Setting boundaries, y’all. With a side of queso.
Welcome to the dusty crossroads of emotional healing and Southern hospitality, where therapy-speak gets run through a wood chipper of “Well, sugar, we don’t talk about that at the dinner table” and comes out the other side wrapped in a casserole dish.
If you’ve ever tried to tell your meemaw you were going to therapy only to have her offer you banana pudding and a prayer chain, then this blog is for you.
You see, mental health is all the rage these days. Instagram is a rotating carousel of buzzwords like “boundaries,” “inner child,” “emotional labor,” and “generational trauma.” But down here in Texas, we don’t always say things the same way. We don’t talk about “setting boundaries.” We just stop answering the phone and say, “That woman is a mess and I need to get right with Jesus before I call her back.”
So in the spirit of radical self-awareness (and barbecue), I offer you a translation guide. A survival manual, if you will, for decoding therapy-speak in the wilds of the South.
THERAPY SPEAK: “That’s a trauma response.”
TEXAN TRANSLATION: “Well bless her heart, she’s just full of ghost stories.”
Down here, everything is a ghost story. And trauma isn’t something you unpack with a therapist; it’s something you carry around like your mama’s Tupperware: cracked, stained, and older than the state fair.
THERAPY SPEAK: “I’m setting boundaries to protect my peace.”
TEXAN TRANSLATION: “I told her I can’t talk to her till Mercury’s outta retrograde or I finish my Buc-ee’s jerky bag. Whichever comes first.”
We don’t say “boundaries.” That sounds like something a divorce lawyer draws up. We say, “I’m just stayin’ over here in my lane with my queso and Jesus.”
THERAPY SPEAK: “I’m learning to self-soothe.”
TEXAN TRANSLATION: “I put on The Golden Girls, took a Xanax, and ate a fried pickle.”
Therapists talk about tools like breathing exercises and body scans. Texans? We believe in cooling off in a Cracker Barrel gift shop until the intrusive thoughts pass.
THERAPY SPEAK: “I’m healing my inner child.”
TEXAN TRANSLATION: “I got drunk at the county fair, won a stuffed bear, and cried when they played Reba.”
You don’t need EMDR when the Tilt-a-Whirl and a funnel cake can do the same thing.
THERAPY SPEAK: “I can’t be responsible for other people’s emotions.”
TEXAN TRANSLATION: “Not my rodeo, not my clowns.”
We may not have invented detachment, but we sure dressed it up in boots and sent it line dancing.
THERAPY SPEAK: “That relationship wasn’t serving me.”
TEXAN TRANSLATION: “He was pretty, but dumber than a bag of hammers and meaner than a snake in a baptism pool.”
Down here, if someone treats you like trash, you tell them so in a proverb. Preferably one involving animals, fire, or Jesus.
THERAPY SPEAK: “I’m working through generational trauma.”
TEXAN TRANSLATION: “I figured out why Mama folds the towels like a nervous raccoon and why I can’t throw away gift bags.”
You learn quick in the South that “what happens in this house stays in this house” is not just a saying—it’s an emotional lockdown.
THERAPY SPEAK: “I’m taking a mental health day.”
TEXAN TRANSLATION: “I’m fixin’ to have a come-apart, so I took the day off and went to Target in my pajama pants.”
A true Southern mental health day involves at least one scented candle, a Diet Dr Pepper, and crying in a car while Shania Twain plays.
THERAPY SPEAK: “This is a safe space.”
TEXAN TRANSLATION: “Ain’t nobody gonna throw a casserole or start talkin’ politics, right?”
If we had “safe spaces,” they’d have porch swings, sweet tea, and someone saying, “You’re good, baby. You’re just tired and the devil’s been busy.”
THERAPY SPEAK: “I’m holding space for you.”
TEXAN TRANSLATION: “Come on over, I made queso and we can sit on the porch and talk about why men ain’t shit.”
We may not journal together, but we’ll listen while you spiral and refill your margarita.
THERAPY SPEAK: “Unlearning toxic coping mechanisms.”
TEXAN TRANSLATION: “I stopped texting my ex, bought a Himalayan salt lamp, and told my cousin she can take her drama to Jesus.”
We don’t have toxic habits. We have “quirks” and “tendencies that run in the family.”
THERAPY SPEAK: “Processing emotional dysregulation.”
TEXAN TRANSLATION: “I yelled at my cat, ate a whole pie, and now I’m fine.”
Sometimes you just gotta cuss at inanimate objects until the holy spirit of calm returns.
THERAPY SPEAK: “Doing shadow work.”
TEXAN TRANSLATION: “I thought about my ex and didn’t text him, so I think that counts.”
Our shadow work involves a lot of mental gymnastics while stress-cleaning our kitchen floors.
THERAPY SPEAK: “Validating your own emotions.”
TEXAN TRANSLATION: “I cried, then looked in the mirror and said, ‘You’re a whole blessing, darlin’. Now go get you a snack.’”
If self-love were a person, she’d be wearing leopard print and handing you a deviled egg.
Final Thoughts from the Porch Swing of Progress:
We may not have the language of licensed professionals, but we’ve got the stories, the sass, and the spiritual stamina of people who’ve survived on passive aggression, casseroles, and denial for generations.
So if you’re setting boundaries, doing your inner work, and trying not to lose your ever-loving mind—congrats. You’re basically a Southern therapist with better snacks.
Remember: Healing is a journey, not a potluck. But if you bring queso, I promise I’ll listen better.
Now excuse me while I light a candle, turn on Golden Girls, and scream into a decorative pillow that says “Faith, Family, Football.”
Y’all take care now—emotionally and otherwise.