How is This Serving me? Looking at Our Struggles with Curiosity.

By Juliana Mott Fabio, LCSW

Lately, I've been thinking a lot about a concept in psychology called secondary gain. At first glance, it sounds like something we should avoid. But the idea is actually much more compassionate than it sounds.

Secondary gain simply means that sometimes the behaviors, reactions, or patterns that no longer serve us are also meeting an important need. They may be causing pain in one area of our lives while quietly offering comfort, protection, identity, or connection in another.

As therapists, we're taught not to look only at the problem, but the whole person. What is this behavior doing for this person?

Francine Shapiro, the developer of EMDR, wrote, "Special care must be taken to assess the possible positive consequences, needs or identity issues that are served by the presenting complaint."

I love that perspective because it changes the conversation completely.

Instead of asking, "What's wrong with me?" We begin asking, "What has this been helping me accomplish?" Those are very different questions.

I remember running into someone I know several times over the years. Every conversation eventually circled back to how unfair life had been to them. There was always another story about someone who had wronged them, another example of the world working against them. At first, I simply felt compassion. Life had clearly been difficult. But after many conversations, I began to notice something else. Their identity had become intertwined with being the person life happened to. The stories were no longer simply stories—they had become a way of understanding who they were.

It made me wonder. If that identity disappeared who would they be? It's a question I think many of us can ask ourselves, although the answers often look very different. Sometimes we find ourselves repeatedly drawn to relationships that leave us hurt. If we begin choosing healthier relationships, we may also lose something unexpected. Perhaps we no longer receive the same sympathy from others. Maybe we lose the familiar identity of being the one who always rescues people. Or we no longer know how to connect if we're not helping someone else. The unhealthy pattern disappears but so does the role we've been playing. That can feel surprisingly unsettling. Or maybe anxiety has quietly become part of how we prepare for life.

If we're no longer anxious, who are we? If we stop overworking, will people still value us?If we stop taking care of everyone else, will they still need us? If we stop being the peacemaker, what happens to our relationships? These questions are rarely conscious.

They're usually woven quietly into the way we've learned to survive.

I think this is one of the reasons change can feel so difficult. We're not just giving something up. We're often giving up an identity and a way of being. We're grieving a familiar way of being in the world, even if that way has caused us pain. As humans, we naturally cling to what is familiar. The nervous system often prefers a predictable discomfort over an unfamiliar freedom.

This is where curiosity becomes so important. Judgement and shame do not help us in these moments. We need to remain open to all of our possible selves and reactions to the world.

One of the questions I sometimes invite clients—and myself—to consider is simply: What is this giving me? Not because the behavior is "good." Not because we should keep it. But because understanding it often becomes the first step toward changing it.

Maybe anger has been protecting grief, perfectionism protecting against rejection, constantly staying busy protecting against loneliness, or maybe always being the helper has protected us from asking for help ourselves.

When we understand what a pattern has been trying to accomplish, we can begin finding healthier ways to meet that same need. This kind of reflection isn't easy. In fact, it may be one of the hardest things we ever do. It requires us to look honestly at the parts of ourselves we would rather avoid. Carl Jung famously wrote, "One does not become enlightened by imagining figures of light, but by making the darkness conscious."

I don't think he meant we should become consumed by our flaws. I think he meant that wholeness comes from acknowledging all of ourselves—not just the parts we're proud of. I've written before about weeds in a garden. The instinct is to pull them out and throw them away. But what if, instead, we became curious, turning off the negative self talk? What if those weeds were telling us something about what the soil needs? Maybe our struggles are doing the same?

The goal isn't to judge ourselves for having these patterns. It's to understand them. To thank them for whatever purpose they once served and then, when we're ready, to gently ask, Is there another way? Because healing isn't about cutting away the parts of ourselves we don't like. It's about becoming more aware, more compassionate, and more integrated. The more we understand why we do what we do, the freer we become to choose something different and perhaps that's what growth really is. Not becoming someone else. But becoming someone who can look in the mirror with honesty, compassion, and curiosity—and continue growing from there.