead the way forward. True change will likely emerge from the margins, driven by communities and practitioners who are willing to challenge the status quo … like the Liberatory Wellness Network.
For therapy to evolve, therapists themselves must also change. They must recognise and value the diverse ways people process and express their experiences, moving beyond rigid diagnostic criteria and standardised treatments. They must be willing to learn from the wisdom of those who have been excluded and silenced, whether that wisdom comes from GLPs, indigenous traditions, or other marginalised perspectives. Only then can therapy become what it was always meant to be: a space for healing, connection, and liberation.
As Audre Lorde’s words remind us, dismantling oppressive systems requires new tools and new ways of thinking. The work ahead is daunting, but it is also necessary—and possible. By embracing diversity, rejecting compliance, and centring liberation, we can build a therapeutic paradigm that honours the full spectrum of human experience and supports every individual in their journey toward healing.
Final thoughts …
When I was hospitalised, earning my way out required me to conform to the system’s rigid expectations. I had to adopt the right scripts, behave in the right ways, and speak the right words to convince the staff that I could function safely in the world outside. The process demanded compliance, not understanding. It didn’t matter what I felt, only that I could perform what they wanted to see. As I reflect on that time through the lens of Audre Lorde’s powerful words—“The master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house”—I see the stark contradiction. The tools I had to learn to survive and escape were the very tools designed to keep me trapped within the system. They allowed me to navigate its rigid expectations, to perform the scripts and behaviours it demanded. But these tools were not ones I could use to challenge or dismantle the system itself—they were only useful for proving my compliance. My so-called liberation was measured by my ability to conform to the system’s terms, not by any genuine sense of healing or growth. These tools weren’t mine; they belonged to the system, and their purpose was to maintain its control, not to empower me to change it.
This contradiction is no accident. Systems like mental health care are built on the master’s tools—colonialism, capitalism, and patriarchy—and they resist any effort to acknowledge or embrace intersectionality. My experience as an autistic, queer, trans, GLP placed me at multiple intersections that the system refused to see or validate. Each part of my identity was either pathologised, ignored, or erased, leaving no room for the complexity of my experience. The system actively pushes back against intersectionality because acknowledging it would mean admitting that its frameworks are inadequate, that its tools cannot address the full spectrum of human diversity.
Therapy, as it exists today, reflects this refusal. It prioritises compliance, all whilst dismissing the ways in which race, gender, sexuality, class, and disability shape our experiences of the world and our needs for healing. It demands that we flatten ourselves into something the system can understand, rather than adapting itself to meet us where we are. For autistic GLPs like me, whose communication is non-linear, sensory, and deeply textured, this is more than a failure—it’s a fundamental betrayal. It leaves us not only unseen but actively excluded from the spaces that claim to offer support.
To create a future where healing is possible, we must reject the master’s tools and build new ones. As Lorde reminds us, “Without community, there is no liberation.” Community is where we must begin, embracing the intersections that the system fears and finding strength in the diversity of our experiences. A truly inclusive model of care would honour difference as a source of creativity and resilience, incorporating practices that decentre conformity and instead focus on collective care, liberation, and interdependence.
This future will not come easily. Systems like the APA, deeply entrenched in capitalism and their roots in capitalism, may not survive the necessary transformation. But survival should not be our goal—liberation must be. Therapists, advocates, and communities must come together to create spaces that prioritise healing over compliance, recognising the full richness of human experience and refusing to erase or diminish the intersections that make us who we are.
When I finally left the hospital, it was not because I was healed but because I had learned to perform the role they required of me. This is not the future I want for anyone seeking care. The master’s tools cannot dismantle the master’s house, but together in the new year, we can forge new tools, grounded in justice and connection, to build something better. It is in community, in intersectionality, and in the courage to imagine a different way, that true healing becomes possible.