"Don't say it, don't say it!" It was a Tuesday afternoon, and this was the internal dialogue I was having with myself as I was talking to one of my grad school friends over the phone while I was driving home from class. She was telling me about her experience in one of her classes and how it wasn't going too well. The professor wasn't being very helpful, and her class was often left to figure things out for themselves. She was frustrated, since this was supposed to be a supervision class where students receive feedback on their clinical work, but not much supervision was happening. As I listened to her, I was immediately reminded of a concept I actually wrote about earlier in this book: the idea of having equal access to competency. If you recall, I wrote about how I'm using AI to level the playing field to compensate for those moments when I don't have a good teacher. Instead of having to depend on luck to be assigned a teacher who is actually good at teaching, I can now use AI to have a personalized teacher who works specifically for me, one that knows my style and lets me ask as many questions as I'd like. I couldn't help but think about this as I was talking to my friend on the phone that day. It sounded like the exact solution to her problem. But as she vented to me, I bit my tongue and intentionally didn't go there. Not because I wanted to keep this information secret (I'm including it in this book for a reason!), but for two other reasons. The first is pretty simple. I didn't want to start problem-solving when my friend was just looking to vent. Knowing when to hold space versus provide solutions is kind of the job I'm in training for. The second reason, though, is more personal. Something I've been reflecting on throughout the month of April is my identity as a tech person. I've always been good at using technology, and I've always been good at helping others with it. I've built an entire YouTube channel around Book Tech, and I've worked in the Information Technology (IT) field for over a decade. Even in my life as a Sikh, I've made it a point to become the Sikh Tech guy. I attend religious programs with the intention of helping with the technology, which often means I end up recording or live-streaming events. For years, I've taken great pride in this identity. It's something I'm good at. It's something I'm confident in. I might be a reserved and introverted person as a whole, but whenever it comes to tech, I have no problem showing up in full force. But as I've embarked on this new journey of becoming a therapist, I've noticed a pattern. I tend to gravitate toward becoming the tech person in everything I do. This is a double-edged sword. There's one part of me that loves technology and creating systems and workflows to make my job more efficient. As I write this, I just spent the past seven days using Claude Cowork to design an entirely new AI operating system for my life. I love this stuff. This part of me will always be there. But there's also another part of me, one that feels compelled to use technology as a way to be seen and feel confident. This part deserves a little more attention. Since starting graduate school, I've become known as the tech person in class. I will often help my classmates with their laptops during presentations or even help my professors create spreadsheets for various assignments. As the months rolled on, I also became heavily invested in "Therapy Tech." I started an entirely new blog dedicated to this topic and had a brief moment where I almost pivoted my entire digital identity into this world. "Book Tech is over, it's time to become a Therapy Tech guy." I fell down a deep rabbit hole researching different ways I could leverage this new niche as a way to earn some money via consulting, teaching a course, or maybe even getting a corporate healthcare job focused on technology. My background would be perfect for this. Then, after days of spiraling, I had a realization. What the heck am I doing? You see, one of the reasons I decided to become a therapist was because I wanted to escape the corporate world. I also wanted a profession that was a bit more structured and didn't involve creating a business from scratch. But most of all, I became a therapist because I wanted to work with people face-to-face and help them through challenging moments. As I was falling deeper into this pit of "Therapy Tech," I was also drifting farther and farther away from the whole reason I started down this path. It suddenly became abundantly clear to me: tech had become a crutch in my life, something I'd lean on to feel a sense of confidence. Have you ever heard that saying that you could be anyone you want to be when starting a new job or moving to a new city? I never truly understood what that meant until now. Even though I've already become known as the tech person in school, it's not too late to set some rules for myself moving forward. What would it be like if I intentionally avoided tech conversations in my new career? What if I chose to focus on the actual work of being a therapist instead of exploring the tech tools behind it? Going back to that conversation I was having with my friend, I intentionally chose not to bring up tech with her when she was venting. Yes, I could have spent a lot of time explaining how helpful AI has been for me and how I recommend it for everyone. Instead, I chose to set some internal boundaries. My intention is to keep this new area of my life focused on the work that matters. I still plan to tinker with tools and write some blog posts about it, but the intention is to remain a therapist first. I don't want to lose sight of that, and I definitely don't want to pivot this new path into the very things I was trying to leave behind. Bringing this awareness to the forefront of my mind has been quite the wake-up call. What would my Sikh life be like if I removed tech from the equation? I'd probably focus more on the actual practices of being a Sikh. What if I stopped trying to help everyone with their tech problems? I'd probably be able to build more meaningful friendships focused on real connection. Being good at something is a great thing. Knowing where to draw the line around it is something I'm learning for the first time. --- Related Notes: - [[Lessons From 2026]] - [[Therapy With Maneet]] - [[What I learned from digital therapist weekend]] This note was originally created on **May 4, 2026**.