When we doubt

 

On Doubt That Pulls the Ground from Under Your Feet

It usually begins quietly.

With a moment of hesitation. With the instant when something that had always seemed obvious suddenly stops being so. A person realizes they are no longer sure of what they see, feel, or think. That their reactions no longer give them a sense of support. That the world—though it looks the same—has somehow lost its weight.

A question appears that hurts more than any specific symptom:

“What if I can no longer trust the way I experience reality?”

This is not yet a loss of contact with reality. It is not madness. It is the moment when something very delicate, yet fundamental, cracks: trust in one’s own cognition. Trust that what I experience has the right to be a point of reference. That I can rely on myself.

In therapy, I meet people who say:

“I know I feel something, but I don’t know if it’s real.”

“I see what’s happening, but I don’t know if I’m interpreting it correctly.”

“I have the sense that something is wrong—but I don’t know whether it’s the world or me.”

It is a state of profound loneliness. Because if I cannot trust myself, whom can I trust? And if I cannot trust my own experience, what can I possibly base my decisions, my relationships, my life on?

This moment can be so intense that fear appears:

“Am I still normal?”

“Am I losing my mind?”

And here I want to say something very clearly: this experience is not a pathology in itself. It is a boundary experience. A moment when the existing order of meaning stops working.

Philosophy has known this moment for centuries.

When Descartes begins his reflections, he does not do so from the position of a calm sage. He does something radical: he systematically cuts away everything he has relied on so far. He begins to doubt the senses, memory, convictions, certainties. He doubts that the world is as it appears. He doubts that what he thinks has any guarantee of truth.

But it is worth seeing what this doubt really is.

Descartes does not doubt in order to collapse.

He doubts because he is looking for a point that can withstand doubt.

This is a crucial difference.

In therapy, this moment looks very similar. A person stops trusting their automatic reactions. Stops believing the narratives that have guided them so far. Begins to question their own interpretations. And very often experiences this as a catastrophe.

And yet—paradoxically—it is the beginning of ordering.

Descartes shows something invaluable for therapy: doubt does not have to be the end; it can be a method. But only on one condition: that we are not left alone inside it.

In philosophy, Descartes conducts a dialogue with himself. In therapy, this role is played by the relationship. The therapist does not say, “What you feel is true,” nor “What you feel is false.” Instead, they say:

“Let’s stop. Let’s check, step by step, what is actually happening.”

This is a very slow process. Regaining contact with reality does not come through sudden illumination. It comes through rebuilding trust in one’s own experience, piece by piece.

Descartes finds his point of support in a single sentence: cogito, ergo sum.

Not because it solves all problems, but because it is minimal and undeniable. “I think—therefore I am.” Even if I am mistaken, even if I doubt, even if everything else collapses—the fact that I doubt means that I exist.

In therapy, this moment is less exalted, but no less deep. It is the moment when a person begins to say:

“Maybe I don’t yet know what is true.

But I know that I am experiencing something.

And that experience deserves attention.”

That is enough to begin.

From this minimal point, the return starts. Not to former certainty—that is gone and will not return—but to sufficient trust to live again, to choose, to enter relationships.

Descartes teaches us one more thing that is crucial therapeutically: that not everything needs to be regained at once. That knowledge is a process. That the order of the world does not return in a single moment. That one can move slowly, checking each step.

Therapy does exactly the same. It teaches how to distinguish experience from interpretation, emotions from facts, thoughts from reality. Not in order to freeze everything in separation, but to regain orientation.

If you are in a place where you no longer trust yourself, I want you to hear this clearly: you are not broken. You are not “too far gone.” You are in a place where old answers have stopped working and new ones have not yet formed.

It is a very difficult place. And a very human one.

Both philosophy and therapy do not promise quick relief. They promise something else: companionship on a path where, step by step, you regain ground under your feet. Not absolute ground. Sufficient ground.

Sometimes the first sign that something is beginning to settle is a tear. Because someone has finally said out loud what you have been carrying in silence.

If you are reading this text and thinking, “This is about me,” it means you are no longer alone in it.

And from that moment on, returning truly becomes possible.

If this text moved you and you feel that, in some way, it helps you—buy me a coffee:

👉 https://buymeacoffee.com/margotcinema