Max Littman, LCSW
July 15, 2025
Much of my writing—and much of the discourse in the IFS community and the broader mental health field—rightfully focuses on burdens and the healing process. These are essential conversations. And yet, there’s an unspoken risk: when our attention always orients toward pain, pathology, and progress, we can lose contact with what’s already whole and the possibilities inherent in wholeness. We may begin to believe meaning exists only when we are intentionally in motion, moving toward healing and repair.
I want to resist that current for a moment. I want to linger in the spaces where burdens don’t live. I do not deny suffering exists. But I do want to name what else is possible—what sometimes is already transpiring—when our parts trust presence, attunement, and Self energy to lead.
What if we allowed ourselves to imagine a life beyond burdens?
What if we imagined a life beyond burdens not as a utopian ideal or as a clean slate, but a life where the weight of shame, fear, invisibility, and fragmentation isn’t driving all levels of systems? What if the experiences where burdens took root had been gently witnessed, honored, and cast aside? Or where, in certain beautiful instances, they never took root at all?
What might it feel like to live in a system—inside a body, a relationship, a community, a business, or a country—where experiences are shaped more by connection than by protection? Where rupture is followed by repair? When there’s enough Self energy in the field—enough presence, attunement, inner spaciousness—that burdens don’t take hold?
This article tries to sit with that imagining. First we will look at moments where burdens might have formed but didn’t, because something or someone showed up differently. We will then explore what happens in systems where the weight of burdens have been released. This exploration will show life still happens, but that parts no longer have to brace or perform or collapse in the ways they once did.
And then we’ll widen the lens. What might life look like beyond burdens at different levels of systems—not just in individuals, but in families, partnerships, communities, businesses, and culture at large? What changes when the legacies of white supremacy, patriarchy, materialism, individualism, and racism no longer shape the nervous system of a society?
We begin not with an answer, but with a question and a pause.
What becomes possible when burdens are no longer driving the story?
When Burdens Don’t Take Root
Burdens arise from moments that overwhelm the system—experiences that are too big, too fast, and too much to carry alone. But they don’t always have to stick. There are moments, quiet and often forgettable to the larger world, where something different transpires. There’s just enough of a presence to keep a wound from burrowing in.
A boy knocks over a glass at the dinner table. He startles. His chest tightens in anticipation. But his father doesn’t flinch. He takes a breath and reaches for a towel, handing it to the boy without commentary. “You okay?” he asks—not to scold, but to check. The moment passes, not with a lesson but with a kind of warmth that leaves no trace. The boy doesn’t learn to fear mistakes. His system doesn’t take on shame. He stays connected.
In another house, a teenager comes home from school after being dumped in a group text. She’s trembling, humiliated. Her older sister doesn’t offer advice, just sits beside her on the bed. They scroll quietly through memes. Then, eventually: “He’s an idiot.” The teenager doesn’t need to harden. She’s not alone. Her worth remains intact.
Or a workplace: A junior staff member raises concerns about a project plan that overlooks accessibility. Her manager doesn’t try to justify or explain. He pauses, swallows his defensiveness, and says, “Thanks for pointing that out. I missed it. Let’s revise.” She doesn’t have to carry invisibility or exhaustion. Something in the system shifted instead to meet her.
These moments might not look like much from the outside. They don’t get celebrated. But they are the difference between a burden taking root and a part staying free. What prevents burdens isn’t perfection; it’s attunement. Someone close enough, calm enough, or kind enough to help metabolize the experience in real time.
Systems Without Cultural Burdens
It’s hard to imagine systems without burdens when they’ve shaped so much of what we know. White supremacy, patriarchy, materialism, individualism, racism—these aren’t just ideologies. They’re atmospheres. They live in muscle memory, how we hurry, what we avoid, who gets centered, and who disappears.
So what begins to shift when those burdens loosen their grip?
Without the constant push of urgency, there’s room to feel the subjective and expansive experience of time again. Meetings start five minutes late because someone needed to cry first. Projects unfold at the pace of relationship, not production. Slowness isn’t punished; it’s respected. We can be in a moment that feels like it lasts forever and come out of it in a natural way, without interruption.
Without perfectionism, there’s mess. There’s failure. And there’s laughter that comes when no one’s performance is on the line. People stop saying the right thing and start saying the real thing. What a relief to stop holding your breath around every misstep.
When intention is no longer treated as more important than impact, repair becomes more possible. People stop defending and start listening. Not because they’ve mastered anti-oppression, but because they’re willing to feel the sting of their own missteps and stay in connection anyway.
The worship of the written word begins to soften. People remember that knowledge can live in bodies, in movement, in songs passed down. Policy doesn’t have to be airtight to be ethical. It can be in relationship with lived experience.
Power isn’t hoarded; it’s distributed. Decisions are shared. Credit circulates. Vulnerability is seen as courage and becomes a valued kind of leadership.
In a world less shaped by individualism, mutuality becomes more than a value—it becomes a rhythm. People bring soup, not advice. Care is not a service or a debt, but a form of belonging and including.
When materialism is no longer confused with meaning, objects become sacred. A handmade sweater means more than a logo. Beauty doesn’t have to be bought. Value stops being measured in productivity and starts being felt in presence.
This isn’t a vision of purity. There will still be hurt, power struggles, rupture. But the system isn’t organized around fear of scarcity and failure. There’s more space for life to bloom.
Levels of Unburdened Systems
Unburdening doesn’t flatten or homogenize systems. It makes them more alive. When parts return to their natural roles—no longer hijacked by fear, shame, or overwhelm—they begin to shape relationships, families, communities, and institutions in strikingly different ways.
In individuals, unburdened managers offer grounding, rhythm, and foresight. They organize the day not from anxiety, but from care. They help the system stay oriented without becoming rigid. Firefighters, free from compulsion, bring spontaneity and boldness. They nudge the system toward aliveness: a last-minute road trip, a surprise call to an old friend, a dance break in the kitchen. And exiles—those most often silenced—bring back the soul of the system. Their sensitivity becomes a form of guidance. Their joy, a kind of compass. They bring play, awe, and deep emotional truth.
In families, these parts shape the daily atmosphere. Unburdened managers create structure that adapts—bedtimes that make room for storytelling, meals that aren’t rushed. They keep things moving without becoming authoritarian. Firefighters bring shared adventures: late-night games, spontaneous hikes, goofy traditions. And exiles bring tenderness to the surface. A child’s tears aren’t shut down—they’re met. A parent’s vulnerability isn’t hidden—it’s modeled.
In couples, managers help hold the scaffolding: shared calendars, boundaries, the hard logistics of modern life. But they do so without rigidity or scorekeeping. Firefighters bring surprise, flirtation, risk. They keep things from becoming stale. And exiles—once protected against—can now show up in intimacy. Their expressions of need, grief, joy, and wonder become the connective tissue of the relationship.
In communities, unburdened manager energy can show up in shared leadership: the ability to coordinate without controlling, to tend to group needs while staying flexible. Firefighters energize collective projects—they’re the ones who propose something outlandish, who gather people around laughter and movement. And exiles lend communities their moral imagination. They carry the wounds that should not be forgotten, and the dreams that must not be lost.
In businesses, manager parts don’t micromanage. They create systems that hold people well. They know how to hold clarity and boundaries without replicating harm. Firefighters, when trusted, help businesses innovate and take healthy risks. They break stale models. They ask, “What if we tried something else?” And exiles—often the most hidden—carry the emotional intelligence that keeps an organization human. They tune leaders toward impact, not just intention. They keep people connected to why it all matters.
In cultural systems, when exiles are allowed to lead, stories get told that have been buried for generations. Art returns to the body. Grief and celebration re-enter public life. Manager energy helps shape policy that protects without constraining. Firefighter energy fuels movements that break through calcified norms. Each part contributes—not as a solo voice, but as part of a larger harmony.
In nations, these roles matter too. Manager energy can shape infrastructure that’s responsive, not bureaucratic. Firefighters can push culture forward, disrupting what’s outdated or oppressive. And exiles, if collectively welcomed, bring about the kind of healing that no policy alone can create: the truth-telling, reckoning, and remembering that allow people to come back to themselves.
What makes these systems unburdened isn’t that they avoid conflict or pain. It’s that they are not organized around fear. Parts are trusted to lead from their gifts, not their wounds. And the result isn’t tidiness. It’s texture. Color. Vitality. A rhythm of life that includes rupture and repair, movement and stillness, joy and grief—held together by something deeper and wiser than any single part.
Glimpses of Unburdened Systems in Practice
These aren’t stories of perfection. They’re small moments where something shifted—where unburdened parts showed up, and something different became possible.
In an individual:
Ash notices the familiar tightness in their chest at 4:30pm—the usual “we didn’t get enough done” panic, an unburdened manager part. But instead of clamping down on the rest of the evening, something else moves in. Ash pauses, breathes, and lets the calendar go. Their firefighter part, once buried under shame, suggests going for a walk by the bay. Their exile part catches sight of the water’s shimmer and suddenly there are tears. “I forgot this mattered to me.” Nothing is fixed. But something is free to be felt without getting overwhelmed by it.
In a family:
Every Thanksgiving, Marcus’s mother used to spiral into control: strict timelines, rigid seating charts, tension so thick it dried out the turkey. But this year, Marcus notices her acting differently. She lets the kids help with cooking, even when it gets messy. The table is set imperfectly. The conversation wobbles into something tender when Marcus’s trans niece shares her chosen name. Instead of changing the subject, his mom says, “Thank you for letting us know.” No one cries. But everyone eats with their shoulders relaxed and down.
In a couple:
Amaya and Sophie have a long-standing wound around spending money. Amaya, led by a firefighter part, used to buy impulsively to soothe stress. Sophie’s manager would clamp down, demand budgets, shut doors. But now, when Sophie sees a new charge on the credit card, she pauses. She feels her tightening, hears her manager whisper “reckless,” and gently asks, “Do you want to talk about what was going on that day?” Amaya nods, eyes wide. Her exile feels seen, not scolded. They hold hands while checking the budget together.
In a community:
At a local council meeting in a historically redlined neighborhood, tensions are high. An elder speaks about displacement, and the room holds its breath. A younger activist—usually quick to call out—softens. His firefighter doesn’t leap forward. Instead, he stands and says, “I was ready to fight you tonight. But I think I needed to hear what you just said.” Laughter breaks the tension. The facilitator, guided by a grounded manager part, adjusts the agenda to allow space. The meeting goes long. No one leaves.
In a business:
A tech startup rolls out a new remote policy. Tensions rise fast. Instead of steamrolling concerns with optimism, the founder—long led by a perfectionist manager—calls a pause. “We made some assumptions. I want to hear from folks directly affected.” During a follow-up meeting, a queer parent shares the struggle of balancing remote work with isolation. An exile part peeks through: “I’ve felt invisible here.” The founder tears up. “Thank you. We’ll slow this down and rebuild it together.”
In culture:
At a queer arts festival, a spontaneous altar appears near the main stage. It’s not part of the schedule. Someone lights a candle for a friend lost to overdose. Another person sings. A child adds a drawing. No one directs it. No one monetizes it. Manager parts of multiple people guard the space with gentle boundaries. Firefighter energy pulses through festival goers, offering rhythm and play. Exiles are welcomed to speak in silence or song. It becomes the most visited spot in the whole festival. Not because it was advertised, but because it was needed.
In the nation:
A state senator publicly apologizes for voting against trans rights ten years ago. Her voice shakes. She names the exile in herself who feared being ostracized. She names the manager who tried to fit in. And she names the young trans activists who kept showing up, who never hardened. The apology doesn’t erase the harm. But it opens a door. That night, a 17-year-old watches the video and whispers, “Maybe I’ll stay here after all.”
When a Burden Could Have Formed—but Didn’t
Some wounds never happen. Not because the world is gentle, but because someone was. Because a moment that could have split the system was instead held, metabolized, made bearable. These stories trace the quiet power of attunement.
At the dentist:
A six-year-old, Eli, clenches his fists when the hygienist approaches with a metal tool. His eyes go wide. Just before the panic spikes, the dentist kneels beside him and says, “You can tell me to stop any time.” Eli loosens. He doesn’t need to disown his fear to get through it. A part that could have split off learns: you can stay with me.
In a school hallway:
Jasmine is the only Black girl in her advanced math class. When she answers a question correctly, the teacher says, “Wow! You’ve really been studying.” The class goes quiet. Her stomach drops. But then another student, a white boy, raises his hand and says, “She’s always the smartest one in here.” The teacher catches himself. “You’re right. That comment wasn’t quite right. I’m sorry, Jasmine.” She nods. The silence doesn’t stick. Her worth stays intact.
At bedtime:
Five-year-old Hugo admits to his dad that he lied about brushing his teeth. He expects the usual lecture, the voice that gets loud and tight. But his dad kneels down, looks him in the eye, and says, “Thanks for telling me. That took courage.” Hugo cries a little. It’s not shame. It’s relief. A manager part never has to form from fear.
On the playground:
A trans kid, Sky, is misgendered by another child. Before Sky can freeze or lash out, a teacher nearby gently corrects the other child, “Sky uses they/them.” Then she turns to Sky: “Did that feel okay? You want a break?” Sky shrugs, uncertain, but not alone. Their system registers something: I don’t have to disappear.
In a friend group:
At age fourteen, Dalia shares a story about a crush on a girl. It’s the first time she’s said it aloud. Her friends stare at her for a second too long. She starts to fold inward. But then one friend says, “Wait, what?! That’s so cute. Tell us everything.” The others lean in. A burden of secrecy that could have taken hold slips quietly out the back door.
During conflict:
A teenager slams the door after a fight with their mom. Minutes later, she knocks gently and says, “That was hard. Want to talk or want space?” The teen is still tight, arms crossed. But something in them exhales. They’re not being punished. They’re being given time.
In a hospital room:
A mother lies in bed after delivering a stillborn baby. The nurse enters quietly, places a candle by the window, and sits down. No checklist. No rush. “I’m here as long as you need.” The mother sobs. Her system, flooded with grief, doesn’t have to protect her from it. A burden of isolation or silencing never roots.
In the locker room:
Luca, 11, doesn’t want to take off his shirt. The other boys are already laughing and roughhousing. A coach walks by, picks up on the hesitation, and says casually, “You can keep it on. Some of us just run hotter than others.” He smiles. Keeps moving. Luca nods. It’s small. But it lets him stay with himself.
In a family:
Nina’s toddler knocks over a bowl of cereal, milk splattering across the floor. Her first instinct is to scold. But she kneels down, wipes the child’s chin, and says, “Oops. Let’s clean it up together.” The toddler giggles. The spill becomes a game. A shame imprint never lands.
In a couple:
Robin and Leo are in bed when Robin flinches at a touch. The air thickens. Leo starts to pull away, but then asks softly, “Was that too much?” Robin nods. “I just need a second.” Leo stays present, hand still. No performance. No defensiveness. A sexual burden of silence and overriding doesn’t stick.
In a community:
A new immigrant family joins a neighborhood block party. A few people glance sideways at their traditional clothes and unfamiliar accents. But then one neighbor pulls up a second table, makes introductions, and offers to swap recipes. The mother tears up as her child runs off to play. A burden of otherness doesn’t settle into the bones.
In a workplace:
Tariq, the only Muslim employee in the office, asks to adjust his schedule during Ramadan. The manager doesn’t say, “We’ll see what we can do.” She says, “Thanks for letting us know—let’s build the schedule around your needs.” A burden of invisibility, so often reinforced by hesitation and half-support, doesn’t get handed down this time.
In a cultural system:
A high school history teacher deviates from the curriculum. On the week of Thanksgiving, she invites her students to read Native authors and write letters of reflection. A student of Lakota descent reads his words aloud. The class listens. No one interrupts. He says, “This is the first time I’ve felt like I was telling the real story.” A cultural burden of erasure fails to take hold.
In a national system:
After a wave of anti-Asian violence, a city holds a public vigil—not just to mourn, but to name what happened. Local leaders stand beside elders, schoolkids, organizers, and interfaith clergy. One council member admits, “I don’t know how to do this right. But I’m not going to disappear.” The air is thick with feeling, but no one turns away. The moment doesn’t fix history—but it interrupts the pattern.
Returning to What’s Already Here
There is value in witnessing burdens. In redoing burdensome experiences. In grieving what was taken. In unburdening what no longer needs to be carried. But this isn’t that story. This is the story that comes after—or sometimes alongside. The story of what happens when the system is no longer—or never was—organized around pain.
Unburdened systems are not the reward for doing enough healing. They are not a finish line or a mark of enlightenment. They are everyday moments of connection, rhythm, flexibility, and play. They are parts in their natural roles. They are time that bends toward aliveness. They are relationships that don’t require collapse or performance. They are the silence after the exhale.
If we only track what hurts, we miss the parts of us that already know how to be whole. We miss the places where attunement arrived on time. Where nothing had to be managed. Where joy didn’t need to be explained.
This isn’t a detour from the work. It is an aspect of the work. Not to strive toward some perfect state, but to keep remembering what’s possible when we stop asking, “What’s wrong with me?” and begin asking, gently, “What’s already here that doesn’t need to be fixed?”
Unburdened systems remind us: we are not projects to be completed. We are living ecosystems in constant, effortless motion.
For feedback and comments, I can be reached at max@maxlittman.com.
I provide private practice mentorship, consultation, and therapist/practitioner part intensives.
