Treadmill Tears

What a Jonah Hill documentary taught me about performance, connection, and the healing power of being seen

The other day, I was talking to my son’s college counselor. She first worked with my oldest, is now deep in the process with my middle son, and, more than anything, has become a support for our whole family. She guided my oldest as he transitioned from being a “treatment kid” into a much healthier version of himself. I trust her deeply. We hired her because our values aligned. She promised to help our son find a college where he could thrive, not just get into “the best.” And then she did just that.

She’s also the one who, when I told her I was writing a memoir, connected me with a close friend who happens to be a literary agent. She hadn’t read a single word I had written. She just believed in me. The introduction itself felt like an act of trust.

So when she told me, in strong terms, that I needed to watch Stutz, a documentary Jonah Hill made about his therapist, I listened.

And of course, it landed hard.

Let me back up. I didn’t expect to be moved. I had never thought of Jonah Hill as deep. He was the goofball comic. The self-deprecating sidekick. Funny, sure. But vulnerable? Introspective? I had no idea.

In the film, Hill introduces Stutz as a project born out of gratitude. He wanted to share the life-changing tools his psychiatrist, Phil Stutz, had given him. Tools that helped him manage anxiety, grief, and the constant pressure to perform.

And the tools are good. They are visual, memorable, and practical. But the real power of the film isn’t the tools. It is the relationship. It is the unguarded, radically honest, deeply affectionate connection between therapist and patient. And that is what melted me.

If you’ve been here for a while, you know I write a lot about therapy. About what it means to be a patient, and what it means to be a therapist. This movie captured the very heart of that work. It reminded me of the therapists who have changed my life. It made me think about my own patients and how they might feel toward me. It made me feel proud and humbled and grateful that I get to do this work.

Now, if you want a sense of where I am these days: I watched this movie while running on a treadmill at the gym well before sunrise. That activity is, as most of you know, a complicated one for me. I finished the movie before I finished my run, and I hopped off the treadmill early. Not because I was tired, but because the movie reminded me, viscerally, of the life I want to live. A life about connecting, not performing.

That is what this film stirred in me. And honestly, it is what so much of my writing comes back to. For so long, I didn’t see it. I thought performance was what made me lovable. What kept me safe. I believed people wanted the polished version of me. But real connection does not come from performance. It comes from letting yourself be seen.

This movie held up a mirror. And what I saw was the thing I keep trying to move toward. Honesty. Vulnerability. Love.

Spoiler alert: I am about to reveal something from the film, though I promise it will not make it any less powerful. Phil Stutz, the psychiatrist, has Parkinson’s disease. His tremors are visible. He is not actively dying, but mortality hovers in the background of every scene. Jonah Hill is terrified of losing him, and he says as much. Over and over, he tells Stutz how much he loves him. How much their relationship means.

What gutted me, though, was not just Hill’s expression of love. It was the way Stutz receives it. He does not deflect. He does not redirect. He just says it back. Point blank. With warmth and humor and presence. It is not professional. It is human.

I have never told a patient I love them. Honestly, the idea makes me itch a little. But the rawness of that film, two people stripped of armor, showed me something I deeply believe. Therapy is at its best when it is real. When we show up not just as professionals, but as people.

That is what I want in all my relationships. Vulnerability. Honesty. Maybe some irreverent humor too.

Over the course of the movie, you also get to know Phil Stutz. And he is something else. A typical New Yorker. Quick-witted. Self-deprecating, just like Hill. At one point, he makes a joke about “banging Jonah Hill’s mom.” Out of context, it sounds outrageous. But at the moment, it worked.

It was not the kind of therapy they teach in graduate school. But it was authentic. He owned it. He used humor as a defense, yes, but also as connection.

And while I have never made a “your mother” joke in a session, I honestly don’t think it crossed a line. If anything, it showed me how essential it is, in therapy and in life, to show up as your full, human self. That is how trust is built. That is how healing happens.

Stutz says something in the movie I can’t stop thinking about. He talks about the inevitability of pain, uncertainty, and constant work. That is the human condition. There is no escaping it. But what we can do is connect. And when we do, when we let ourselves be seen and love each other out loud, it changes everything.