PANtheory Group
PBC & PAN (within PSP) is a preventive developmental analysis framework that integrates audience pressure, conflict patterns, and pattern-break cognition into a practical language for identifying hidden coercive control, bullying, and escalating relational dynamics in children and adolescents, as well as across broader social, environmental, and family systems.
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PAN: (PBC) Parental Arena Network, Pattern Break Consciousness-Cognition.

  • The more I look back on those years through PBC-PAN, the more I think we often misunderstood adolescent anger. Some of the young people who showed the most resistance, frustration or rebellion were actually the ones who made the biggest steps once someone truly connected with them. I understand that much better now through Margaret Mahler’s individuation-separation process, but also through Arnold van Gennep’s idea of the rite the passage. Adolescence is not just a phase of “difficult behaviour”; it is a developmental transition in which a young person is trying to separate, become an individual, a struggle for autonomy, and find a place outside the old system.

    That means anger, fear, resistance and rebellion are not always signs of pathology. Very often, they are signs of movement. And the more I look back, the more I realise that PBC-PAN can make a far more developmental reading of these young people than a label. If you only read that fear, anger as defiance or dysregulation, you miss the developmental force underneath it.

    If you zoom out, the pattern is not hard to see.

    Youth aggression is rising. Child maltreatment is rising. Family instability, attachment wounds, emotional dysregulation and relational breakdown are not isolated issues anymore. They are showing up across systems, across countries, and across generations.

    So no, I do not find the rise of coercive control laws strange at all. In many ways, it is the logical outcome of a much deeper developmental and relational crisis that has been building for years.

    And if someone truly connects with an aggressive adolescent, you’d be surprised how much movement is possible. I see adolescence less as a problem phase, and more as a developmental window we should take far more seriously.

  • What is the Inverted Peek-a-Boo Rhythm?

    Most people know peek-a-boo as a child’s game.

    PBC & PAN is not about labels, although you can link developmental psychology to different (DSM-labels). Someone disappears. The child waits. The person returns. The child feels relief. Disappear. Wait. Return. Safety. But in unsafe family systems, this rhythm can become inverted. Not safety. Pressure. Not play. Control. Not connection. Confusion. It’s an Inverted Peek-a-Boo Rhythm. It is a repeated pattern of appearing, exploding, disappearing, waiting, returning, and restarting the same cycle again. Not only it’s about mapping Peek-A-Boo rhythm. Many envirenmental reasens can appear for violance. PAN describes where the pressure is. PBC discribes what you do with that pressure.

    A person explodes. Screaming. Threatening. Blaming. Then they walk away. They close a door. They disappear into another room. They wait. Then they return. And the same loop starts again. Sometimes this can happen ten times in one evening. Sometimes thirty. Sometimes fifty. The aggressive type is also the victim type. They scream and leave. The other victim-type version says: “Help, I cannot handle this. If something happens to me, it is your fault.” Then they disappear too. Bedroom. Bathroom. Silence. Withdrawal. Return. Not ten labels, They all act the same in a conflict, fight, flight, freeze, drama triangle complete. Different styles. Same mechanism.

    Appear. Pressure. Disappear. Wait. Return. The original rhythm teaches the child: You disappear and come back. I am safe. The inverted rhythm teaches the child: You disappear and you don’t come back. I am unsafe. Over time, the (normal) child starts living inside that rhythm. They start scanning. Where is the parent? What mood are they in? Will they explode? Will they leave? Will they come back? Will I be blamed? Am I the problem? This is not magic. This is pattern logic.

    If you observe these systems long enough, you can almost draw the walking lines. The funny part is. I already have mapped families on a whitebord. The result, no label needed and the adolescent’s hyperventilation subsided. The person leaves the room. Comes back. Leaves again. Returns again. Starts again. Then, when the child finally raises their voice, suddenly the child is told to be quiet because “people outside can hear.” That is where the Audience enters. The family lives between Audience and Army. The safe Audience is gone. The unsafe Audience is everywhere. People are watching. People are judging. The neighbours might hear. The school might know. The care worker might see. The outside world becomes a threat. And inside that pressure, the child starts losing orientation.

    We need mapping. How often does someone explode? How much boomerang loops? How often does someone disappear? How often is the child blamed?
    How often is the child silenced? How often does the child feel responsible for the parent? How often are objects hidden, moved, broken, or used as control? How often does help become a complicated conversation? How often does the child end up carrying the family’s emotional pressure? You do not need a year to start seeing whether a child is safe. You need a map. In my PBC & PAN work, I have developed this much further. However, readers can also explore these patterns through the lenses of Freud’s Fort-Da observation, emotional object constancy, and early mirroring processes. The connections are there for anyone who wishes to examine them. I can make it complex, but complexicity to help people never works.

    The basic logic is simple. If the same loop repeats hundreds or thousands of times, the child is not “difficult.” The child is adapting. If every attempt to ask for help becomes a conflict, the child is living in an unsafe envirenment.” If case workers and professionals don’t have a framework for conflict mapping, shame loops measering tools, a map. we keep seeing headlines appear in the media about child abuse. We didn’t see it, we don’t understand how this could happen. The child was the class clown. The child was very quiet. Coping mechanism. ego defences. Repeating conflict rhythms.

    The child is trapped. If the system keeps making the child the problem, while the adults control the rhythm, then we are not looking at the child clearly. We have to look through the family’s and social environment pressure system first. And yes, sadly, there are many families like this. Often it moves from generation to generation. A parent who never escaped the mechanism mirrors it back to the child. Low temperament, high temperament, fight, flight, freeze and collapse. Repeat. The logic of PBC & PAN: In these cases these behaviors, thoughts, and emotions are shaped by past and present pressures.

    Anxiety, hyperventilation, and aggression are not viewed as individual disorders, but as emergent properties of the interaction system. Behavior emerges lawfully within the relational space between people, shaped by the pressure of the Inverted, distorted Peek-a-Boo Rhythm, the Boomerang, and the dynamic shifts between the Audience-Fable and the Army. ”In a relationship: (both a man and a woman with attachment wounds can get stuck in an object relations dance where the roles of perpetrator, rescuer and accuser, victim constantly switch. Control can develop (consciously, mutual agreements) but more often, unconsciously within these relationship dynamics).

  • The Developmental Thinkers Mapped the Foundations. We Fragmented the System.

    FORENSIC INSIGHT: THE SYSTEMIC CRASH OF DEVELOPMENTAL. INFRASTRUCTURE

    Why is the Western clinical system expanding toward 300+ diagnostic labels while frontline outcomes continue to deteriorate? The original developmental thinkers mapped human conflict as dynamic structure, developmental pressure, identity formation, attachment, symbolism, environment, and adaptation. Over time, large parts of the system became fragmented into isolated symptom categories, checklists, and billable diagnostic boxes.

    1.⁠ ⁠THE ROOT (Piaget / Freud / Elkind) Psychological conflict and the disruption of Object Permanence, unstable Peekaboo rhythms creates chronic defensive identity construction (‘The Fable’).
    2.⁠ ⁠FANTASY / THE MIRROR (Kohut / Winnicott / Mahler) Defective mirroring and disrupted Separation-Individuation create conditions for compensatory fantasy (Fable) construction, synthetic identity formation, and persistent internal voids.
    3.⁠ ⁠THE MATRIX (PBC/ PAN) Unmapped Parent-Bound Conflict creates covert extraction loops inside the family system and social environment. Many content reduces complex developmental systems into “3 signs you have X” formats, encouraging mass self-diagnosis, labeling people through simplified online narratives. The more the system expands endless labels, the more fragmentation spreads across society. The Somatic Cost: When environments remain chronically unsafe, the nervous system adapts through freeze, fight and flight states, autonomic overload, hypervigilance and long-term hormonal stress activation. Instead of mapping environmental pressure systems first, modern frameworks often isolate the individual from the environment shaping the response itself. We do not need infinite labels. We need developmental mapping at the front door. Pure structure. Pure mechanism. Less consensus noise. The next step is not another diagnostic category.

    The next step is learning how to systematically map developmental analisis/ pressure, attachment ruptures, conflict patterns, environmental stressors, and role dynamics inside family systems before symptoms become identities.

    While reflecting on the symbolic elements in my framework, I noticed something unexpected.

    I did not start with the intention of designing a fictional world. My goal was simply to understand a few recurring patterns in human interaction and conflict. For that purpose, I began using a small set of symbols: a pawn, a boomerang, a compass, a voice that provokes reactions, and what I call a “source”.

    However, during a conversation about these elements, something interesting became clear. When these symbols were placed together, they naturally began to form a coherent internal structure, almost like a small conceptual world.

    In this symbolic structure, there is a board where interactions and conflicts take place. Voices provoke reactions. Boomerangs represent the way conflicts often return and escalate when people respond to each other impulsively. Within such dynamics, reactions tend to keep the system moving.

    But outside that board there is another place: the source. The source is not part of the conflict itself. It represents a moment of distance and reflection. When someone reaches the source, reactions lose their immediate power. Without an audience and without returning reactions, the usual dynamics of provocation begin to fade.

    Looking into the water of the source becomes a moment of self-reflection. Not about the role someone plays within the system, but about the person behind that role. From there, a choice becomes possible. When you still don’t know the answer. Maybe a safe Source can help you? The compass represents the moment when someone decides how to respond when returning to the board.

    Importantly, the world itself does not change. The board remains the same. Voices may still provoke, and conflicts may still arise. What changes is how someone reacts. Others may eventually recognize this difference. When provocation no longer triggers the expected reaction, the system begins to behave differently.

    I did not consciously design this symbolic world. It appeared naturally once the elements were placed together. Sometimes, when a model becomes simple enough, it reveals its own internal logic, and with it, an entire conceptual structure.

    Interestingly, I didn’t design the story. I discovered it.


  • The picture shows a pattern.

    The man in the frame barely exists. He is there to validate. The woman exists mainly through reflection. Through being seen. Through external confirmation. That is how the self is held together. I have met several women like this. The attachment feels familiar to the pawn. Endless photos, endless posting, endless need for validation. As long as the audience confirms, things remain calm. When validation drops, the audience turns into a threat. Not because people attack, but because they don’t confirm.

    What happens next is predictable. The closest people pay the price: the ex, the partner, the relationship at that moment. Pawns are used against pawns. Triangulation follows. Sometimes escalates. When there is a child, the pattern repeats. The child sits in the same position. When validation is insufficient, pressure increases. The child no longer has an audience. Everyone becomes a potential threat. They think I’m stupid. They think I’m ugly. I shouldn’t talk. I’m wrong. My parent is right. We see this everywhere: abusive relationships, “Are We Dating the Same Guy” groups, repeating dynamics across platforms. You can write reports forever. The pattern is visible.

    The trend is increasing. The violence is increasing. And the child is still the one paying the price. Some illnesses are real. Others function primarily as shields within these systems, so I met the woman with fibromyalgia. In recent years, chronic pain conditions such as fibromyalgia have increasingly been discussed in relation to stress and trauma earlier in life. Some clinicians focus on measurable pain points. Others cautiously explore psychological histories. There is still no consensus.

    What follows is not a medical conclusion. It is a pattern. I was in a relationship with that woman for about eight months. She lived in constant pain. Exhaustion. Complaints. Doctor visits. Fibromyalgia, according to several physicians. She needed care. Support. Understanding. I became the caretaker. Her previous relationship was described as abusive and chaotic. The story was familiar: she had suffered deeply, and the consequences were still present.

    She had a son another unseen pawn. A young adolescent. Quiet. Withdrawn. Poor grades at school. He spent most of his time indoors, gaming. Few friends. Conversations were short and cautious. Eye contact fleeting. Without explanation, he understood the rules. When I arrived, he went to his room. No discussion. No resistance. A man in the house meant withdrawal.

    This was not shyness. It was learned behavior. After several months, I began speaking with him more regularly. Carefully. Slowly. What became visible was loneliness. A sense of worthlessness. Fear of saying the wrong thing. When his mother became angry, she told him he was stupid. That nothing about him was good enough. These moments were not isolated. They were repetitive. At school, there was no diagnosis. No label. No ADHD. No autism. Nothing that would trigger attention. A quiet child without a label does not exist in the system. I had already seen it in his eyes. They were flat. Empty.

    This was not normal adolescence. Anyone familiar with emotional humiliation recognizes the pattern immediately. At some point, it became clear that this environment was not safe. This boy needed help. At the very least, he needed someone outside the household who could see him. I added him on social media. We exchanged occasional messages. Nothing dramatic. No accusations. Just contact. That was enough to change something. When his mother noticed that I was reaching out to him, the atmosphere shifted. For people who rely heavily on external validation, there is one unacceptable threat: being seen as imperfect. Not as a flawless mother. Not as a caring, suffering woman. She always told me the boy was smart, perfect and her sunshine. The reality was not seen.

    Shortly after, the relationship ended. Leaving did not feel like a normal breakup. It felt like escaping a closed system, one that pulls you in while simultaneously pushing you away. The personal details of this relationship are described elsewhere. They do not matter for understanding the mechanism, which occurs far more often than we like to admit. Afterward, I tried to reach the boy. His WhatsApp profile picture was gone. Messages unanswered. Facebook deleted. Instagram disappeared. He vanished. I drove by the neighborhood occasionally. I never saw him again. Something felt deeply wrong.

    A few years later, I heard what had happened, through a friend of hers. One year later, after i had met him for the last time, her soon took his own life. Out of disbelief, I checked her social media pages again. I had not looked at them in a long time. Before that, he was almost never there. Sometimes he appeared in the background of a picture; sometimes he dissapered from the pages all together. Her pages had always been filled with holidays, expensive trips, and different men. Those men were the ones who took pictures, during the honeymoon phase. The same images were then reused andlessly on WhatsApp and social media. Endless photos. Endless validation. A child did not fit that image. It is easier to appear available and desirable when no child is visible in the frame. (Non-confirmation is punished by removal from the frame (sometimes literally) and the image. You are painted black, assigned to the army rather than the confirming audience. This status is provissional and reversible).

    So, he was absent. And then, suddenly, he was there, Photos appeared. Posts appeared. She was in tears. She had lost her son. The grief was visible, overwhelming. Messages of sympathy followed immediately, before the holiday pictures started rolling again. Hearts appeared, love quotes followed, and slowly everything returned to normal. Everyone felt for this woman with fibromyalgia, and that she was so strong. The system responded exactly as expected. Her pain was seen, the mother with the ilness and how nobody saw her true self. Her loss was acknowledged. Her story was protected. The child, however, was already gone.

    This is not an isolated story. Children growing up under chronic emotional pressure learn early that speaking has consequences. Silence becomes safety. Withdrawal becomes strategy. When no diagnosis is present, nothing alerts the system. Schools see poor grades, not despair. Doctors see physical complaints, not fear. The family narrative remains intact. The adult is visible. The child disappears. Until there is nothing left to see.


  • The DSM-5 has improved diagnostic reliability and contributed to crisis intervention, much of mental health research has historically focused primarily on symptom classification and post-hoc treatment. Preventive insights have existed since the 1960s, but they were never fully integrated into a coherent, child-centred developmental framework. PAN is not a new diagnosis, nor is it positioned against the DSM-5. It is designed to operate alongside existing diagnostic systems by addressing the developmental layer that precedes classification. Where DSM classification rosponds to observed outcomes, PAN focuses on trajectories, aiming to support earlier recognition and intervention before structural damage accumulates. The distinction between reactive classification and developmental prevention is not merely theoretical. Its implications become visible in long-term societal patterns. Tens of millions of children continue to live with emotional or physical abuse behind closed doors: unseen, unmeasured, and structurally unprotected. At the same time, bullying mechanisms often go unnoticed, while aggression among youth is rising worldwide. Together these pressures place a growing strain on children’s emotion-regulation systems, which can become increasingly misaligned over time. This helps explain why the numbers keep rising and why pressure on mental health care continues to increase. The system is overloaded not because professionals fail, but because prevention was never structurally embedded.

    In this gap, a ”business model of hope” emerged: At the same time, ”sociopathic” and ”narcissistic” dynamics continue to reproduce each other systemically, across families and generations. These dynamics tend to intensify over time; although difficult to quantify empirically, the consistency of reported experiences across clinical and lived contexts suggests a robust underlying pattern. In cases where caregivers carry unresolved attachment trauma, ‘sometimes’ associated with splitting processes described by Otto Kernberg, the capacity to provide secure attachment may be structurally compromised. The vacuum is now filled by poeple producing endless content about the gap itself, not because solutions are scarce, but because unresolved dynamics keep generating demand, endless promises of healing, awareness books and treatments, symptom management, and retrospective labelling, while abusive dynamics remain undetected during early development.

    DSM-5 reflects this limitation. It classifies outcomes rather than trajectories and the origen. Symptoms are described, but the label itself remains unstable, shifting with observer perspective, training level, and timing of assessment. In practice, this means individuals can receive different labels across contexts, despite stable underlying dynamics. This is not a failure of clinicians. It is a structural limitation of retrospective classification.

    PAN is not against the DSM-5. It is designed to operate before DSM-based classification, at a preventive and developmental level. It addresses this gap. Ideally, developmental analysis should begin in early childhood and continue through adolescence to build a stronger, more complete understanding of the individual and their environment. PAN makes abusive dynamics, pawns, boomerang loops, projection, shame, triangulation, identity pressure, parentification, and borrowed identity measurable before collapse, when intervention is still possible. Some people start to feel reduced to a label. For some, that label does not just describe distress, it starts to shape identity itself. Online, people then gather around the same diagnosis, mirror each other’s limitations, and gradually begin to live through the label. Others want the exact opposite: they do not want a diagnosis to become their identity at all.

    Keep DSM where it is still administratively needed, but place a non-labelling prevention framework next to it, one that looks at family dynamics, coercive control, chronic pressure, shame, peer influence and developmental stress before symptom-checking begins. The moment the care system openly acknowledges both the strengths and the limits of diagnosis, it takes oxygen away from the online identity market and restores trust in the care system again. This is not an attack on care. It is a critique of a system that became reactive, and structurally late.


  • PAN is a creative symbol system designed for children. Children can express themselves safely. Teachers can understand what’s happening. Researchers can measure and study it globally.

    When boomerangs are thrown endlessly inside a home, or repeatedly in a classroom during bullying, that rhythmic return is the first structural warning sign. A child knows instinctively that a boomerang hurts (they can understand projection) and that every word or action returns. That recognition reveals that something behind closed doors is not as it should be. The key moment is visibility. When conflicts are no longer hidden, the real dynamics show themselves, especially from the child’s perspective. That exposure already changes some behavior. Some shame-based families, not all self-correct the moment shame becomes visible to teachers, professionals, doctors, and others around them. When visibility is interpreted as judgment, the audience functionally shifts into an army, which explains the self-corrective shift.

    The symbols: pawn, boomerang, compass give language to those hidden experiences of pain and violence. Children instantly recognize: this is the symbol of being unsafe, this is my voice.

    PAN symbols can be used anywhere, even at a sports event giving every child a way to feel or express, communicate, and be understood. You can even start with a small children’s book for kindergarten. A simple story about a little pawn who sometimes feels unsafe. What is safety? What can you do when you feel unsafe? Who is your safe person, Source at home? Who do you feel comfortable talking to when something is bothering you?

    Do they listen to you? Do they understand how you feel And if they don’t, who else can you talk to? A grandparent, a teacher, an aunt, an uncle, a neighbour, or another trusted adult? What is a safe Source? What does it feel like when someone is angry with you? What happens when someone throws a boomerang of hurt or frustration? What do you do when someone ignores you? Is it about you or not? And how do you discover that the boomerang doesn’t always belong to you?

    Most importantly, the story teaches that every child has a choice. You have your own autonomy. You have your own compass. You can decide whether to catch someone else’s boomerang or let it fall, and choose the direction that feels safe for you.


  • When shame settles, the story splits

    Around ages 7–8, early shame experiences begin to organize the Imaginary Audience and a proto-form of the Imaginary Army. Around ages 11–13, identity-building intensifies: self-awareness spikes, social comparison accelerates, the Imaginary Audience becomes dominant (“everyone is watching me”) mirrors, words from others, and reflections become checkpoints. The adolescent begins to build a story: “I am different. My experience is special. My feelings matter more than anyone realizes.” This is the personal fable, the engine that drives early identity.

    But now the split begins. ⁠Internal Shame – hyper-empathy and collapse. For internalizers, the personal fable turns inward. The inner narrative becomes: “Something is wrong with me.” “I must be the problem.” “I have to fix myself.” The Mirror Loop. Internalizers repeatedly check mirrors, windows, screens, reflections: “I don’t look good here… maybe I look better over there.” One reflection breaks them. Another gives temporary relief. They aren’t trying to feel beautiful. They are trying to feel coherent. They’re searching for a version of themselves that holds, constantly seeing themselves through the eyes of others.

    The Comparison Loop. When mirrors fail, comparison begins: “My friend looks good, maybe I’m not that different.” “My father looked good, I resemble him.” “My mother was attractive, I have some of her features.” This is identity borrowing: “I might be acceptable because I resemble someone who was acceptable.” Brief relief. Then collapse. Then repeat. The Collapse. Eventually, the inward personal fable breaks: “This story isn’t real. This isn’t who I am.” And the collapse brings: hyper-empathy, overwhelm, guilt, fragile identity, emotional overload. This is the hyper-empath pathway. The problem is simple: it never stabilizes. When this process does not stabilize during adolescence, it does not resolve spontaneously. Without an explicit understanding of the underlying mechanism, the pattern persists and often intensifies, continuing into adulthood beyond age 18. It never stabilizes because no one explains the mechanism to you. So the adolescent enters a cycle of ups and downs, trying to regulate something they cannot name. When the mechanism remains invisible: the shame stays internal, the self-blame grows, the pressure rises, and the system collapses in waves. In many cases, this leads to coping mechanisms mask behaviour, and addictions, not because the person is weak, but because no one ever told them what was happening inside them. In these families, the outside world becomes the place where the adolescent and family “borrows” identity, yet it is also the place the abuse remains hidden, and the family works hard to keep the outside world out.

    External Shame – projection, control, and non-collapse For externalizers, the personal fable shifts outward: “I am special.” “Others must adapt to me.” “If something is wrong, it’s not me.” Shame is not felt; it is exported. This can show up as: arrogance, dominance, bullying, minimizing others, emotional withdrawal or attack, aggression, belittling, control “I’m right, you’re wrong” logic.

    It does not mean the person is “narcissistic” by diagnosis. But we all see what is happening online: rising buzzwords, viral victim narratives, and yes many of these stories are real but also, it’s a culture that labels every painful interaction as “narcissism.” This is intended for professionals only, to understand which behavioural patterns may correspond to potential future difficulties, not to diagnose or label individuals.” This means the person learned to regulate pressure through external direction.

    Projection: The Silent Confession. Projection is not power. It is a silent confession of internal pain. Or in PAN language: Fractured-ego projection teaches the child one truth: the boomerang was never theirs, they only carried it until they understood it.” Before anything reflects outward, the accusation reveals what the accuser cannot see in themselves. Projection protects the self by firing discomfort outward. And because the person never turns inward, the personal fable never collapses.

    David Elkind (1967) The Imaginary Audience – The Imaginary Army. It doesn’t stop with the Imaginary Audience: “Everyone is watching me.” Under pressure, something shifts: The audience becomes an army. The Imaginary Army: judgment, threat, expectation, symbolic opponents, internalized voices, rehearsed conflict, anticipated attacks. This Army determines whether the adolescent fights the world or fights themselves.

    The same Army, two directions. This is the core PAN insight: Both internalizers and externalizers use the same psychological mechanism, the Imaginary Army. Externalizers – deploy the Army outward. They use it to: intimidate, dominate, control, punish, dismiss, overpower. Their Army says: “Strike first. Stay on top.” Internalizers absorb the Army inward. They experience it as: shame, self-blame, guilt, fear, pressure, collapse. Their Army says: “You are the problem.” One fires the Army outward. The other swallows the Army inward. Both are surviving pressure. Just in opposite directions.

    The PAN Mechanism Behind Both Paths

    Everything can be reduced to one sequence: pressure – no safe exit – shame – hidden behaviour – pattern strengthening. Internal shame leads to hidden behaviour directed inward: mirror loops, comparison loops, rumination, and collapse. External shame leads to hidden behaviour directed outward: projection, control, dominance, and image regulation.

    Both internalizers and externalizers engage in comparison loops. In internalizers, comparison weakens and collapses the ego. In externalizers, the same loop hardens the ego and reinforces the personal fable. The personal fable (“I am special”) exists to buffer insecurity. Under sustained pressure, this buffer fails differently across paths. For internalizers, the personal fable collapses in waves, producing shame-based withdrawal and self-correction. For externalizers, the personal fable does not collapse; it hardens and is defended through outward regulation.

    Externalizers can repeatedly rewrite their personal fable (e.g., future model, professor, exceptional talent), because the audience and the army function as anchoring reference points that allow the narrative to be reset in whatever form restores perceived superiority. They can sometimes verbally express insecurity, mirroring what the Imaginary Audience expects to hear, because this stance is performative rather than felt, shame cannot be integrated and is therefore exported onto others, often privately, through control, coercion, or bullying. This expression is performative rather than experiential: it regulates perception, not inner state.

    This is PAN Theory: the same mechanism, different direction.

    In One Sentence. Every adolescent writes a personal fable. Internalizers turn it inward and eventually break. Externalizers turn it outward and never stop. And when pressure rises, the Imaginary Audience becomes an Imaginary Army launched outward by one, absorbed inward by the other.


  • It often starts with an Internal System. How voices can turn childhood threat Into an endless addiction loop. We know there is almost always an underlying mechanism driving the addiction. Addiction starts long before the first drink, the first hit, or the first bet. It starts with the internal world a child grows up in. Some children grow up with constant tension: arguments, belittling, coldness, sudden changes, shame, unpredictability. Not a war, but a steady background threat. That threat becomes the army: a mental atmosphere that never switches off, a set of internal critical voices and pressures that track the child into adulthood. Before any substance ever enters the picture, the child already learns one survival skill: “How do I quiet this?”

    The wish is simple: relief, calm, a moment without dread. Later in life, that exact same survival instinct meets a substance:
    Alcohol quiets the noise.
    Drugs quiet the noise.
    Food quiets the noise.
    Screens quiet the noise.
    Gambling quiets the noise.

    Not because someone always wants pleasure, but because someone wants silence and reset the internal voices. The substance is not always the enemy. The substance is the mute button. But then comes the second half of the mechanism, the part no one talks about enough: Shame. After using, people think: “I messed up again, I failed again.” And with every attemt to feel better, the person invests further into the addiction. That shame isn’t new. It’s old. It belongs to the same childhood environment that formed those negative voices in the first place. Shame does exactly what threat does: it reactivates introjects and the army. Which creates more tension. More noise. More internal attack. And so the person uses again to quiet it. Addiction often survives in silence because of shame. And there it is, the full loop: internal threat – using and shame – internal threat – using and shame again. The supportive audience fades, while the inner critic, introjects imaginary army grows in the mind. When people expect judgment instead of understanding, they stop asking for help and carry the burden alone.

    Important nuance: Not every addiction follows this route. Some addictions grow out of acute grief, sudden loss, friend groups, group pressure, insecurity during adolescence, physical pain, or traumatic events later in without strong negative strong internal voices formed in childhood. Biology, genetic vulnerability, Although genetic vulnerability appears to play a smaller role. Environmental influences, and environmental stress seem to have a much greater impact.

    PAN doesn’t claim to explain every story of addiction. It names one specific pathway: when chronic childhood threat crystallises into an internal system that later drives the loop. Freud once described this dynamic with id, ego, superego: the id wants relief, the ego tries to cope, the superego criticises and punishes. PAN makes this structure modern, practical, and observable: the child seeks calm, the child tries to navigate daily life, the Imaginary applies pressure, judgment, and threat. Same mechanism. Different clarity.

    When the Army environment becomes too loud, the ego, child collapses. The system reaches for anything that brings immediate silence. The silence brings shame. And shame strengthens the Army again. A person who grew up in an unsafe internal atmosphere will always reach for something that turns the volume down. That’s why PAN fits addiction: If you understand the internal system, you understand the addiction. If you change the internal system early, you can sometimes break the loop before it ever forms.


  • Rotating the hierarchy.

    Carl Jung’s statement “The true leader is always led”

    That means that a genuine leader does not rely purely on ego, dominance, or rigid control. Instead, they remain receptive to a deeper inner authority, collective purpose, or unconscious wisdom rather than just commanding blindly.

    What if we stopped teaching young people that development means climbing upward Walk into a school, institution, company, hospital, or government organization and sooner or later you will encounter the same familiar picture: the organizational chart. At the top: management, directors, experts, decision-makers. Further down: teachers, professionals, support staff, workers. And somewhere at the receiving end: the student, client, patient, resident, or young person. It looks perfectly logical. Someone has to coordinate. Someone has responsibility. Someone has expertise. But there is another question we rarely ask: What does repeatedly seeing the world organized vertically teach a developing child? Not because organizational structures are inherently wrong, but because children do not only learn from what adults explicitly tell them. They also learn from structure. They observe who speaks first. Who gets interrupted. Who makes the rules. Whose knowledge counts. Who receives the largest office. Who is expected to listen. Who has to ask permission. Who evaluates whom. And slowly, an invisible social map can develop:

    Up means important. Down means less important. Development means moving upward. Rotate the Hierarchy. What if schools and institutions occasionally turned that map around? Not permanently. Not chaotically. And certainly not by pretending that a twelve-year-old and a trained surgeon possess the same medical expertise.

    The idea is much more precise: Keep responsibility where responsibility belongs, but rotate perspective, knowledge and temporary authority. A hierarchy can be functional without becoming psychological. A teacher may have authority in a classroom. A mechanic has authority when diagnosing an engine. A carpenter understands materials differently from an accountant. A nurse may notice something at a patient’s bedside that senior management cannot see from a spreadsheet. And a fifteen-year-old may understand the social dynamics of his classroom better than every adult sitting in the staff meeting.

    Expertise moves. Context moves. Perspective moves. Therefore, the hierarchy should sometimes move with it.. The True Leader Is Always Led This may sound like a contradiction. We normally imagine leadership moving in one direction: the leader knows, the leader explains, the leader decides, everyone else follows. But good leadership can move in both directions. A good leader knows when to lead, but also when to follow. A good teacher knows when to teach, but also when to become the student. A good professional knows when to intervene, but also when to step aside.

    Because leadership is not about occupying the highest position all the time. Leadership is creating an environment in which knowledge, feedback and initiative are allowed to move. And this can begin with something incredibly small. The Teacher Who Makes a Mistake Imagine a teacher writing something incorrectly on the board. You can do this indirectly by simply waiting, staring at the whiteboard as if you are trying to figure something out. Eventually, a student may step in: “Wait, you don’t know that?” Without asking for help, you have temporarily shifted the hierarchy and invited the student to become the expert.

    A child can also raises their hand. “Teacher, that’s wrong.” The teacher looks again. “Really? You’re right. I made a mistake.” And instead of immediately restoring the normal hierarchy: “Okay. Then help me. Where did I go wrong?” For a few minutes, something important happens. The teacher is still the teacher. The child is still the student. Responsibility has not changed. But knowledge has changed position. The person normally being taught becomes the person teaching. The person normally correcting becomes the person being corrected. The child experiences: Authority can make mistakes. Authority can listen. Authority can be corrected. Knowing something gives me a voice. Not knowing something does not reduce my value.

    The teacher demonstrates something equally important: Leadership is not proving that you are always right. Leadership is creating a system in which the right information is allowed to reach you. The true leader is always led. “I Don’t Know, Show Me”

    I used something similar when working with young people. Sometimes I simply said: “I don’t know.” Of course, sometimes I did know. But that wasn’t the point. During cooking, for example, instead of automatically becoming the adult who explained every step, I might ask: “How do we do this?” And suddenly the roles changed. “No, you have to cut it like this.” “First you put this in.” “No, wait, not yet.” And I followed their instructions. For a moment, the professional was no longer the instructor.

    The young person was. Nothing important had been surrendered. I still remained responsible for safety and for the situation as a whole. But the direction of knowledge had temporarily reversed. A young person who is normally surrounded by adults explaining, evaluating and correcting suddenly gets another experience:

    I know something. You can learn from me. My knowledge has value. I can guide someone too.

    That is rotating hierarchy in everyday practice. Sometimes the most powerful thing an adult can say is not: “Let me show you.” But: “I don’t know. Show me.” “You Know This, Right?” There is another variation. Years earlier, when I worked as a mechanic, I once had an apprentice working with me.

    There was something technical that needed to be figured out. Instead of immediately explaining it, I said something like: “You know how this works, right?” I don’t know. Especially when working with young people, whether in construction, technical work, education, or anywhere else, sometimes the most powerful thing you can say is: (“I don’t know. Do you understand it? I don’t know yet.” Then leave the silence. didn’t. I thought you knew this. You’re smart, right?” for example. Don’t immediately provide the answer. Give them space to think, explore, and take the initiative themselves. If they genuinely don’t know, you always step in later. It’s an ongoing process). And that was how it started. The question stayed with him, not as an instruction, but as a small challenge. Instead of me giving him the answer, he became curious enough to go looking for it himself.

    He was an apprentice. And of course, I actually knew the answer. But something interesting happened. The question stayed in his head. Why did he ask me? Am I supposed to know this? How does this actually work? Instead of waiting for me to provide the answer, he started helping, thinking, searching.

    In his own time, he looked things up on the internet. He tried to understand the mechanism. He kept working on the problem independently. Eventually he came back to me: “I know it.” That moment mattered. Because I could have given him the answer in thirty seconds. But then the knowledge would still have travelled through the traditional hierarchy: From that moment on, something shifted: sometimes, before I had even reached the next problem, he had already researched it and started working on the repair himself. I would look over and think, “Wait, how did you get there already?” He was no longer simply helping me; he had started thinking ahead, exploring problems in his own time, and taking initiative before I even had to ask. And the funny part is that this is often exactly where creativity appears. The student may approach the problem from a completely different angle, and suddenly, you are learning from them too. They see something you didn’t see, simply because they have a different perspective.

    Expert → apprentice. Instead, something else happened: question → uncertainty → curiosity → independent search → understanding → return. The apprentice did not simply receive knowledge. He constructed his way toward it. And when he returned, the hierarchy had rotated again. Now he was explaining the mechanism.

    I was listening. This introduces another important function of rotating hierarchy: sometimes stepping back creates curiosity. If the expert immediately fills every gap with an answer, the learner can become very good at receiving information. Leave the right gap, however, and the learner may start searching for the answer independently.

    The Classroom as a Laboratory. Now take these small interactions and make the underlying principle visible. Imagine a teacher drawing the traditional school hierarchy on the board: Principal. Management. Teachers. Support staff. Students.

    Now rotate it. Put the students at the top.

    Then ask: “If the school existed primarily to help you develop, what information should travel upward from you?” Suddenly the organizational chart becomes something else. It becomes a feedback system. Students could map: Where does pressure accumulate? Where does information stop moving? Who knows whether a classroom actually feels safe? Which rules help learning, and which rules merely produce compliance? What problems are visible to students but invisible to management? The teacher has not lost authority. The students have gained system awareness. That distinction matters.

    Let the Child Become the Expert. A second exercise could be even simpler. Once in a while, rotate expertise. One student understands computers. Another repairs bicycles. Another knows everything about animals. Someone cooks with their grandmother. Someone understands social media better than every adult in the building. Someone knows exactly how exclusion happens in the playground. For twenty minutes, the normal hierarchy changes. The teacher becomes the learner. The student becomes the instructor. This teaches something that cannot easily be taught through a textbook:

    Authority is contextual. You can know more than me here. I can know more than you there. Neither fact determines our human value. That is a remarkably important lesson to learn before adulthood.

    But First: Understand the Group Dynamic. There is an important condition to all of this: you have to understand the group dynamic. Not every young person wants to become the temporary expert in front of twenty other students. Some children will immediately raise their hands. Others may know exactly what the answer is and still remain completely silent. Not because they have nothing to contribute. They may be reading the room. Who is listening? Who might laugh? Who usually dominates the group? What happens if I make a mistake? Will someone use this against me later? Is it actually safe for me to speak? That is why rotating hierarchy should never become another compulsory classroom exercise.

    Sometimes it works beautifully in a group. Sometimes it works much better one-to-one. A teacher might notice that a quiet student understands something particularly well and approach them privately: “I think you understand this. Can you show me?” Now the hierarchy can rotate without the pressure of an audience. Before asking someone to lead, therefore, we need to understand the social architecture around that person. Who feels safe with whom? Who speaks freely? Who becomes quiet when particular people enter the room? Who knows a great deal but rarely shows it publicly?

    Who needs encouragement? And who needs less attention rather than more? This makes rotating hierarchy more than simply swapping roles. It requires reading the system first. Because equality does not mean treating every person identically. One young person may grow when you say: “Come to the front and show us.” Another may grow when you quietly sit beside them and say:

    “You know this, don’t you? Show me.” Same principle. Different social conditions. Rotate the hierarchy, but read the room before you rotate it.

    Institutions Could Do Exactly the Same Thing

    Now imagine a youth-care institution. The organizational chart normally moves downward: Director → manager → behavioural specialist → team leader → staff → young person. But once a month, rotate it. Start with the young person.

    Ask: “What does the institution look like from your position?” Then physically map the system on a wall: Young person → daily environment → staff → team → specialists → management → policy. Now trace information upward. A young person becomes angry every evening. What happens next? Does the information reaching management become: “aggressive behaviour”? Or does the system preserve the entire sequence?What happened beforehand? Who was present? What rule was introduced? Was there embarrassment? Conflict? Social pressure? Loss of autonomy? Fear? A misunderstanding? What happened five minutes before the behaviour? What happened five hours before it? What happened repeatedly during the previous month? Rotating the hierarchy changes the starting point of analysis. Instead of asking: “How do we make this person function within our system?” During my graduation internship, I tested this with a young person who could be highly aggressive. I told him, “Today, I know nothing. You teach me.” He started explaining cooking, cleaning, and other practical tasks while I deliberately took the position of the learner. The dynamic changed, and he became noticeably calmer. I initially wanted to make this the subject of my thesis, but eventually chose a different topic.

    The institution can also ask: “What does our system look like from the position of this person?” That is not anti-authority. It is better systems engineering. The Same Problem Appears in Work. We reproduce the vertical model later in life. You should move up. Get promoted. Become manager. Become director. Acquire status. Build a personal brand. Become visible. Become somebody.

    But somebody still has to build the house. Somebody has to repair the heating system. Somebody has to diagnose the engine. Somebody has to install the electrical system. Somebody has to grow food. Somebody has to teach the apprentice how the work is actually done. A highly skilled tradesperson can create enormous economic and social value without ever wanting to become a manager. Yet our cultural language often describes advancement vertically: Also, when you’re young, you simply don’t know yet. We often underestimate the opportunities in skilled trades and technical professions. After five, six, or eight years of experience, someone may start their own business, develop a new product, or discover a completely different direction. And look at what highly skilled tradespeople can earn today, it can be surprisingly good. As a child, you have no idea. You may think working with your hands means limited opportunities or income, while the opposite can be true. Technical and skilled work can offer enormous room for creativity, entrepreneurship, innovation. These professions are often underestimated, yet they can offer excellent earning potential and even opportunities to build a successful business of your own.

    higher education. higher position. higher management. higher status. higher income. Perhaps development does not always have to mean higher. It can also mean: deeper expertise. greater autonomy. better craftsmanship. greater responsibility. stronger cooperation. more creativity. That changes the geometry of development.

    From Hierarchy to Network. Traditional hierarchy asks: Who stands above whom? A rotating hierarchy asks: Who has the relevant knowledge here? That produces a different model of authority. Authority does not disappear. It becomes functional, temporary and accountable to context. The surgeon leads during surgery. The pilot leads in the cockpit. The teacher carries responsibility for the classroom. The mechanic leads the diagnosis underneath the bonnet. The child becomes the primary source when adults want to understand what the child’s daily environment actually feels like.

    Leadership becomes something that can move through a network depending on the problem being solved. This is closer to how complex systems actually work.

    From Instruction to Curiosity. The small examples from earlier now reveal several different mechanisms. The teacher creates space for correction: “You’re right. I made a mistake.” The professional creates space for temporary leadership: “I don’t know. Show me.” The mechanic creates space for independent discovery: “You know this, right?” And understanding the group creates the conditions in which that rotation can happen safely:

    “Where and with whom can this person actually take the lead?” The adult does not abandon responsibility. Instead, the adult temporarily stops occupying all available space for knowledge. That empty space matters. Because if adults immediately answer every question, solve every problem and demonstrate every skill, young people can become very good at following expertise. But leave the right gap at the right moment and something else can emerge:

    Curiosity. Initiative. Problem-solving. Competence. Confidence. Ownership. Sometimes leadership means showing someone the answer. Sometimes leadership means knowing the answer, and leaving just enough space for someone else to discover it. And It Can Start at School Children could learn this before they ever enter the labour market. Rotate the classroom. Rotate expertise. Rotate who explains. Rotate who asks the questions. Let students occasionally evaluate the learning environment instead of only being evaluated by it. Let them map how decisions travel through the school. Let a caretaker explain the building. Let a carpenter teach measurement. Let an entrepreneur explain risk. Let a nurse explain responsibility. Let a student explain the social architecture of the playground. Sometimes do it in the group. Sometimes do it one-to-one. Read the room. Keep responsibility. Rotate perspective. Then return everyone to their normal roles. The purpose is not to create a world without structure. The purpose is to prevent structure from becoming identity. Because perhaps one of the most useful developmental lessons we can give a child is remarkably simple:

    You do not have to climb above other people to develop yourself. Sometimes you lead. Sometimes you follow. Sometimes you teach. Sometimes you learn. Sometimes you know. Sometimes you say: “I don’t know.” And sometimes the person at the bottom of the organizational chart possesses the information everyone at the top desperately needs. The goal is not to destroy the hierarchy. The goal is to rotate it. Keep responsibility. Rotate expertise. Create curiosity. Read the room. Return the floor.

    And perhaps, if we teach that early enough, children will grow up seeing society less as a ladder to climb,

    and more as a system in which everyone has a position from which something valuable can be seen.

    The true leader is always led.


  • He notices something strange.

    Several adolescents have not left their bedrooms for weeks, months, or even years. They are described as being extremely sensitive to light, sound, touch, or warm water. Showering is almost impossible. Daily routines become increasingly difficult.

    The explanation is often straightforward: autism, ADHD, etc… sensory overload, their need for structure.

    So Freud starts asking questions.

    Privacy matters, but some adolescents no longer want to leave their rooms at all. He notices that staff members enter rooms only at fixed times. Knocking is required before opening the door. Sometimes young people appear shocked when the door opens unexpectedly.

    The young people largely decide when contact is allowed. If someone approaches differently, frustration can quickly follow.

    Everyone carefully follows the protocol.

    But Freud notices something else.

    When he looks beyond the immediate behaviour and into the developmental histories of these adolescents, another pattern begins to emerge.

    Many come from families marked by parental separation, alcohol problems, chronic conflict, psychological aggression, physical violence, or prolonged instability behind closed doors.

    And in several cases, there are complicated conflicts with their own mothers, sometimes appearing in remarkably indirect or unusual ways.

    Freud becomes curious.

    What happens to a developing nervous system when unpredictability, conflict, fear, shame, or emotional instability repeatedly occurs inside the very environment that is supposed to provide safety?

    And what happens when, years later, we examine only the adolescent’s current behaviour without reconstructing that developmental environment?

    Then Freud asks an uncomfortable question:

    “What exactly happens behind those closed bedroom doors all day?”

    These are young people. In ordinary situations, we joke about embarrassing adolescent moments and eventually laugh about them. Here, however, the subject seems almost untouchable.

    Gaming is an obvious answer. YouTube. Streaming, Social media. Endless scrolling.

    But are we really suggesting that every teenager spends twelve or sixteen hours a day doing only that?

    One day, a staff member unexpectedly opens a bedroom door because a young person still has not showered. He had already been living almost entirely in that bedroom for two years.

    The adolescent is startled, embarrassed, and angry.

    Freud raises another question.

    Could normal adolescent sexuality, shame, privacy, online pornography, compulsive internet use, or loneliness also play a role in some cases?

    Not necessarily as the explanation, but as one factor among many.

    Oddly enough, this subject is almost never discussed.

    Instead, we may find ourselves accepting that a young person remains inside a bedroom for months or even years, with very little ordinary daylight, movement, social interaction, or participation in everyday life.

    Conversations remain focused on sensory processing, routines, behavioural plans, and diagnostic labels.

    In one case, a conflict followed. The young person became furious and filed a complaint.

    The feedback from colleagues was clear:

    “Some young people simply want to stay in their rooms. You have to accept that.”

    Fair enough.

    But something unexpected happened.

    A few days later, the same young person came downstairs voluntarily.

    He apologized.

    From that moment on, he gradually started joining the group again. When Freud saw him walking down the stairs, Freud joked, “Hey, can daylight even handle you? Good to see you.” Something shifted. He started showering more, came downstairs with wet hair and gel in it, and gradually began socializing with the group again.

    Could the uncomfortable conflict have made the young person feel seen?

    Was it because of one conversation?

    Nobody can know for certain.

    Human behaviour is rarely that simple.

    But perhaps this illustrates something important: sometimes respectful confrontation, clear boundaries, curiosity, and genuine human contact can interrupt a pattern that endless accommodation cannot.

    And perhaps the bedroom itself should not automatically be interpreted as evidence of a disorder.

    It may also be a place of retreat, control, privacy, shame, protection, avoidance, autonomy, or several of these mechanisms operating at the same time.

    Freud would probably leave the building with one final question:

    “Are we still curious enough to ask the uncomfortable questions, or have protocols become more important than understanding the whole human being?”


  • Autonomy slips away when too many hands pull in different directions

    The First Signals It began innocently. A girl with panic attacks. Her parents had brought her in. She was still in school and wanted to finish it. But at the care facility she was immediately given new learning goals: cleaning her room, cooking, washing, hobbies, activities. The municipality demanded progress. The learning goals had to remain measurable. She carried two burdens at once: school and treatment. At home, everything was falling apart, parents in conflict, a brother, a sister,
    and a child who didn’t feel seen.

    The panic attacks came quickly. Several times a day. The assigned caregiver got calls from the parents: “You’re not responding fast enough! It took ten minutes before anyone came!” And that’s where it began.

    The Panic of the System
    The panic of the system became greater than the panic of the girl herself. Every attack became an emergency. Every emergency another meeting. It all depended on which caregiver she got. One could calm her down in five minutes, the other kept talking for forty-five minutes. She cried, she screamed, and a moment later, she laughed again. The assistant caregiver, a man in his sixties, full of common sense and allergic to nonsense, was the first to understand. After ten minutes, he simply started acting silly. A little dance. A few funny faces. Or he’d say, “Come on, let’s take a short drive in my car.” And sure enough, she wanted to. Within ten minutes, the panic attack was over.

    Later he said, “I don’t think this is panic. I think it’s just attention, the child was never seen” But he wasn’t allowed to say that. Not his role. Not professional. He didn’t have a degree. So officially, he wasn’t competent. Meanwhile, the panic above him kept growing. The parents wrote emails. The main caregiver ran from meeting to meeting. The girl sat in the middle of the storm and thrived on all the attention. Many months had passed. By now, panic had become procedural. A specialist had even come by with a PowerPoint presentation on panic attacks. We all sat there with our notepads. The assistant caregiver, the same man, sat with his arms folded. He’d had enough months ago.

    One of the boys in the group said,
    “That twenty-year-old intern is allowed to help her, but he’s not?” He kept pointing it out. Meeting after meeting. But no one listened. There was too much panic, too many meetings, too many words. The core stayed outside the room. The specialist explained everything: what panic attacks were, how they started, what we had to do. PowerPoints, definitions, step-by-step plans. We knew exactly what panic was, on paper. And still, nothing changed.

    Then came the fatigue.
    Slowly, quietly. After many months, the whole team was drained. The main caregiver held on a little longer, but the rest began saying it out loud: “I think it’s just attention.” The main caregiver had been so determined to meet the learning goals that she eventually had to quit school herself. She couldn’t take it anymore. Because now the girl didn’t just have school goals, she had treatment goals too. Double the load. Double Steering and then, slowly, the panic attacks disappeared. As quietly as they had arrived. The parents sent one last email to the team manager:
    “The staff isn’t responding adequately.”

    The team manager panicked. Complaints. More meetings. More pressure. The assistant caregiver shrugged. He said, “Guys, I’ve seen enough. I’m done.” Many months of panic. A team in crisis. A specialist, a protocol, a PowerPoint. And in the end, it turned out: the panic attacks had never been real. It was a cry for attention, a human being who simply wanted to be seen.

    The Lesson of Panic:
    everyone got exactly what they didn’t need.

    The girl got panic.
    The parents got control.
    The staff got exhaustion.
    And the system got yet another protocol.

    No one got rest. No one got understanding. Only another document in the file. In the end, the girl was the only one without a disorder. The rest developed one, a collective anxiety disorder, officially confirmed by protocol. And so, it stayed quiet. No more panic, but no growth either. Only fatigue in human form. And no one truly looks at the history of the family, at what really happened. It isn’t discussed, acknowledged, or felt. Slowly, you become system-blind. What you see every day eventually starts to feel normal. And what you live among infects you little by little.

    As Maslach and Leiter (2016) describe,
    such organizations emerge when emotional strain,
    lack of autonomy, and constant control begin to feed each other. Where exactly is the clinical logic in taking an overstimulated adolescent with, for example ADHD, autism (ASD) diagnosis and dropping them directly into a hyper-reactive institutional warehouse alongside 25+ severely traumatized, dysregulated youth? How would a child feel if their parents abandoned them? Maybe we can simply ask ourself a few questions before the child gets a new “fear disorder” in her file?

    •⁠ ⁠Why does this appear to be such a fear-based institution?
    •⁠ ⁠Why is the manager afraid to say, “This is how we work, and this is why?”
    •⁠ ⁠Why is a complaint or a negative review from parents perceived as such a major threat?
    •⁠ ⁠Is the organization driven more by fear than by reflection and learning?
    •⁠ ⁠Why is the main caregiver afraid? Is it workload, accountability, organizational pressure, or something else?
    •⁠ ⁠Are care workers expected to meet targets set by the municipality, or are they primarily expected to meet the needs of the child?
    •⁠ ⁠Why does the child panic at the thought of being separated from their parents?
    •⁠ ⁠Could attachment dynamics, uncertainty, or a lack of information contribute to panic attacks?
    •⁠ ⁠Is there a hierarchical problem within the organization?
    •⁠ ⁠Why does the assistant caregiver decide to leave? Were their concerns genuinely heard?
    •⁠ ⁠Are the young people who witness these dynamics actually being listened to?
    •⁠ ⁠Why does the rest of the team follow the main caregiver?
    •⁠ ⁠Does the main caregiver hold more formal or informal influence than the others?
    •⁠ ⁠Is authority outweighing critical thinking?

    And what about the parents?

    •⁠ ⁠Why do they keep talking about each other in the third person during conversations?
    •⁠ ⁠Why is the focus always on what the other did wrong?
    •⁠ ⁠What kind of relational dynamics unfolded behind closed doors before the care system became involved?
    •⁠ ⁠How many unresolved conflicts, arguments, fears, and misunderstandings came before this situation?
    •⁠ ⁠How much of the current conflict is rooted in the past rather than the present?
    •⁠ ⁠Are we only examining today’s behavior, or are we also asking what happened before?
    •⁠ ⁠And finally, are these individual failures, or are they symptoms of a system under pressure?


  • A friend of mine was diagnosed with ADHD when he was younger. Years later, after some conversations and a great deal of reflection of his own, he began asking a different question: What if some of the behavior that was labelled ADHD also had a history?

    He grew up as a butcher’s son. His father could be physically aggressive and occasionally hit him. Interestingly, he says those moments became almost predictable. He could feel them coming and learned how to handle them.

    But something else appears to have affected him more deeply.

    His parents were almost always working, and he remembers his mother as someone for whom work consistently came first. From his perspective, there was always something that needed to be done before there was time for him, leaving him with the feeling that he repeatedly came second. Looking back, he believes this absence affected him more than the aggression he could actually anticipate. He also had an older sister who, in his childhood perception, seemed to receive more attention from their mother. Whether that perception reflected the full family reality is impossible to establish retrospectively, but for the child experiencing it, the feeling of repeatedly coming second may itself have mattered.

    During his adolescence, there were periods in which he used alcohol and different drugs, particularly during times of severe stress. Later, he became known for being extremely reactive. In the village, people sometimes regarded him as the dangerous guy you did not want to provoke. A wrong remark or feeling attacked could trigger enormous anger. He could also be restless, impulsive and easily irritated. He eventually came to the conclusion that substances did not solve what was happening underneath and has since stopped using them altogether. Under extreme stress, he develops physical symptoms, including skin reactions he describes as allergy-like. But another pattern became especially interesting to him: cleaning and organizing.

    Again, this raises a developmental question rather than providing an easy explanation: what function did the substance use have at the time? Was it sensation-seeking, social behavior, escape, emotional regulation, an attempt to reduce internal tension, or some combination of these?

    When his mind becomes chaotic, suddenly his surroundings need to become orderly. Everything must be cleaned. Everything needs to be in its proper place. Looking back, he wonders whether controlling his physical environment became a way of creating the predictability and control he had missed earlier in life.

    And then something changed. He became aware of the pattern. Now he can sometimes catch himself: Here we go again. My head is overloaded and suddenly everything around me needs to be perfect. Instead of automatically cleaning everything or becoming increasingly irritated, he can interrupt it.

    He goes fishing. Several hours later he returns calmer. The same mess is still there, but it no longer carries the same urgency. He cleans gradually and continues with his day. That raises an interesting psychodynamic question as well: What happens when something that was previously acted out automatically becomes consciously observable?

    Freud’s work invites precisely this kind of question: could apparently irrational or repetitive behavior sometimes have a psychological history or function that is not immediately available to conscious awareness? Modern developmental and stress perspectives give us additional ways to investigate that question without assuming one explanation in advance.

    And then there is his daughter. This is perhaps the most fascinating contrast in the entire story. The man once known for explosive anger can show seemingly endless patience with her. He can be remarkably gentle, tolerant and emotionally available. Until he believes she has been seriously wronged. Then the old anger can suddenly return with extraordinary intensity.

    That contrast raises another question: if aggression were simply a fixed characteristic of the person, why would it vary so dramatically according to relationship, meaning and context? Perhaps the important question is not merely “Is he aggressive?” but:

    What activates the aggression, what inhibits it, and what is he protecting when it appears? None of this proves that his original ADHD diagnosis was incorrect. ADHD and developmental adversity can coexist, and retrospective reflection cannot settle a diagnosis.

    But it does suggest that before explaining restlessness, impulsivity, irritability and emotional reactivity through ADHD alone, we should ask:

    •⁠ ⁠When did these behaviors begin?

    •⁠ ⁠Were they consistently present across childhood and across different settings?

    •⁠ ⁠What happened inside his family?

    •⁠ ⁠What did anticipating physical aggression teach him about threat?

    •⁠ ⁠What happened when he repeatedly sought emotional connection from his mother?

    •⁠ ⁠Why does perceived attack activate such intense anger?

    •⁠ ⁠Why can that same man display extraordinary patience with his daughter?

    •⁠ ⁠Why does perceived injustice toward her reactivate his aggression?

    •⁠ ⁠What function does controlling and organizing his surroundings serve?

    •⁠ ⁠Why does the urge decrease when he recognizes his internal state and goes fishing?

    •⁠ ⁠Which behaviors remain when he feels safe and regulated?

    •⁠ ⁠What changes when the environment changes?

    •⁠ ⁠Could some behavior represent an old adaptation that continues after the original environment has disappeared?

    •⁠ ⁠And only then: what is best explained by ADHD, what might be related to developmental experience, and could both be present?

    Perhaps the central lesson is remarkably simple:

    The behavior is observable. The mechanism still has to be investigated.

    And perhaps there is one more question Freud would have appreciated:

    When we become conscious of a pattern that once operated outside our awareness, do we gain the possibility of choosing something different?

  • Or the boy that nobody truly tried to understand? Sometimes I wonder whether we spent more time managing behaviour than understanding where it came from.” It was my first internship as a social worker. The file was already waiting for me. Diagnosis: Autism. The parents had brought in their fifteen- or sixteen-year-old son. School refusal. Severe bullying. Conflicts at home nobody knew or talked about. His rabbit was his only real friend. Nobody seemed surprised by that. I was. Because one question immediately came to mind: What does it mean when a fifteen-year-old boy trusts a rabbit more than people?

    The solution seemed obvious. Place him in a residential youth care facility with more than twenty-five adolescents. Many had problems with light or sound, so did the boy. Behavioural goals. Weekly evaluations. Municipality reports. Protocols. Interventions. Everything was carefully organised. Except his story. Every morning the same routine. “Good morning! It’s a beautiful day!” The first week he replied politely. The second week less enthusiastically. After a few weeks… Nothing. One morning the staff member repeated it again. “Good morning! It’s a beautiful day!” He looked at me. Quietly. Then he said, “This isn’t real, is it?” He walked away. That sentence has stayed with me ever since. Every now and then there were multidisciplinary meetings. His parents. The psychiatrist. The personal mentor. Care workers. By then I was usually asked to join as well. Not because I was experienced. I was only a second-year intern. Over time, he gradually withdrew into his bedroom, preferring to spend more and more time alone with his rabbit. It seemed to become the only place, and the only relationship, where he still experienced a sense of safety. In those residential homes, every week revolves around evaluation: room inspections, cooking, cleaning the shared living space, and constant feedback on whether you did it “right.” The boy was described as “unmotivated,” yet there were ongoing conflicts in almost every group about these household tasks.

    I was often asked to coordinate these groups because staff had run out of ideas. Instead of supervising from a distance, I simply started cleaning myself, and so did the young people. The same happened with the boy. Working together, he was perfectly capable of completing the tasks. The same applied to many other activities, cooking, repairing a bicycle, fixing a flat tyre. The boy was capable of far more than people seemed to realize. I learned that the foundation is set by example. When you roll up your sleeves first, the group usually follows. After a while, I no longer had to initiate it. Young people would come to me and say, “Don’t worry, I’ve already taken care of it.” Leadership begins with modelling the behaviour you want to see.

    But afterwards, another staff member would often take him aside to point out what he had supposedly done wrong, even though we had just cleaned it together. I often wondered whether the constant monitoring was creating more resistance than responsibility. How many of us, at the age of fifteen or sixteen, were genuinely motivated to keep everything perfectly clean? And isn’t it true that everyone has a different standard of what “clean enough” means?

    In the meantime he had stopped talking to almost everyone else. Without me sitting beside him, he often wouldn’t speak at all. His parents kept asking, “Why doesn’t he like it here?” The meetings almost always focused on one thing. His behaviour. He stayed in his room. He refused conversations. He became angry when the staf knocked on his door. He didn’t cooperate. He displayed aggression. His aggression wasn’t acceptable. Week after week… The discussion was about what was wrong with him. Almost nobody asked what had happened before he ever entered the institution. Meanwhile, daily life followed the protocol. Staff knocked on his bedroom door at fixed times because the schedule required it. Eventually he stopped opening the door. One day someone entered anyway. He became angry and slammed the door shut.

    The report? Aggressive, unacceptable behaviour. I remember thinking: “Or maybe someone had just entered the only place where he still felt safe.” I didn’t have a treatment plan. I didn’t have a special technique. So I did something very simple. I stopped following the timetable. Sometimes I knocked in the afternoon. Sometimes in the evening. “Hey… how are you?” He would come out, we played basketbal for example, he talked. No behavioural goals. Soon he would only talk to me and my colleague who did the same, who felt the same way. We both tried to change the culture, but it was nearly impossible because of rigid protocols, bureaucracy, and the way professionals are trained during their education. Other colleagues asked, “How do you do that?” Honestly? I tried to explain, but I think trust is build in the beginning. Once a young person sees you as a threat, it becomes very difficult to rebuild trust and turn the relationship around. Something still didn’t add up. During team meetings I repeatedly heard, “He’s not very intelligent.” Really? So I started making phone calls. Schools. Teachers. Certificates. Educational records. To my surprise, he had started at a higher educational level than I had. How had we concluded that this boy wasn’t intelligent? I reached univercity eventualy., didn’t finish the school because I was done spending endless years proving myself without earning money, So why they thought he wasn’t intelligent? The story simply didn’t fit. Nobody knew why he was the way he was.

    Then another story slowly emerged. Years of severe bullying. Humiliation. An older brother who constantly bullied and intimidated him whenever the parents weren’t around. Parents who repeatedly sided with the brother. He was called stupid. Worthless. Eventually he didn’t even want to go home during weekends anymore. Now another question entered my mind. What exactly were we treating? Every week, his main caregiver sat down with him with the same notebook and newspaper job advertisements.

    “Wouldn’t this be a nice job for you?”

    He rarely responded. Most of the time, he simply stared out of the window. Week after week, the same conversation. Eventually, he stopped attending the meetings altogether. At one point, a colleague and I stopped talking about behavioural goals. Instead, we talked about ourselves. How we had chosen our own education. What kind of work we enjoyed. No pressure. Just a normal conversation. Slowly he began talking about what interested him. Eventually we found a vocational programme that suited him.

    But there was one problem. He didn’t want to enrol. At first I didn’t understand why. Then it suddenly clicked. This wasn’t about motivation. This was about safety. He had been bullied for years. Walking into another unfamiliar school probably felt like walking back into the same nightmare. So I suggested something different. “Let’s not enrol today. Let’s just go and have a look.” We drove there together. He quietly walked around the building. Looked at the entrance. The classrooms. The corridors. He was scanning the environment. Orientating himself. Trying to answer one question: “Is this place safe?” Only after he had explored the school did his body seem to relax.

    Only then did he say, “I think I could study here.” And only then did we enrol him. Years later I still think about that rabbit. People saw an autistic boy carrying a rabbit. I saw a teenager whose safest attachment seemed to be an animal. A rabbit doesn’t judge. A rabbit doesn’t bully. A rabbit doesn’t humiliate. A rabbit doesn’t choose your brother over you. Sometimes an animal becomes the safest relationship a child has left. That deserves our attention before we immediately reduce the story to behaviour.

    Questions I still ask myself Before discussing behaviour…Before discussing diagnoses… Before writing another intervention plan… Shouldn’t we first ask:

    What happened inside this family? Why did his mother consistently speak in the third person about what others were doing wrong, while his father remained almost completely silent during the meetings? What might those interaction patterns reveal about the family’s relational dynamics? ⁠Why was a rabbit his only trusted companion? Why did he trust one person but not the system? ⁠Why did he need to inspect an entire school before he felt safe enough to enrol? Were we witnessing autism alone…

    •⁠ ⁠Intra-Familial Perimeter: Boundary Calibration?: What long-term relational dynamics within the early family environment prevented the nervous system from developing a stable internal sense of safety and object constancy? Why did he exclusively establish eye contact, share smiles, and engage in humor with an un-scheduled intern with zero agenda, while completely looking away and disconnecting from the senior professionals who approached him with standardized, textbook protocols learned from manuals on “How to Speak to Autistic Clients”?
    •⁠ ⁠The Non-Human Safety Connection: Why did a non-judgmental bond with a rabbit become the only reliable attachment relationship capable of providing a sense of emotional safety?
    •⁠ ⁠Reality Testing Through Environmental Scanning: Why did he first need to physically inspect the school environment before his nervous system felt safe enough to consider enrolling?
    •⁠ ⁠The Etiology of the Nervous System Lockdown: Was this primarily the result of a congenital neurodevelopmental condition, or could it also reflect the physiological adaptation of a nervous system shaped by years of chronic fear, bullying, and relational trauma?
    •⁠ ⁠The Institutional Amplification Question: To what extent can institutional routines, standardized interventions, and highly structured environments unintentionally reinforce defensive survival responses in already traumatized adolescents?
    •⁠ ⁠…or were we also witnessing years of chronic fear, humiliation and survival?

    Why was this young man expected to meet two parallel sets of learning goals at the same time, one imposed by school and another by the residential institution to satisfy municipal care requirements? At the same time, he was living in a house with more than twenty-five adolescents, surrounded by constant noise, tension, and sensory overload. How could anyone reasonably expect that combination to promote recovery?

    By then I had already left the organisation. Later, a former colleague told me he had dropped out of school once again. Eventually, he was transferred to another residential facility. During the final meetings, his mother primarily blamed the institution for what had gone wrong. Looking back, I couldn’t help but wonder whether the system had simply placed more and more pressure on a young person who had already reached his limit.

    The biggest lesson I learned during that internship wasn’t about autism. It was this: Behaviour is often the final chapter of a much bigger story.


    PBC & PAN Theory — Pressure System Psychology

    A Developmental Framework for Investigating How Behaviour and Psychological Difficulties Emerge Through the Interaction Between the Individual, Development, and Environment

    I ended up in a garage, Not because I was dangerous, but because the violence around me had nowhere else to go. living in it for more than fifteen years, believing it was normal.

    They tested me when I was a child.
    The results said I was slow, below average.
    But the truth was simpler: I wasn’t safe enough to think. 

    Years later, I proved what so many children could prove if given safety. I reached the highest level of education anyway, like many others. After a long road through classrooms. From working as a mechanic, to standing in front of classrooms, running a business I entered the care sector, and everywhere, I saw the same silent pattern:
    children labelled as problems, when they were only products of unsafe systems.

    Three psychiatrists were once involved with the family.
    Several social workers came and went.
    No one ever saw how severe it really was.
    Looking back, it could have been so simple.
    Everything was visible, if only someone had asked one question deeper, looked one second longer.

    Years later, I realised this wasn’t an isolated failure. It was systemic. The GP doesn’t see it. The social worker sees symptoms, not origins. They do not have any tools to work with. The psychiatrist arrives too late, with labels that describe behaviour. Its labels, not causes. By the time the system reacts, many children are already gone. Some end up on the streets, in addiction, or in silence forever. Others carry labels instead of understanding.

    That’s when I started asking myself: how could all of them miss what was so obvious from the inside?

    Then I met a boy. He had lived through what I once tried to forget: child maltreatment. According to the World Health Organization (WHO), child maltreatment remains one of the most significant global threats to children’s health and development. Yet the long-term relational and psychological consequences are often overlooked. One day he asked me: “Would you ever write a book about this?”

    I told him no. I had left it behind.
    But his question stayed. It forced open the silence.

    Slowly, fragments returned, metaphors I once imagined, patterns I’d seen but never named.
    Pawns. Compasses. Boomerangs. They weren’t just ideas anymore; they were a language. The language I had needed as a child, and the one he needed now.

    The PAN Boomerang Projection Feedback Cycle: What you reject, you repeat. What you repeat, you understand. What you understand, you transform. The Boomerang Projection Feedback Cycle and Imaginary Army concepts build on foundational work in developmental and clinical psychology, including Urie Bronfenbrenner’s ecological understanding of human development within nested environmental systems. It further connects with Karl Friston’s work on the brain as a continuously adapting system, constantly responding to uncertainty, prediction, and changing environmental demands. Classical psychoanalytic and developmental foundations, such as Sigmund Freud’s early structural concepts and Jean Piaget’s cognitive-developmental theory (Piaget, 1952), alongside Karpman’s Drama Triangle (Karpman, 1968) and Elkind’s Imaginary Audience (Elkind, 1967). PAN reframes them through a preventive, child-centred lens. PAN advances this lineage by making the underlying mechanics structural and measurable: shame cycles, internalised threat, anticipatory fear, role pressure and repeated behavioural loops. This allows practitioners to recognise ”manipulation” patterns, silence structures, role assignment and inherited trauma before these dynamics crystallise offering, for the first time, a framework that connects the child’s outer environment to the internal processes that drive long-term outcomes. PAN describes where the pressure comes from by mapping the external environment, social context, and systemic pressures. PBC describes what you do with that pressure by mapping your internal responses, coping strategies, defensive mechanisms, and behavioral patterns.

    • How it started

    PBC-PAN is not a static model. It is a continuous process: input → process → output → reflection → new input. As a child, adolescent, and adult, you keep learning, adapting, and navigating. PAN carries a double meaning. Each letter stands for both the external system and the internal world of the child. P – Pawn and Prevention. P stands for Pawn: the smallest, most vulnerable unit in the family system. P also stands for Prevention: every effective intervention starts at the child. A – Abuse (bullying, neglict, psychological, physical, emotional, social exclusion) and Audience-Army shift safety. Many times unnoticed, emerging from external pressure, roles, pressure and harmful dynamics around the child. The army operates as an internalised crowd of voices, shame and anticipated judgment. Attachment Style: the early loops of safety, fear, splitting and borrowed identity that shape how the child navigates the system. Network and Navigation: the system around the child, and the internal network they build within themselves. Two Networks: Outer and Inner. A child lives in two networks at the same time. The outer Network. The abusive or unstable environment: roles, alliances, silence, pressure, triangulation and repeated patterns. The Inner Network. The Imaginary Army: internalised voices, fear, shame and evaluation that stay with the child even when no one is speaking. These two layers reinforce each other. Every external boomerang becomes an internal voice. Every internal voice prepares the child for the next external boomerang. Children do not simply react, they adapt structurally.

    PAN-Theory identifies three ways a child can be positioned in the system: Direct Pawns. Actively pulled into adult conflicts and emotional load. Indirect Pawns
    Not targeted directly, but shaped by tension, instability and silent pressure. Imaginized Pawns. The moment the entire outer system has moved inside. The child, adelescent carries the Imaginary Army internally. This mapping connects the external family system to the child’s internal logic. The Boomerang: The Measurable Loop. The Boomerang Theory makes feedback cycles visible, trackable and predictable. A boomerang consists of:
    the throw – projection, blame, emotional pressure
    the flight – escalation and distortion
    the return – the reaction that comes back
    the count – the frequency of the loops

    Boomerangs create shame loops and pattern loops. They show structure, not opinion. That makes prevention possible. The Child Compass is the way out and gives (Direction, Awareness, Boundaries, Autonomy, Choice): Moving away from external control requires rebuilding internal compass points. The Compass is the exit from the system. It gives children: direction, choice, autonomy, emotional distance, orientation. The Compass gives both children and professionals a shared language. PAN connects the full trajectory: the position of the child (Pawn, Prevention) the pattern (Boomerang loops) the internalisation (Imaginary Army) the exit strategy (Child Compass) It transforms invisible dynamics into visible, measurable structures. And it finally provides children and professionals with the tools to detect abuse long before escalation. A child/ adolescent stands between two networks: the world around them, and the army inside them. PAN makes both visible.

    These theories give language to what children cannot yet explain. They turn confusion into clarity.
    They help a child say: “I’m not the problem here.”

    That’s how the PAN-Theory began, not as an academic pursuit, but as a survival map written backwards.

    What is often called the abuse cycle is, in “some cases”, an inverted peekaboo rhythm. The core problem is not the cycle itself, but the absence of a stable self and the lack of a preventive framework capable of interrupting it. Prevention begins with language: what is not resolved at the source is passed on to the next generation.

    The so-called abuse cycle: love bombing, devaluation, discard, return (or honeymoon, tension building, explosion, reconciliation. Repeat.) is not a mystery; It is an inverted child peek-a-boo rhythm. This inversion of the peek-a-boo rhythm may disrupt early affective synchrony, potentially influencing later empathic development. It’s not: you disappear and return. But: out of abandonment fear. I disappear and return to check if I still exist. Now you carry the fear. From that superego-driven, parentified position, the drama triangle as described by Stephen Karpman (rescuer, persecutor, victim) Fight, flight, freeze, fawn may follow mechanically. Separation–individuation with the primary caregiver never fully occurred. The conflict PBC (parent bound conflict) with the caregiver remains unresolved, making genuine differentiation impossible. As a result, this unresolved developmental conflict is re-enacted across all subsequent relationships. Repetition compulsion. When the superego dominates, morality collapses into a top-down ranking system where judgment is less about values and more about hierarchical position. The audience and the army function as anchoring reference points through fantasy defense, allowing the personal fable to be defended and reset in whatever form restores perceived superiority. You can often map a family system in under an hour on a whiteboard. First, you have to earn the child, adolescent trust. Sometimes that takes some time before there is enough psychological safety to talk openly.

    Under chronic stress, autobiographical memories can be fragmented and state-dependent, while retrospective, reflective thinking is temporarily reduced. As trust develops and the nervous system becomes more regulated, experiences often become clearer, allowing family patterns and relational dynamics to emerge much more coherently. After that period you can often map a family system in under an hour. From there, the goal is simple: bring the child back to safety, autonomy, and their own compass. Not by collecting labels, but by making patterns visible. From there, the goal is simple: bring the child back to safety, autonomy, and their own compass. Autonomy is not the absence of influence. It is becoming aware of what influences you, so that influence does not automatically become your choice. What is influencing you? Are you aware of that influence? Is it determining your choice? What would you choose if you could see the pattern clearly? Humans do not fit into static labels. Only the underlying relational patterns that emerge during conflict can be meaningfully understood in relation to physiological responses associated with safety and threat. The expression, duration, and sequence of these interaction rhythms may vary across contexts (e.g., during a conflict versus after relationship separation). This figure illustrates an underlying interaction pattern rather than a fixed timeline. To reduce the risk of stigma and misuse, this platform intentionally refrains from mapping the deeper layers of these interpersonal dynamics.

    Origins: Chapter 3 as the Structural Blueprint

    The structural core of the PAN-Theory emerged during adolescence (ages 11–18), the period in which internal coherence must consolidate while external instability is highest. What would later become the pawn, compass, boomerang – imaginary audience/ army were not theoretical interventions. They were functional survival tools, developed while writing the book, using a set of symbols: the pawn, boomerang, compass, The Source represents the parental figures and early caregiving environment from which a child develops. The Voice-Oracle represents the internalized voices that continue to provoke thoughts, emotions, and reactions. An essential developmental task is learning to distinguish between safe and unsafe sources, and, when the primary source is not safe, discovering your own autonomy, and who can truly be trusted instead. These and other elements may help you understand the underlying dynamics of human conflict and bullying. In the family system, shame was absolute, conflict occurred entirely behind closed doors, the outside world (“the third eye”) perceived a functioning family, and internal collapse remained completely invisible.

    From my own experience, and what others have described to me the ”third eye” never disappeared, even when people live remotely and there were no neighbours who could possibly hear anything. The instruction be quiet, others can hear you repeated itself automatically during conflict, despite the fact that no one was there. Silence was enforced not by reality, but by an internalised fear of being seen. The outside observer had become permanent. What once referred to neighbours or the outside world no longer required their physical presence. The monitoring continued on its own, long after isolation made it objectively unnecessary.

    In this environment everyone existed inside the Army: family, peers, teachers, imagined observers. This lived experience mirrors Elkind’s Imaginary Audience, but under threat and behind closed doors it evolves into the Imaginary Army, a multi-voiced, punitive evaluative system. Within this dynamic, many of the people involved: family members, peers, authority figures function as indirect, direct, or imaginal pawns. Not necessarily out of malice, but because they themselves lack a stable self and operate fully within the Audience-Army dynamic.

    Through them, pressure is externalised and multiplied. Messages such as they think this about you too are conveyed in the language of humiliation, minimisation, and degradation. What appears as many voices is in fact one system speaking through multiple carriers. The result is isolation. Any possibility of speaking outward, especially vulnerably is systematically blocked. The environment is organised to silence, suppress, and contain, until the child no longer needs to be actively restrained. The belief that I am the problem installs itself from the inside.

    Chapter 3 in the book demonstrates the defining principle of PAN: violence behind closed doors is in many cases invisible because it becomes internalized as invisible violence inside the child’s mind. That invisibility is one of the reasens that drives the global scale of the problem.

    Developmental Foundations (Ages 0–3): The Distorted Peekaboo Rhythm

    Early social development is shaped by repeated cycles of presence and absence between infant and caregiver. Everyday interactional games such as peek-a-boo illustrate a foundational relational pattern: disappear – wait – return. Through repeated exposure to this rhythm, the child gradually develops what Jean Piaget described as object permanence, the understanding that the caregiver continues to exist even when temporarily out of sight. When caregiving is sufficiently consistent, this rhythm becomes internalized as a stable expectation of return and safety. The infant learns that absence is temporary, that connection can survive interruption, and that distress does not automatically mean abandonment. In this way, early repetition lays the groundwork for trust, emotional continuity, and the capacity to tolerate separation.

    However, when caregiving is inconsistent, emotionally unavailable, intrusive, or unpredictable, this rhythm may become distorted. Instead of internalizing absence as tolerable and temporary, the child may begin to experience it as uncertain and threatening. The implicit developmental rule shifts. Rather than assuming, you return even when I cannot see you, the child may implicitly learn:

    “If I do not provoke your response, I may disappear.”

    The present framework refers to this inversion as the Peekaboo Reflex. Within this model, connection is no longer passively trusted but actively tested. The child begins to rely on small signals, disruptions, or emotional probes to confirm that the attachment figure is still psychologically present. What should have become a stable rhythm of return is replaced by vigilance toward rupture.

    Across later development, this may appear as subtle contact-testing behaviors: tone shifts, temporary withdrawal, micro-disruptions, misplaced objects, probing conflicts, or sudden minor crises. Over time, the child gradually develops an expanding repertoire of strategies aimed at re-securing attention and restoring relational confirmation/ (control). These behaviors are often misunderstood as manipulation, or attention-seeking later in life. Within the present framework, however, they can be understood more accurately as attempts to restore a broken rhythm of recognition and return. They are not primarily bids for dominance, but relational checks organized around a basic question: Are you still there?

    This developmental formulation converges with several established relational perspectives. Donald Winnicott emphasized the importance of a reliable holding environment in which the child gradually develops a stable sense of self through repeated experiences of being emotionally held in mind. Margaret Mahler’s theory of separation–individuation likewise highlights the developmental necessity of safely moving away from and back toward the caregiver without losing emotional continuity. Heinz Kohut, in turn, stressed the role of mirroring in the formation and cohesion of the self, suggesting that the child requires sufficient recognition in order to consolidate a stable internal structure.

    The child first attempts external regulation through contact-tests. When these fail to stabilize the relationship, regulation may gradually shift inward toward compensatory fantasy. At this point, imagination can take on a defensive role. In Winnicott terms, fantasy normally belongs to a healthy intermediate space between inner and outer reality, a space of play, symbolization, and creative development. Yet when the external environment is not reliable enough, this same imaginative capacity may gradually become a protective refuge. What begins as play can harden into defensive fantasy.

    Within this child-protective framework, fantasy defense is not understood as mere grandiosity or false self-inflation, but as an adaptive inner solution to relational inconsistency. The child turns inward to create what the environment did not reliably provide: continuity, recognition, predictabillity, or symbolic safety. In other words, when the caregiver cannot be counted on to return psychologically, the mind begins to construct its own substitute forms of presence.

    From this perspective, later relational patterns may follow a recognizable developmental sequence: first the disruption of the basic rhythm of safety, then the emergence of contact-testing behaviors, and eventually the growing reliance on internal fantasy structures as compensatory regulation. The person is no longer simply waiting to be seen; they are attempting to secure psychic continuity by any means available, externally through contact-tests, and internally through imagination.

    The developmental signal underneath this entire sequence remains simple: “See me, so I do not disappear.” Fantasy, in this model, is not the origin of the problem but the child’s solution to unreliable return. Fantasy and reality may partially intertwine in social perception. Repeated cycles of approach, shame-collision, and withdrawal may train a relational rhythm in which the individual increasingly approaches others from a defensive superego stance. What appears as later grandiosity or entitlement can therefore be understood as the behavioral residue of a repeatedly rehearsed attachment collision cycle. When negative interpretations dominate, shame responses emerge, from that moment onward, the child no longer relies on a stable internal image of the caregiver when they are absent. Compensation begins. The need for external confirmation increases, while sensitivity to visibility and judgment grows. Trapped between the Audience and the Army, the Personal Fable gradually expands and becomes increasingly influential, and interpersonal behavior may shift between the regulatory roles described in the drama triangle.

    Ages 7–8: First Pattern Awareness. Children begin recognizing: relational structure, inconsistency, emotional directionality, fairness vs. unfairness. Here the proto-Army forms: not voices yet, but templates of evaluators. Adequate mirroring keeps the self-flexible; failed mirroring hardens the Army architecture. Ages 11–13: Ego Structuring and Army Consolidation. This is the highest-impact developmental window. Meta-cognition accelerates. Children become hyper-aware of themselves through imagined observers. Elkind identified ages 11–13 as the peak of the Imaginary Audience, the sense of being constantly watched and judged. In stable environments this distortion fades. In shame-driven or unstable environments, it intensifies, hardens, and becomes the Imaginary Army. This same window also exposes externalized shame: conflict testing, triangulation, multi-pawn recruitment, rhythmic provocation.

    Internalized shame: hyperventilation, somatic overload, dizziness, trembling, panic in social spaces, inability to speak core shame-beliefs (“I am ugly,” “I am disgusting,” “I will fail,” “Everyone sees me”) Both patterns emerge from the same vulnerability: an ego not yet capable of self-stabilization. Attempts at self-reassurance fail because the Army has higher emotional authority than the ego. A triggering cue, a glance, silence, memory, comparison reactivates the Army instantly. Elkind’s Personal Fable (“I am special”) normally buffers insecurity. In PAN environments, the system collapses under the Army, which overrides the ego, and explains the 0–100 aggression, forcibly defends the personal fable by restoring a perceived position of superiority. For internalizers, the Personal Fable collapses in waves, leading to shame-based withdrawal and self-correction. For externalizers, the Personal Fable does not collapse; it hardens and is defended through projection, control, or aggression.

    Critical Note: Repairability. Even adolescents who externalize shame may remain repairable during this window. The ego is still soft enough for corrective mirroring. PAN does not prescribe intervention methods that belongs to clinical expertise. PAN only identifies the developmental window in which repair is most plausible.

    Ages 18+: Entrenchment, Collapse, and Reactivation. Beyond adolescence, the Imaginary Army becomes: autonomous, self-referential, punitive. Adults re-experience early states through: trauma dreams, nocturnal panic, sweating, sleeping problems, learning problems, shouting at internal evaluators, somatic distress (sensory cue, e.g. smell, limbic memory) and episodic flashbacks triggered by everyday cues. Superego attacks reactivate whenever the original Army-template is triggered. Yet these armies often remain invisible for years because adults maintain stability through coping mechanisms: emotional numbing, dissociation, intellectualization, overwork, compulsive achievement, substance use, repeating familiar relational patterns, choosing partners who recreate Army dynamics. These strategies suppress the Army without dissolving it. Collapse occurs only when accumulated stress exceeds coping capacity, exposing the unresolved developmental architecture.

    Structural Bridge: From Collapse to Architecture. To understand why collapse follows such predictable patterns, PAN must be read not only developmentally but structurally. The same mechanisms that destabilize adolescents, externalized evaluators, absent internal mirrors, systemic triangulation remain active in adulthood. What appears clinically as panic or relational chaos is the late-life expression of an architecture built much earlier. This transition makes it necessary to examine PAN through psychodynamic and object-relational models.

    Psychodynamic Architecture Freud: Id, Ego, Superego in PAN Systems. Shame-driven or unsafe environments produce: Id – panic during emotional absence. Superego – harsh, externalized evaluator. Ego – failure to integrate contradictory signals. The Imaginary Army is the fusion of: a fragmented Ego, a punitive Superego, an abandoned, overstimulated Id. Object Relations: The Distributed Self. When internal regulation fails, identity becomes externally distributed: others’ reactions, triangulated alliances, real or imagined observers conflict rhythms. Triangulation is not manipulation. It is survival through borrowed structure, scaffolding for an ego that cannot yet stand alone. Beyond the Drama Triangle: The Multi-Pawn Army Triangle. Karpman’s Drama Triangle is too narrow. In PAN systems: roles multiply, roles shift across the family and online network, self-stabilization requires many pawns. The Imaginary Army is the internal continuation of this network. Addictions, avoidance, rage cycles, compulsive rescuing, and chaotic relational patterns all follow one rule: “I stabilize myself through others.” Reflex Architecture: Peekaboo, Boomerang. Peekaboo Reflex: presence – disappearance – tension – return – relief. Distorted early, lifelong contact-testing. Boomerang Reflex fear projected outward – reaction elicited – temporary stabilization – return. Every conflict loop in Chapter 3 follows this rhythm. Together they form the emotional engine of PAN systems.

    Clinical pattern recognition across the lifespan. Adults may show trauma dreams, nightmares about parental figures can still persist into adulthood. Nocturnal panic, sweating, shaking, irritability, shouting at an internal internalized parental object (evaluators), loss of internal continuity, and rapid reactivation through everyday cues. Yet these patterns can remain invisible for years. Many adults maintain apparent stability through coping strategies such as emotional numbing, dissociation, intellectualization, overwork, compulsive achievement, substance use, sarcasm, chronic joking, avoidance, and repeatedly choosing relational partners who recreate familiar Army dynamics. These strategies suppress the Army without dissolving it, allowing significant distress to remain undetected in clinical and social settings.

    Adolescents may present with hyperventilation, dizziness, chest pain, trembling, cognitive learning disruptions, somatic overload, panic in socially evaluative situations, and an inability to voice core shame-beliefs. In many cases, these symptoms coexist with high-functioning external behavior: humor, deflection, withdrawal, or “the class clown” persona that hides internal collapse from peers and teachers. Symptoms collapse only when another person names the unspeakable shame. Visibility dissolves the Army. Educational Note. Because these patterns often remain hidden behind coping styles, age-appropriate lessons in primary and secondary school, using simple PAN metaphors such as the Boomerang and Child Compass can give students a shared vocabulary for discomfort, relational tension, and early distress signals. Such collective language increases cohesion, reduces secrecy, and allows peers and teachers to detect early signs long before clinical symptoms consolidate.

    There is often one child who can describe what is happening, if given an accessible symbolic language. Through the Pawn, Boomerang and Compass translate complex relational experiences into an accessible symbolic vocabulary of words and images, helping children recognize and communicate patterns they may not yet be able to explain abstractly.

    Beyond Labels. PAN and the DSM-5 are parallel, not competing, systems. PAN does not replace or challenge the DSM-5; it precedes and complements it. By first examining developmental history, environmental pressure and relational patterns, PAN can support a more precise formulation and, where appropriate, a better-informed classification. As discussed elsewhere on this blog (“PAN Works Before DSM”), placing PAN before and alongside classification may enable more context-sensitive interpretations and open up alternative pathways for addressing the challenges the DSM currently faces.

    Without a pre-diagnostic framework, shame may seal the system, secrecy can persist, early defensive responses remain invisible, triangulation may be misinterpreted, imagination can be mistaken for pathology, and symptoms may become visible only after significant harm has occurred. With PAN, early signs become recognizable, interpretations remain provisional, hypotheses can evolve, relational patterns can be addressed, GPs can understand somatic distress developmentally, and teachers and other professionals can intervene without prematurely labeling the child.

    PAN provides only the foundation and structural vocabulary. interventions methods belong to clinical experts. The PAN-Theory integrates developmental psychology, psychodynamics, systems theory, and clinical observation into one coherent preventive framework. It explains: why internal violence is invisible, why shame seals families, why triangulation multiplies, why the Imaginary Army forms, why conflict becomes proximity, why somatic symptoms appear without medical cause, why simple symbols unlock complex truths.

    But most importantly: When boomerangs are thrown endlessly inside a home, or repeatedly in a classroom during bullying, that rhythmic return is the first structural warning sign. A child knows instinctively that a boomerang hurts, that every word or action returns, and that recognition alone reveals that something behind closed doors is not as it should be. When the boomerang theory is introduced in an educational context, conflict becomes legible as a structured process: action, reaction, consequence, and choice. In combination with the compass theory, normative rhythm within social interaction can be identified, as well as systematic deviations from that rhythm. Processes that typically remain implicit, such as audience formation, audience to army shifts, and projection become observable phenomena rather than subjective impressions. Externalizing behavior, including belittling, degrading, and triangulation through third parties, can then be analyzed as patterned interaction rather than as individual pathology.

    This structural recognition enables children to infer that certain relational dynamics, whether in domestic environments or peer groups, deviate from normative functioning. Such recognition reduces shame and increases psychological safety for disclosure. Adolescents who acquire this framework are able to identify the transition from a neutral or supportive audience to a threatening collective, and to understand the escalation pathways that may culminate in avoidance behaviors. Because these dynamics are rarely articulated explicitly, they frequently persist below the threshold of awareness. Once structurally named, however, measurable behavioral shifts occur. When children are introduced to the boomerang theory at an early age, the same interpretive framework applies to all participants. If, within that shared structure, attachment related behavior consistently deviates and fails to recalibrate over time, this signals a dysfunction rather than a situational conflict. Through rhythm and repetition, children learn not only how conflicts unfold, but how healthy regulation and repair are supposed to occur.

    I have countless examples of bullied children who are not operating within an imaginary audience alone, but within an imaginary army. Their behavior is organized around anticipated collective violence: avoiding school, taking multi-kilometer detours, or not leaving home at all. Threat perception generalizes from specific peers to entire environments, sometimes even to the village as a whole. This reflects not adolescent self-consciousness, but a fear system structured around expected coordinated aggression. Although this audience–army shift is often assumed to be purely negative, the same mechanism can also be deliberately redirected and used constructively within the classroom.

    A classroom-based illustration clarifies this mechanism. Consider a small subset of persistently disruptive students, sometimes characterized by insecurity and adverse home environments. Conventional interventions emphasize exclusion, such as temporary removal from the classroom. When, instead the educater suspend direct engagement, pausing instruction without disciplinary escalation, the interactional focus shifts. Various tactics can be employed instead: the teacher might use verbal or non-verbal cues to signal, “figure it out yourselves; you don’t want to learn anyway,” addressing the whole group. Because the message applies to everyone, the focus of the class shifts entirely. The peers do not need to intervene or say anything, yet the disruptive students feel observed and experience a sense of guilt. Over repeated cycles, the audience reorganizes into a regulating collective. Behavioral recalibration emerges not through punitive measures, but through sustained visibility within the group context. This phenomenon can be described as an audience-army shift. Additional empirical illustrations are derived from later applied work and qualitative interviews.

    At the core of this developing roadmap is the PBC (pattern brake consiousness) PAN prevention framework: a practical, front-door mapping system designed for GPs, psychologists, teachers, social workers and other professionals. The visual roadmap begins with the Boomerang pattern model showing how unresolved shame, repression, conflict and repeated audience-army dynamics can escalate inside family systems, schools and social environments. By making these pressure patterns visible early, the model aims to strengthen autonomy, restore regulation and help break destructive cycles before long-term damage becomes fixed.

    Rooted in developmental psychology and inspired by foundational concepts from Sigmund Freud, Carl Jung, Jean Piaget and related ego-defense and conflict mechanisms, the roadmap focuses on prevention rather than late-stage labeling. The goal is to help professionals recognize core relational conflicts, family roles, shame dynamics, bullying pressure and child maltreatment patterns earlier, before children are reduced to static DSM-style labels. Development is dynamic, human behavior is rarely static. It emerges from the interaction between the individual and the context in which they live. Early awareness can create safer environments long before crisis intervention becomes necessary. Unresolved shame builds psychological pressure. As chronic stress repeatedly activates the HPA axis and the autonomic nervous system, cortisol and adrenaline help shape the brain’s expectations of safety and threat. What begins as an adaptive survival response can eventually become an automatic psychological pattern. When that pressure becomes overwhelming, the mind protects itself through defense mechanisms such as projection.

    Within this framework, it is essential to distinguish observation, interpretation, and hypothesis. What we observe is not automatically an explanation for why the behaviour occurs. A hypothesis should therefore remain open to developmental, relational, cognitive, environmental, and biological context. The goal is not to fit the person into the hypothesis, but to keep testing whether the hypothesis fits the person.

    An entire online ecosystem had already emerged around some of these concepts before coercive control was even formally recognized in law. No two cases are identical. Every person and every situation must be examined individually, within its specific developmental, relational, and environmental context.

    Some information online can be useful, but a growing part of this space increasingly appears less concerned with understanding complex psychodynamic and relational processes and more concerned with sustaining an industry. And now a second market is emerging around coercive control. The term carries considerable moral and legal weight, so the consequences of misinterpretation may be even greater.

    Without a proper analytical framework, coercive control risks becoming a social, legal, and clinical circus, fuelling misjudgment, stigma, escalation, and further polarization. PAN turns invisible dynamics into visible structures. And visibility is the beginning of safety.


  • All rights reserved. Copyright ©️ Robert Holmes 2025.

    These terms and models are made available solely for scientific, educational, and preventive purposes. They may not be used for commercial exploitation, rebranding, or derivative commercial products without explicit written permission.

    All original terms and theoretical models, including the PBC & PAN Theory, the Imaginary Army, the Child Compass, the Boomerang (Conflict, Prejection) Theory, and several additional concepts described in the book were first published by Robert Holmes (2025).

    ©️Robert Holmes 2025. Trauma Unraveled: Narcissistic Abuse vs. Lyme Disease. Trauma vs. Disease.