On ‘Mo,’ It’s Either God or Therapy

The new Netflix comedy examines the role of therapy for believers.

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On a recent phone call, my grandma asked me if I still go to church. The first time she’d asked me that question was about 10 years ago, and back then I’d frozen. Time had stood still as I’d weighed my options: I could be honest and tell her that I was beginning to have doubts about the faith I was raised in, or I could lie. I didn’t want to break her heart, so after a long pause, I stumbled through a lie about going to church “sometimes” and tried to get off the phone as fast as possible. This time, though, I was ready.

“Do you still go to church?”

“I pray at therapy,” I joked.

When I was growing up, going to therapy wasn’t exactly taboo in my family, but it was close. We’re Black and Christian—two identities that have a complicated relationship to the idea of paying a regular person to talk about our feelings. Growing up, I thought only two types of people went to therapy: crazy people and white people. It took me until 2017, when I was in my 30s, to start attending therapy, but I didn’t tell anyone in my family or outside New York City for fear they would think I was having a mental breakdown.

Five years later, my grandma didn’t laugh at my joke or support my decision, but I still felt good about my confession. Telling her that I go to therapy was saying that I’m at least still seeking something. And as long as I’m seeking, she can feel comfort that my heart isn’t closed, and confidence that my search will lead me back to where I belong. I feel that I’m unlikely to return to her faith, but I don’t mind her believing that I will.

“We believe in a higher power,” she responded. “A mighty God.” She was loving; a shepherd rescuing her lost sheep. She asked what a therapist could help with that God couldn’t. She reminded me of the power of prayer. She knew that she didn’t need to share the Bible verses, that I knew them already.

1 Corinthians 3:19: “For the wisdom of this world is foolishness with God.”

Proverbs 3:5–6: “Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding; In all your ways acknowledge Him, and He shall direct your paths.”

Philippians 4:6–7: “Be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication … let your requests be made known to God; and the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus.”

When I watched the new Netflix series Mo, I was reminded of that conversation with my grandma, and of what happens when a faith-based upbringing rubs against modern mental-health care. The comedy, which premiered last week and landed in Netflix’s Top 10 streamed TV shows, follows the titular character as he navigates between his Palestinian Muslim upbringing and his adult life in Houston, Texas. Those cultures often collide to hilarious effect, like in one scene where a grocery-store worker asks if he would like to try some “chocolate hummus,” and a typically jovial Mo responds, “What the fuck did you just say to me?”

The heartfelt comedy covers themes of family, addiction, and cultural legacy, but it was Mo’s mental-health struggle that stood out most to me. In Episode 3, “Remorse,” Mo sits in a mall food court with his girlfriend, Maria, and best friend, Nick, telling them about a disappointing meeting he just had with an immigration lawyer. It’s a TV cliché for a cynic to talk about how stupid it is to overpay a therapist who asks, “How does that make you feel?” But in Mo, the conversation takes a more complex turn, shifting toward his Muslim faith and displaying how many of us use charisma to try to weasel out of emotional conversations.

Netflix

“I went in there for some legal advice, and it turned into a therapy session,” Mo says.

“You could use a therapy session,” Maria replies.

“I don’t believe in therapy. It’s a scam.”

“How’s therapy a scam?”

“Because you pay some Ph.D. $200 an hour when you could talk to God for free anytime.”

“I don’t ever see you get out a prayer mat.”

“I don’t walk around with a prayer rug all the time. What am I, Aladdin? This isn’t Disney, okay?” Mo says, making his girlfriend laugh. “Islam is real practical; I can just pray right here if I wanted to. Just take out a tissue, put it on the ground. Bam. Done.”

Later in the episode, when Mo finally agrees that he needs to talk with someone about his trauma and anxiety, Maria doesn’t bring him to a therapist. I won’t spoil things from there—you should watch Mo for yourself—but suffice it to say that between Mo, Maria, and Nick, only one of them truly supports choosing therapy over prayer.

For me, after five years of therapy, it’s hard to imagine not going to weekly sessions. My grandma would say that I’m leaning on the knowledge of man instead of the superior knowledge of God, and maybe she’s right—therapy has, in many ways, replaced the role of church in my life, as a space to examine my thoughts and motivations and be held accountable for the type of person I want to be. She has faith that my seeking will lead me back to God; I have been called “the prodigal son” more than once. I’m just glad that I can be honest with her now, and that I have a place to talk about my relationship with her, God, and myself—whether it’s a “scam” or not.

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Thanks to everyone who responded to my last Humans Being, about House of the Dragon and irritation bias. My favorite response came from Leah, who wrote:

I didn’t call it the irritation bias, instead I had the “empty room rule” that I developed for a particularly awful boyfriend of one of my college roommates who thought having no filter was an admirable quality. Imagine yourself locked in a completely empty room with the offending individual—how long would it take before your well of patience runs dry? It served as a warning system. “15 minutes,” I would tell my roommate, as a nudge. He would take the hint and intervene, changing the subject or taking his boyfriend to another room.

I love that, Leah, and I’m definitely going to use it in the future.