DBT’s ABC Process
Imagine a quiet valley tucked between low, rolling hills, where the air always feels just a little warmer than expected, and the light lingers a little longer before dusk. The people who pass through this valley often arrive tired, preoccupied, or carrying something heavy—though they don’t always know exactly what it is.
At the center of the valley stands a small, curious workshop. Its windows are wide, its door always open, and above the entrance hangs a simple wooden sign that reads:
“A-B-C.”
Most assume it’s someone’s initials. Others think it’s a forgotten abbreviation. But those who step inside soon learn that it’s something else entirely.
Arrival
One afternoon, a traveler named Elin finds her way down the winding path into the valley. She hasn’t planned to be here. In fact, she hasn’t planned much of anything lately. Her thoughts have been looping—about responsibilities, conversations, regrets, things left undone. Even when something pleasant happens, it seems to slip through her fingers before she can feel it.
As she walks, she notices the quiet beauty around her—the way the wind brushes through tall grass, the distant hum of insects—but it doesn’t quite land. It’s as though she’s observing life from a step behind.
Then she sees the workshop.
There’s something inviting about it, though she can’t say why. She steps inside.
The Keeper of the Workshop
Inside, the space is filled with shelves—some holding jars of light, others containing small objects: smooth stones, folded papers, bits of fabric, dried flowers. Everything feels deliberate, but not rigid. Organized, but alive.
At a wooden table sits a woman with kind, attentive eyes. She looks up as Elin enters.
“You’ve come at a good time,” the woman says, as if they’ve been expecting each other.
Elin hesitates. “I didn’t mean to come here.”
“No one ever does,” the woman replies gently. “But you’re here now. That’s what matters.”
She gestures to the sign above the door. “Do you know what A-B-C stands for?”
Elin shakes her head.
The woman smiles. “Accumulating Brightness and Connection. Though some prefer ‘Accumulating Positive Emotions.’ Words matter less than the practice.”
Elin frowns slightly. “I’ve had positive moments. They just… don’t stick.”
The woman nods. “Yes. That’s very common. Most people think positive emotions are something that happen to them. Here, we practice building them—on purpose, over time.”
The First Room: A – Accumulating in the Moment
The woman stands and leads Elin into a sunlit room just beyond the main space. The walls are lined with windows, and in the center sits a long table covered with small, everyday objects: a cup of tea, a feather, a handwritten note, a piece of chocolate, a photograph of a quiet lake.
“This is the first part,” the woman explains. “Accumulating positive emotions in the moment.”
Elin looks confused. “You mean… just noticing things?”
“Not just noticing,” the woman says. “Participating.”
She picks up the cup of tea and holds it out. “Take this.”
Elin accepts it. It’s warm.
“Now,” the woman continues, “don’t rush. Let yourself actually experience it. The warmth in your hands. The smell. The first sip.”
Elin hesitates, then takes a sip. It’s subtle—slightly sweet, slightly bitter. She feels the warmth spread.
“Stay with it,” the woman says softly.
For a moment, Elin’s thoughts begin to drift back to her usual loops—but the woman gently interrupts. “Not later. Not earlier. Just now.”
Elin refocuses. The tea. The warmth. The quiet.
Something shifts—just a fraction.
“There,” the woman says. “That’s how it begins. Most people move past these moments too quickly. Or they let their minds carry them away. But each time you stay, even briefly, you place a small stone in the foundation.”
Elin looks at the table again. The objects seem… different now. Not extraordinary. But not empty, either.
The Second Room: B – Building Over Time
They move into another room, dimmer but deeper. Here, the shelves are filled with journals, maps, and small crafted items—some intricate, some simple.
“This is the second part,” the woman says. “Building positive emotions over time.”
She hands Elin a small, blank notebook.
“This isn’t about chasing pleasure,” she explains. “It’s about choosing experiences that align with what matters to you—and returning to them again and again.”
Elin flips through the empty pages. “What if I don’t know what matters anymore?”
The woman nods, as if this is expected. “Then you begin with curiosity, not certainty.”
She gestures to the shelves. “These belong to others who have passed through. Some discovered joy in creating—painting, writing, shaping wood. Others in connecting—writing letters, sharing meals, listening deeply. Some in movement. Some in learning.”
Elin notices one journal filled with sketches, another with lists of small daily actions: walk by the river, call a friend, cook something new, sit in the sun for five minutes.
“These look… simple,” Elin says.
“They are,” the woman replies. “But consistency transforms simplicity into something powerful. Each action is like planting a seed. You don’t feel a forest after one day. But over time, something grows.”
Elin runs her fingers along the notebook’s edge. “So it’s not about waiting to feel better first.”
“No,” the woman says. “It’s about acting in ways that make feeling better more likely.”
The Third Room: C – Creating a Life That Invites Joy
The final room is the largest. It opens into a garden that stretches beyond the workshop—paths winding through trees, open spaces, and quiet corners.
“This is the third part,” the woman says. “Creating a life that invites positive emotions.”
Elin steps outside. The air feels different here—clearer somehow.
“This is about the bigger picture,” the woman continues. “Not just moments, not just habits—but direction.”
She points to the paths. “Each one represents a set of choices. The kind of relationships you nurture. The way you spend your time. The goals you move toward.”
Elin looks down the paths. Some are well-worn, others barely visible.
“What if I choose the wrong one?” she asks.
The woman smiles. “There is no perfect path. Only paths that are more or less aligned with what you value.”
She kneels and touches the ground. “When your life reflects your values—even imperfectly—you create conditions where positive emotions arise more naturally. Not constantly. Not artificially. But authentically.”
Elin takes a few steps forward. The ground feels steady.
“For a long time,” she says slowly, “I’ve been reacting. Putting out fires. Trying to get through things.”
“Yes,” the woman says. “And that takes energy. This is about also building something—so your life isn’t only defined by what you’re managing, but by what you’re creating.”
The Subtle Shift
They return to the main workshop.
Elin feels… different. Not dramatically changed. But less distant.
“So this is it?” she asks. “Just… small moments, repeated actions, and bigger choices?”
The woman nods. “It may seem simple. But it requires intention. Especially at first.”
She reaches for one of the jars on the shelf. Inside, a soft glow flickers.
“Each time you fully experience a small positive moment,” she says, “you add a little light. Each time you engage in something meaningful, you strengthen it. And each time you shape your life in alignment with your values, you protect and expand it.”
She hands the jar to Elin.
“This is yours now.”
Elin holds it carefully. The light inside is faint—but unmistakable.
“What if I lose it?” she asks.
“You will, sometimes,” the woman says gently. “Or it will dim. That’s part of being human. But you now know how to build it again.”
Departure
As Elin steps back outside, the valley looks much the same. The hills, the grass, the winding path.
But as she walks, she notices something she hadn’t before—not because it wasn’t there, but because she hadn’t stayed with it.
The warmth of the sun on her face.
The rhythm of her steps.
The quiet satisfaction of simply moving forward.
She pauses, just for a moment, and lets herself feel it.
It’s small.
But it’s there.
And this time, she doesn’t rush past it.
Epilogue: The Practice
Days later, back in her usual life, Elin finds herself slipping into old patterns—rushing, worrying, drifting away from the present.
But now, something interrupts the automatic flow.
A memory of the workshop.
The jar of light on her windowsill.
She picks up a cup of tea and pauses.
Just for a moment.
She feels the warmth.
Takes a sip.
Stays.
That evening, she writes one small thing in her notebook.
The next day, she takes a short walk—not because she feels like it, but because she’s decided it matters.
Weeks pass.
Nothing is perfect. Some days feel heavy. Some moments still slip away.
But slowly, almost imperceptibly, something accumulates.
Not constant happiness.
But access.
Moments that land.
Experiences that build.
A life that, bit by bit, begins to feel like something she is not just enduring—but shaping.
And in the quiet spaces between everything else, the light—once faint—begins to grow.