How Does 'Decolonizing Therapy' Address Systemic Trauma?

The critiques of 'Decolonizing Therapy' come from diverse angles, reflecting tensions in psychology and cultural studies. Traditionalists argue it oversimplifies Western therapeutic models, dismissing decades of empirical research as 'colonial' without offering robust alternatives. They fear it replaces evidence-based practice with ideology. Another group, ironically from postcolonial scholars, claims the book itself essentializes non-Western healing, lumping vastly different traditions into a romanticized 'indigenous' category. They point out contradictions—like using Western academic frameworks to critique Western therapy. Liberals in mental health fields critique its impracticality, noting most clinics lack resources to implement its vision. Meanwhile, some trauma specialists praise its emphasis on systemic oppression but warn against framing all mental distress as sociopolitical, which could invalidate individual biological factors. The book’s strength—its bold challenge to norms—also fuels polarized reactions.

'Decolonizing Therapy' centers on dismantling Western-centric psychological frameworks to honor indigenous and marginalized healing practices. It critiques the Euro-American dominance in therapy, which often pathologizes non-Western expressions of trauma and resilience. The book elevates communal over individual healing, emphasizing storytelling, ancestral wisdom, and land-based rituals as valid therapeutic tools. It also prioritizes cultural humility—therapists must unlearn colonial biases and co-create care with clients, not impose diagnoses. Another key focus is systemic oppression’s role in mental health. The text argues that therapy must address racism, poverty, and intergenerational wounds rather than reducing suffering to ‘personal dysfunction.’ It advocates for integrating spirituality, oral traditions, and collective grief practices, challenging the artificial separation of ‘mental health’ from cultural identity. The framework isn’t just anti-colonial; it’s a reclamation of sovereignty in healing.

As someone deeply invested in mental health reform, 'Decolonizing Therapy' offers a radical yet necessary framework for clinicians. The first step involves unlearning Eurocentric therapeutic models that dominate the field. Clinicians must critically examine how these frameworks pathologize non-Western expressions of trauma or resilience. This means diving into indigenous healing practices, like communal storytelling or somatic rituals, rather than rigid CBT manuals. Next, therapists need to confront their own implicit biases—whether around race, class, or spirituality. Supervision groups focused on cultural humility are essential here. Practical tools include co-creating treatment plans with clients, honoring their cultural definitions of 'healing,' and rejecting one-size-fits-all diagnoses. The book emphasizes reparative justice too: sliding-scale fees, community partnerships, and advocating for systemic change beyond the therapy room. It’s about dismantling hierarchies in every session.

'Decolonizing Therapy' dismantles the Eurocentric foundations of traditional psychotherapy by exposing its biases toward individualism, neutrality, and Western norms. The book argues that conventional therapy often pathologizes cultural expressions of grief, spirituality, or communal bonds—labeling them as 'dysfunctional' rather than honoring their roots. It critiques the field’s obsession with 'diagnosis,' which can erase systemic oppression as the real cause of distress. The text urges therapists to center marginalized voices, acknowledging how colonialism impacts mental health. It also advocates for holistic methods, like integrating ancestral healing or collective storytelling, instead of rigid CBT frameworks. The work challenges the power dynamics in therapy rooms, pushing for reciprocity—where therapists learn from clients’ cultural wisdom rather than imposing 'expertise.' It’s a call to redefine 'healing' beyond white, middle-class ideals, making space for rage, ritual, and resistance as valid therapeutic tools.

The concept of 'Decolonizing Therapy' resonates deeply in non-Western settings, but its application requires careful adaptation. At its core, it challenges Western-centric psychological frameworks, which often pathologize local healing practices. In many non-Western cultures, therapy isn’t just about individual introspection but communal healing—think rituals, storytelling, or ancestral guidance. For example, in parts of Africa, sangomas or traditional healers address mental health through spiritual and social lenses, something Western therapy might overlook. Yet, blindly imposing decolonial ideas without context risks erasing local nuances. In India, yoga and Ayurveda already integrate mind-body wellness, but modern therapists might dismiss them as 'unscientific.' The real work lies in bridging gaps: training therapists to honor indigenous knowledge while critiquing colonial legacies. It’s not about rejecting Western methods entirely but creating hybrid models—like incorporating mindfulness with talk therapy in Bhutan, where Gross National Happiness shapes mental health policies. The book’s principles are a starting point, but their success hinges on cultural humility and collaboration.

In 'Bad Therapy', the ending is a whirlwind of revelations and emotional reckoning. The protagonist, after enduring a series of manipulative sessions with a rogue therapist, finally uncovers the truth—the therapist was orchestrating the chaos in their life to control them. The climax hits when the protagonist secretly records a confession and exposes the therapist publicly, leading to their arrest. The fallout is messy but cathartic. Friendships shattered by the therapist’s meddling begin to mend, and the protagonist starts rebuilding trust in themselves. A poignant moment comes when they burn their therapy notes, symbolizing liberation from psychological chains. The last scene shows them walking into a new therapist’s office, this time with cautious hope. It’s a bittersweet victory, emphasizing resilience over revenge.

In 'Bad Therapy', the antagonist isn't just a single person but a twisted system masquerading as help. Dr. Rebecca Schaffer, the lead therapist at the Silver Oaks facility, embodies this corruption. She weaponizes therapy techniques to manipulate patients, stripping away their autonomy under the guise of healing. Her methods are chilling—gaslighting, forced meds, and isolation—all to maintain control. What makes her terrifying is her conviction; she genuinely believes she's saving them, blurring the line between villain and misguided savior. The facility itself acts as a secondary antagonist, its sterile walls hiding decades of abuse. Patients who resist become targets, their trauma exploited to keep others in line. The real horror isn't just Schaffer's cruelty but how the system protects her. It's a critique of institutional power, showing how even well-intentioned fields can rot from within when accountability vanishes. The story forces us to question who's really 'bad'—the individual or the machine that enables them.

In 'Bad Therapy', the antagonist isn't just a single person but a deeply unsettling system. The real villain is the corrupt therapy center run by Dr. Rebecca Wright, who manipulates vulnerable patients for profit. She disguises cruelty as treatment, gaslighting clients into doubting their own sanity. Her methods are sinister—isolating patients, forging diagnoses, and exploiting their trauma to keep them dependent. The story exposes how power distorts healing, making the institution itself the true foe. Dr. Wright’s chilling charisma makes her terrifying. She’s not a cartoonish evil but a calculated predator, weaponizing psychology. The narrative cleverly twists the trope of the 'helping professional' into something monstrous, showing how trust can be violated. The center’s staff, complicit through silence, amplify the horror. It’s a critique of institutional abuse, where the antagonist wears a lab coat instead of a cape.