From the Ashes of Crisis

Alone in the ICU, tethered to machines and unable to see my family due to COVID protocols, I realized I was about to learn lessons no textbook could teach. I never imagined that a single medical crisis could teach me more about therapy than years of clinical training––surviving a brain bleed during my final semester of internship turned the ICU into the most intense classroom of my life. Some nurses became my anchors; others showed me what I never wanted to become. I learned lessons about presence, compassion, and patience that no textbook could offer. My neurosurgeon was like a balm for my fears. Some nurses offered calm steadiness when everything felt terrifying. Others were brusque or cold, teaching me just as powerfully what I want to avoid in my work.

Even months into recovery, lingering symptoms—burning headaches, balance issues, heightened sensitivity—forced me to slow down. I had to set limits. As my internist said bluntly, “Focus on yourself.” This is advice we all need to hear sometimes—especially when life feels overwhelming. That process of slowing became a gift: I learned how to sit fully in stillness, tolerate uncertainty, and meet suffering without rushing to fix it. And humor? It can diffuse suffering. I realized it can be a quiet lifeline, reminding us of our shared humanity even in the darkest moments. The following lessons about presence and patience became especially relevant in my work with clients navigating profound loss.

Sitting with Grief: Aaron’s Story

Aaron came to therapy shortly after losing his partner in a sudden and tragic accident. The shock and anguish he carried were crushing. In the early months, he found ways to honor his partner’s memory through personal rituals that gave him small moments of connection, purpose, and meaning.

I drew on my own experience with vulnerability and life-altering uncertainty to simply sit with him, without judgment or pressure to “fix” his grief. Sometimes, just being present felt like the only thing that mattered. Over time, we explored the idea of growing around grief, which lifted some of the pressure to “get over it” within a certain timeframe—pressure that Aaron sometimes felt from his family, who were anxious for him to move on. Healing, we discovered, doesn’t erase loss—it expands around it, letting life continue alongside the grief.

Slowly, Aaron began to imagine a future where his partner’s memory stayed with him, while leaving room for new relationships, moments of joy, and perhaps one day having children—a future shaped by both love and remembrance.

Shared Vulnerability: Duncan’s Story

Another client, a young adult in their twenties, came to therapy struggling to access emotions after a loved one had died about a year and a half earlier. At first, they couldn’t cry and often felt numb, as if the grief had shut down their ability to feel. Over time, they learned to open to vulnerability, explore deep questions about life, and celebrate meaningful milestones.

Later, a sudden and tragic medical crisis, similar in intensity to my own brain bleed, involving a close family member shook them to the core. Sitting with their grief stirred my own memories of helplessness and survivor guilt. In the past, I might have redirected those feelings in the name of “professionalism,” but now I could simply bear witness—being fully present alongside their suffering.

Silence became a space where emotions could surface. Through that silence, Duncan was able to access feelings that had previously felt blocked. For me, as the therapist, the long bouts of silence were challenging, yet holding that discomfort became part of supporting him. For this client, it allowed grief to breathe, tested trust, and revealed the quiet power of shared human vulnerability. My steady presence, sometimes wordless, reinforced that being truly present can matter more than saying the “right” thing.

Takeaways for Readers

• Presence is powerful: Sometimes simply being there matters more than advice or solutions.
• Grief has no timeline: Healing is nonlinear, and growth can happen around, not just after, loss.
• Shared vulnerability fosters connection: Authentic empathy strengthens bonds, both in therapy and everyday life.
• Humor can coexist with hardship: A gentle laugh can remind us of resilience and shared humanity.  

Just as I learned to sit in the stillness of an ICU room, tethered to machines yet alive, I now witness grief and healing unfold—messy, nonlinear, and profoundly human. In therapy, and in life, the greatest gift we can offer one another is simply to be present.

Therapy, for me, is about ensuring no one feels alone in their suffering. My ICU experience didn’t just shape my approach—it deepened it. I show up with attunement, patience, and care rooted in lived experience, creating space where clients can meet their own pain with courage, curiosity, and even a little laughter.  

File under: A Day in the Life of a Therapist, Musings and Reflections