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An anti-oppressive therapist explores the connection between capitalism, ethical alignment, burnout, and what becomes possible when we create enough space to live our values. This essay from Venturous Counselling in Vancouver and Port Moody examines how hustle culture prevents ethical action, why rest is a form of resistance, and what small shifts toward alignment look like inside systems designed to extract. Venturous Counselling is a queer- and BIPOC-led therapy collective serving youth, adults, and relationships through justice-oriented counselling.
There’s a particular quality to sleeplessness that I’ve come to recognize. Not the anxious kind that has you rehearsing conversations or catastrophizing about tomorrow. Not the physical kind where your body simply won’t settle. This was the liminal kind—the kind where you exist in the space between waking and dreaming, too conscious for rest but too tired for the machinery of productivity to kick in. Apparently, it’s in this space that an anti-oppressive therapist comes to make room to live our values just a little bit more.
I was scrolling Instagram in that strange twilight state when a reel appeared about Spotify funding military AI technology.
The information wasn’t new. I’d known this for months, maybe longer. It had lived somewhere in the back of my mind, a small persistent discomfort I’d learned to navigate around. Each time it surfaced, I’d acknowledge it briefly before the current of daily life pulled me elsewhere. The to-do list was always too long. The exhaustion always too heavy. There was always something more urgent demanding my attention, something more immediate pulling at my sleeve.
But in that peculiar space at 2:17 a.m.—brain too awake for sleep, too tired for work, suspended in a rare moment of simply being—something shifted.
Without the weight of my task list pressing down. Without the exhaustion of the day dragging at my edges. Without the constant hum of productivity telling me what I should be doing instead—all the careful architecture of my excuses simply… dissolved.
I opened Spotify. Cancelled my subscription. Googled “ethical music streaming.” Signed up for Qobuz, a platform I’d never heard of before that night and transferred over all my songs.
Fifteen minutes, maybe less. $0.
Does Qobuz have all the songs that Spotify has?
No.
Do I care about that more than funding military drones?
No.
Does Qobuz have podcasts?
No.
Do I care more about that than funding military drones?
No.
Does Qobuz have audiobooks?
No.
Do I care more about that than funding military drones?
No.
It feels a little ridiculous when it’s typed out like this but nevertheless I fell asleep shortly after, the particular weight of that small complicity finally lifted.
The Geography of Slowness
What happened? What made those 15 minutes different than the other 35,064, 15-minute increments of the rest of the year?
I didn’t suddenly becoming a better person; I didn’t finally get my life together. I stumbled, quite accidentally, into a space I almost never inhabit anymore—the territory between exhaustion and productivity. That rare landscape where I’m not actively working but also not collapsed. Where my nervous system is settled enough to think, but not so activated that I’m already three steps into doing.
That space, I’m realizing, is where our ethics can thrive. Not in the grand declarations or the perfect choices, but in these small pockets of stillness where we can actually hear ourselves think.
And capitalism understands this geography better than we do.
If they can keep us exhausted—if they can keep us running on the treadmill of hustle culture, if they can make our to-do lists so impossibly long that we’re always in triage mode—we won’t have the bandwidth to question where our money flows. We won’t have the energy to research alternatives. We’ll reach for whatever’s convenient and keep moving because there are seventeen other things demanding our attention and rest feels like a luxury we can’t afford.
Hustle culture isn’t just about extracting our productivity. It’s also about keeping us too tired to live our values.
And convenience culture—that’s the other half of the trap, isn’t it? When we’re running on empty, convenience stops being a preference and becomes a survival strategy. Of course you’re going to choose the streaming service that has everything in one place. Of course you’re going to order from Amazon because the thought of going to three different stores feels impossible. Of course you’re going to grab whatever takeout is easiest because you’re already at your limit and just trying to make it through.
This isn’t personal failure. This is design. This is a system that profits from our depletion.
The Currency of Complicity
In capitalism, we vote with our dollars, whether we like it or not. Every purchase is a small referendum on the kind of world we want to inhabit.
I funneled $12.69 a month toward military technology for years. To stop was an inch towards more alignment between my values and my actions—relief. I slept.
That’s not the whole story though is it? I’m writing this on a device assembled through exploitative labor. The phone in my pocket that tells me where to be and when to be, came at the cost of children losing arms, families losing members, the potential of lives and peace. I buy groceries from corporations that uses charity to reduce corporate tax and optimize their profits. I use platforms and services I know are problematic because they feel necessary, or because the alternative feels too difficult, or because I simply haven’t created the space yet to find something better.
I am complicit in more ways than I can count. Some I’m aware of and carry consciously. Many I’m probably ignorant to entirely.
We are all made complicit. Everyone trying to live ethically under capitalism is. Because the system is designed so that there is no pure choice, no untainted option, no way to participate without also perpetuating harm in some direction.
We’re given two false choices: believe that because we can’t perfectly escape the harms of capitalism we shouldn’t try at all, or believe that because we made one aligned choice we’re now absolved and don’t need to keep looking.
Both of these collapse the tension. And the tension—uncomfortable as it is—is where we need to be.
What Rest Makes Room For
As an anti-oppressive therapist, I spend a lot of time thinking about our contexts. About how when we’re in survival mode—when our bodies are in fight-or-flight—we literally cannot afford the capacity, and sometimes capital, of ethical alignment, of imagining beyond the immediate moment.
When we’re in that state, we make survival choices. Quick, convenient, whatever gets us through to the next moment.
And this is why rest and slowness can’t be something we earn after we’ve completed all the important work. Rest is the condition that makes the important work possible.
That night at 2:17 a.m., I wasn’t resting in any conventional sense. I wasn’t sleeping or meditating or doing any of the things that get labeled as self-care. But I was in a state of being rather than doing. The pressure of productivity was calm enough that I could sit with the discomfort of my own complicity without immediately needing to fix it, justify it, or flee from it. The discomfort of complicity had space to be in awareness at all.
And in that spaciousness, I could act.
Not perfectly. Not comprehensively. But I could take one step toward alignment.
I think about this often in my work with clients. People arrive knowing something needs to shift—in their relationships, their work, the shape of their lives—but they’re so depleted they can’t even imagine what that shift might look like. The first work we do together is rarely about solving anything. It’s about creating enough space that they can hear their own thoughts again. That they can feel their own feelings. That they can begin to notice what actually matters to them beneath all the noise.
Because living our ethics isn’t about making perfect choices in every moment. It’s about creating enough spaciousness in our lives that we can make more aligned choices over time.
Slowness isn’t just a pace. Slowness is a form of resistance. Slowness is what creates the conditions for noticing, for reflecting, for choosing differently.
The Practice of Holding
I cancelled Spotify. But I still use technology mined from unethical working conditions, I still shop at stores whose practices I find troubling, I still participate in capitalism every single day because opting out isn’t actually an option available to me.
I hold all of this at once.
This is the tension. The space between wanting to live ethically and knowing I’ll never do it perfectly. The gap between individual responsibility and systemic accountability. The distance between the choices I can make right now and the choices I wish were available to me.
And this tension—it’s deeply uncomfortable. My mind wants resolution. It wants to land somewhere solid. It wants to decide I’m a good person because I cancelled Spotify, or give up entirely because ethical consumption is impossible anyway.
But the moment I collapse that tension—the moment I let myself settle into either self-congratulation or despair—I lose something sacred.
The tension keeps me honest. The tension keeps me examining. The tension keeps me in the ongoing practice of trying to align my actions with my values, even when it’s messy and imperfect and I’m definitely failing in ways I can’t even see yet.
As an anti-oppressive therapist, I have to live this tension in my work too. I practice within systems built on colonialism and white supremacy. I charge for care that should flow freely. I run a business within capitalism while trying to resist capitalist logic. I benefit daily from the same structures of oppression I’m working to dismantle.
There’s no way out of this contradiction. There’s no pure position I can occupy.
But purity isn’t the point, is it?
We can still choose to stay in the tension. To keep noticing. To keep reflecting. To keep making small shifts where we can, when we can, without demanding perfection from ourselves or anyone else.
Holding this tension is ethics in practice.
The Smallness of Shifts
What does this actually look like, this practice of small shifts?
It looks like cancelling Spotify at 2:17 a.m. because that’s when the space opened up, and then committing once again to realign all the things you haven’t changed yet.
It looks like switching banks even though you’re still buying groceries from corporations with terrible track records.
It looks like making one shift and then resting with that for a while, letting it integrate, before expecting yourself to overhaul everything at once.
It looks like staying in the practice—continuing to notice, continuing to reflect, continuing to look for the next place where there might be room for a small movement toward alignment—not because you’re chasing some impossible state of ethical purity, but because you’re committed to the ongoing work of trying to live with integrity within systems designed to make that nearly impossible.
This is what I explore with clients who are trying to make changes in their lives. We don’t aim for perfection. We aim for direction. We look for small, sustainable shifts that move them closer to who they want to be, without asking them to destroy themselves in the process. Why do we expect ourselves to be any different?
Because if we wait until we can do everything perfectly, we’ll never do anything at all. And ultimate, that’s what serves oppressive systems perfectly. They’d be delighted if we were so overwhelmed by the impossibility of purity that we never made any changes at all.
Why This Matters for Anti-Oppressive Therapy
You might be wondering what any of this has to do with therapy.
Everything, as it turns out.
An anti-oppressive therapist understands that personal struggles don’t exist in isolation. The insomnia that keeps you awake at night isn’t just about your individual brain chemistry—it’s also about trying to live with integrity in a world that’s burning while being told to just practice gratitude and stay positive.
The exhaustion you carry isn’t just about your personal schedule—it’s about surviving under capitalism that demands constant productivity while providing almost no actual support.
The guilt that sits heavy in your chest about your choices isn’t just about your personal moral compass—it’s about being raised in systems that individualize responsibility for collective harm.
When I work with clients, we don’t just talk about managing symptoms. We talk about the systems creating those symptoms. We explore how capitalism, white supremacy, colonialism, ableism, and other structures of oppression shape not just our external circumstances but our internal worlds—the way we think about ourselves, the standards we hold ourselves to, the shame we carry for things that were never ours to carry alone.
And we talk about how to live with integrity within these systems without completely falling apart in the process.
This means helping people find the rest and spaciousness they need to make aligned choices. It means supporting them in holding the tension between personal responsibility and systemic accountability. It means validating the very real constraints they’re navigating while also exploring where there might be room—even just a little—for small shifts.
It means recognizing that sometimes the most radical thing we can do is create space. Is slow down enough to actually think. Is rest enough that we can hear ourselves again.
We’re All Just Learning
Between us? I don’t have this figured out.
I’m still complicit in countless ways. I’m still learning. I’m still making choices that don’t align with my values because I’m tired, or overwhelmed, or because I genuinely don’t know what the alternative is yet.
But I’m staying in the practice. I’m continuing to reflect. I’m making small shifts where I can. And I’m refusing to let the impossibility of perfection keep me from making any changes at all.
That 2 a.m. decision to cancel Spotify wasn’t an ending. It was one small step in an ongoing practice of trying to live with more integrity. Some nights I still can’t sleep, my mind cataloguing all the ways I’m entangled in systems of harm. But instead of that awareness leading to despair, it opens into curiosity.
What’s one small thing I could shift? Where might I have the bandwidth to investigate alternatives? What’s one way I could bring my actions a little closer to my values?
When we find ourselves in that rare space between exhaustion and productivity—when our nervous system are settled and pressure of the world is quiet enough—we make that shift.
Not perfectly. Not all at once. But incrementally, sustainably, with compassion for ourselves and the very real constraints we’re navigating.
An Invitation to Reflection
So I’m curious about you. What keeps you awake at night? What tension are you holding between your values and your actions? Where might there be room for a small shift—not a complete transformation, but a small, sustainable movement toward alignment?
And perhaps more importantly: Where do you need more space? More slowness? More of those rare moments where you’re not producing but not collapsed either, where you can simply be with yourself and notice what’s true?
Because living ethically under capitalism requires resources. Time, energy, mental bandwidth, emotional capacity. And if we’re constantly depleted, constantly in hustle mode, constantly triaging our impossible to-do lists, we simply cannot access those resources.
Rest isn’t a distraction from the work of living ethically. Rest is what makes that work possible.
So maybe tonight, instead of lying awake cataloguing what remains of your to-do list, ask yourself: What’s one small thing I could shift? And then: How can I create more space in my life for this kind of reflection?
The answers won’t be perfect. They won’t solve everything. They won’t feel like enough.
But they might help you sleep a little better, knowing you’re moving—slowly, imperfectly, but genuinely—in the direction of your values.
Looking for an anti-oppressive therapist who understands this work? At Venturous Counselling, we work with SDQTBIPOC+ folks and justice-oriented people who are trying to navigate the impossible task of living ethically within systems designed to prevent exactly that. We understand that your struggles aren’t just personal—they’re political, systemic, and deeply interconnected with the world around you. Learn more about our approach or reach out at connect@venturouscounselling.com to be matched with your best fit therapist.
What small shifts are you making? What tensions are you holding? I’d genuinely love to hear from you—drop a comment or send me an email at connect@venturouscounselling.com.
Frequently Asked Questions About Anti-Oppressive Therapy
What makes therapy anti-oppressive?
Anti-oppressive therapy names how capitalism, white supremacy, colonialism, ableism, and other systems of oppression shape your internal world, not just your external circumstances. Rather than treating distress as individual pathology, it examines context, power, and constraint. At Venturous, this lens runs through every concern we work with, from burnout to anxiety to self-worth.
Can therapy help me live more in alignment with my values?
Yes. A significant part of therapy at Venturous involves exploring the gap between your values and your actions, and what systemic pressures keep that gap in place. This is especially relevant for people experiencing burnout shaped by ethical exhaustion or identity work around who you’re becoming.
How does rest relate to therapy and healing?
Rest creates the conditions for change. When you’re constantly depleted, you can’t access the bandwidth to reflect, choose differently, or imagine alternatives. Job burnout recovery at Venturous centres rest as a prerequisite for healing rather than a reward for productivity.
Is anti-oppressive therapy only for activists or people in social justice work?
No. Anti-oppressive therapy is for anyone whose distress is shaped by systems they didn’t choose, whether that’s workplace culture, family expectations, economic pressure, or navigating marginalization. You don’t need to identify as an activist to benefit from therapy that names context alongside emotion.
What does anti-oppressive therapy look like at Venturous?
Venturous Counselling is a queer- and BIPOC-led collective offering therapy in Vancouver, Port Moody, and virtually across BC. Our counsellors integrate somatic therapy, EMDR, expressive art therapy, and nature-based therapy within an anti-oppressive framework that centres your lived experience and political context.