The Challenge of Therapy During War: Psychotherapy in Ukraine

The Emotional Ravages of War

The ongoing crisis in Ukraine has placed immense psychological strain on its population, creating a heightened need for mental health support amidst war, displacement, and uncertainty. Therapists working in Ukraine face unique challenges requiring resilience, adaptability, and innovative approaches. The war has caused massive, widespread trauma with millions displaced and exposed to violence. Therapists working either face-to-face or remotely with their clients encounter acute and chronic PTSD symptoms, anxiety, depression, and grief due to loss of loved ones, homes, and stability. There is also considerable intergenerational trauma in families with histories of oppression.

While Ukrainians have a history of resilience, the impact of intergenerational trauma and mental health stigma persists. Many of my clients attempt to minimize emotional distress or express it through physical symptoms. They have historically hesitated in seeking help, viewing it as a sign of weakness. However, online therapeutic platforms like Soul Space, the one through which I work, offer easily accessible and safe resources for support and self-help tools that empower these individuals.

The Challenge of Therapy During War

Therapists, such as myself, often face secondary traumatic stress (STS) from absorbing clients’ pain, leading to symptoms similar to PTSD. High caseloads also contribute to burnout and emotional exhaustion. Therapists often work with limited supervision, professional development opportunities, or access to private therapy spaces. Displaced populations pose additional logistical challenges to on-ground clinicians. Balancing professional neutrality with personal feelings about the war, while addressing clients’ immediate needs and maintaining a therapeutic frame, are frequent concerns that challenge clinicians under these circumstances.

While teletherapy has been invaluable to Ukraninans under seige, and has allowed me to support more clients than had I been on the ground, power outages, poor internet connections, and client inexperience with technology often impede its effectiveness. It has also been critical for me to prioritize self-care, emotional hygiene, peer support groups, and supervision to process my own emotional experiences as I serve those devastated by the war. I have also found it useful to limit daily trauma-focused sessions to prevent emotional fatigue. Techniques like grounding and meditation have helped me to maintain strength and clinical endurance.

I have learned to respect clients’ cultural coping mechanisms in order to build trust and support empowerment, resilience, and self-efficacy. I have relied on trauma-informed approaches that begin with safety and stabilization techniques such as grounding exercises and psychoeducation about trauma, while also processing with practical problem-solving to meet clients’ immediate needs. Soul Space provides psychoeducational workshops to maximize reach, provide structured, and self-guided mental health resources.

Case Example

A displaced family of four sought therapy after relocating from a war-affected region. The parents reported anxiety, irritability, and hypervigilance; while the children displayed regressive behaviors and nightmares. My approach required the establishment of safety and routine in therapy, psychoeducation to normalize trauma responses, and activities that built resilience and mutual support. Nighttime relaxation rituals helped the family with wartime-related sleeplessness, while gradually igniting bonds of trust and security due to invasive interruptions of regular routines. The parents practiced simple grounding techniques to contend with their own anxieties.

The parents learned about trauma responses in adults and children, and were increasingly able to reframe the children’s behaviors as survival mechanisms instead of simply seeing them as defiance. Several grounding exercises were also introduced to the children utilizing sensory modalities by asking them to say five things they see, hear, or touch when feeling overwhelmed.

To strengthen family bonds, I introduced therapeutic play and storytelling to allow the children to articulate issues of fear in a safe and imaginative way. The parents were given the chance to have planned conversations to foster emotional conversations and model healthy expressions for fear and grief. We also created a “Family Strengths Tree” where they could record examples of salvaged resilience to remind themselves of their survival capacities.

The family finally began processing their experiences. The children created a storybook representing their journey, necessitating a shift in the focus from fear to resilience. The parents explored their guilt and grief using cognitive processing techniques, reframing self-blame into self-compassion. Throughout the intervention with this family, and as with other wartime displaced clients, I integrated formal online training available through Soul Space with my direct face-to-face work.

During our work together, the family experienced reduced anxiety, improved communication, and renewed hope. The mother’s panic attacks became less frequent, and the father started to emotionally reconnect with his children. The daughter began socializing again, and the son had a drastic decrease in nightmares and bedwetting. Coping mechanisms and family bonds improved. Working with this family, as with others, I have come to rely upon additional training courses in trauma-informed interventions, networking, and the importance of adapting my therapeutic techniques to meet the realities of life in conflict zones, including shorter sessions or combining therapy with referral for humanitarian aid.

Questions for Thought and Discussion

Whether or not you’ve worked with clients in war-torn areas, how do you resonate with the author’s sentiments?

Which of the challenges raised by the author are similar or different from those you have experienced with traumatized clients?

What are some of the core techniques that you have found successful in working with traumatized clients?

The Art of Effective Couples Therapy: Negotiation, Compromise, and Sacrifice

As a therapist, the language I use can shape the way clients navigate their relationships as it provides a framework where thinking and behaving can take place. In couples therapy, my main goal is to help clients cultivate, commit, and execute on their shared vision. Over the past two decades, I have found that helping clients redefine negotiation, compromise, and sacrifice is essential for fostering healthier dynamics and building a sustainable strong foundation for the future of their relationship. These are terms that are often misunderstood yet widely used and profoundly impact the quality of their relationships.

Clarifying Expectations: A Foundational Practice

In casual, low-stakes situations, many individuals tend to effectively clarify expectations. For example, hiring someone to paint a house involves clear discussions about the scope, timeline, and payment. Yet in personal relationships, particularly romantic ones, expectations are often unspoken or assumed.

Couples often bring different goals, values, and assumptions into their shared lives, which can lead to misunderstandings unless explicitly addressed. When the vision for a relationship is not clear and agreed upon, it can leave room for mismatched priorities regarding resources, which could lead to further conflict in a relationship. For instance, one partner may dream of moving to a new city, while the other wants to stay near family. Similarly, one might desire children, while the other feels uncertain or uninterested. Financial priorities can also differ, with one valuing saving for the future, while the other emphasizes enjoying life in the present. On a more conceptual level, one might define privacy and secrecy very differently than the other person.

These principles, however, extend beyond romantic relationships and can help clients navigate workplace relationships, friendships, and family connections. Making these distinctions is critical. Specifically, when working with singles or couples to carve out their shared vision, understanding these concepts is essential to fostering healthy dynamics and avoiding long-term resentment. Addressing these needs, visions and expectations thoughtfully is crucial, as they directly influence resource allocation and life priorities.

Negotiation: A Daily Practice

Negotiations are what we do daily to navigate life when we are partnering with someone (where to go for dinner, who picks up the kids, etc.). Usually the stakes are not as high depending on the sensitivities within a coupledom, and some couples might not even call it that. When I bring up the word negotiation, depending on the cultural context of the clients, they might be surprised and sometimes even offended thinking: this is not the language we use in loving relationships, and it is best to be left to the business world where transactions happen.

The way I expand on the concept of negotiation and help clients to come around, is to explain that, in any relationship, there are certain currencies involved (again, going back to the language we use, many people think that currency is only applicable to monetary entities). Based on social exchange theory, we are all looking for an exchange of some sort when we are interacting with the outside world. This might not be conscious or intentional; nonetheless, it is always present.

Therapeutic Insight: Negotiation provides clients with a sense of agency, it helps individuals learn how to take accountability over what they desire in life, show up for it, and articulate it with their partner. Otherwise, we all have seen cases that one went along with the other only to find out somewhere along the way that “this is not what I wanted,” while the other person didn’t have a clue. As a therapist, I can coach clients to approach these conversations as opportunities for collaboration, encouraging them to listen deeply, receive what is offered, and then formulate their responses in a thoughtful and authentic manner.

Compromise: Balancing Individual and Shared Needs

Compromise often involves ensuring both partners feel their needs are valued. This step helps partners identify areas of alignment and divergence, usually without resorting to defensiveness or rigidity. It requires mutual give-and-take and intentionality to avoid one-sided concessions. It is not always meeting in the middle as it is believed to be, because healthy relationships are not based on equality or 50/50 as many of us working with couples would agree. They are based on equity where everyone involved is satisfied in their own ways.

Therapeutic Insight: It’s crucial to remind clients that compromise doesn’t always mean equality in the moment—it’s about creating equity over time. I encourage them to assess whether the “currencies” being exchanged feel worthwhile and sustainable.

Sacrifice: When It Becomes Unhealthy

Sacrifice often involves one partner giving up something significant, which can lead to resentment if done without open communication or equitable acknowledgment. For instance, one relocates for her partner’s job, leaving behind her career and community while not having a chance to assess her own needs in short and long term and without continued communication as things evolve with this move. Without mutual appreciation and a plan to address her needs, resentment may develop, impacting the relationship’s health.

Therapeutic Insight: Help clients reflect on whether a potential sacrifice aligns with their values and long-term goals. Sacrifice should be a conscious, collaborative decision rather than an expectation.

Cultural Context and Relational Dynamics

When I’m talking about relational dynamics, I am also talking about what defines them for individuals and couples. Cultural, religious, and gendered expectations often influence how clients perceive negotiation, compromise, and sacrifice. For one couple, sacrifice might be the way to go (and might even be expected of a good wife) and for another, it might just be a figure of speech while in reality the description of the dynamic resembles a negotiation pattern for the therapist.

I have found that exploring these factors is essential to helping clients identify patterns that may unconsciously shape their behavior. Meet them where they are and empower clients to define their relational values and vision, rather than defaulting to inherited scripts.

Some Practical Applications for Psychotherapy

These are some practical ways I have incorporated the above strategies into my clinical work with couples:

With singles, I encourage clients to clarify their non-negotiables and flexible areas before entering relationships. This self-awareness equips them to negotiate and compromise effectively when building connections.

With couples, I guide each to regularly revisit their shared vision—perhaps at the start of a new year or on anniversaries. This practice ensures their goals evolve alongside their individual and collective growth.

In the broader context, I try to apply these principles to familial and professional relationships, helping clients navigate complex dynamics with greater intentionality and respect.

Case Application

Rory and their kids loved skiing, while Hunter despised it—not just the sport but the cold and all the logistics involved. Before they had kids, this wasn’t an issue. They simply did their own things in winter, and no one thought much of it. However, once their kids reached skiing age, the dynamic shifted. Rory planned to spend every winter weekend skiing with the kids, and Hunter realized what this would mean for him.

In the first year of ski school, Hunter found himself waking up at six in the morning to help pack lunches, wrangle the kids’ gear, and drive 80 miles to the mountain. Rory and the kids thrived on this, but Hunter was miserable. He felt he had no options: staying home without a car wasn’t fulfilling, and joining in was even worse. To Hunter, it all felt like an unwelcome sacrifice.

Entering the second year, Hunter and Rory recognized that their dynamic wasn’t sustainable. They began to negotiate in earnest. Rory explained her perspective:

I grew up skiing; it’s my passion. It’s really important to me to pass that on to the kids because they love it too. I hardly get to see them during the week, and bonding with them over skiing feels really meaningful. I don’t want to give this up, but I also don’t like feeling guilty all the time. I know this isn’t working for you. Is there a way we can make this work for both of us?

Hunter shared his struggles and feelings of resentment, and through multiple conversations and creative problem-solving, they found a solution that worked for both of them. Rory took over 90% of the labor involved in ski school, including handling all the gear and logistics. Hunter agreed to pack lunches and have dinner ready when they returned. Rory bought a second car, so Hunter had options on weekends. Hunter decided he would join them for a few ski trips each season for family bonding, but otherwise enjoyed rare, unstructured time to himself—a precious commodity as a stay-at-home dad.

This arrangement worked beautifully. Rory was able to share her love of skiing with the kids, which was incredibly meaningful to her, while Hunter gained much-needed personal time and no longer felt trapped in a situation he despised. Hunter and Rory’s story illustrates how healthy compromises work; neither partner “won” nor “lost.” Instead, they both gave a little and got a little. Through negotiation and compromise, they reached a solution that felt equitable and allowed them to move forward with confidence and mutual respect.

***

Negotiation, compromise, and sacrifice are integral to shaping a life together. By teaching clients to differentiate these concepts, I hope to empower them to engage in relationships as active participants rather than passive followers. Healthy relationships require adaptability, mutual respect, and clear communication. Whether clients are building a life with a partner, strengthening family bonds, or deciding on a career path, these tools equip them to foster meaningful, sustainable connections. As a therapist, my role is to guide clients in creating these shared visions with intention, ensuring their relational choices align with their values and aspirations.

Questions for Thought and Discussion

  • How does the author’s work resonate with your own couples therapy?
  • Which of the three elements of change do you use in your clinical work with couples?
  • What additional or different interventions do you use with couples?
  • How would you have worked differently with Hunter and Rory?

Jessica Kitchens on the Clinical Needs of Autistic Adults

Lawrence Rubin: I’m here today with Jessica Kitchens, who describes herself as a conscious, inclusive, Indigenous and artistic leader dedicated to enhancing the lives of others through collaborative efforts. She also describes herself as Autistic, Indigenous, wife, mother of five, CEO, therapist, consultant, author, trainer, board certified cognitive specialist, addiction specialist and neuro diversity advocate. And of course, she is a clinician. Hi Jessica, thanks for joining me.
Jessica Kitchens: Glad to be here, Lawrence.

By Any Other Name-Late Identified Autism

LR: Let’s begin with terms. What is a late identified Autistic?
JK: Late identified Autistics are individuals that have been Autistic their whole lives but may not have been recognized as such because they have developed high masking capabilities. They decided that it was better for them to adapt certain behavioral patterns in order to fit in. It is something they have come to do automatically. They don’t know why; they just knew that they needed to. Later on in life, they recognized that this method of fitting into social norms, while self-protective, also came with a high cost. They begin to struggle as the demands of adulthood kick in, so to speak. Sometimes, they become aware of the burden of masking their own struggles when their child is diagnosed.
LR: late identified Autistics are individuals that have been Autistic their whole lives but may not have been recognized as such because they have developed high masking capabilitiesThe ability to recognize and then mask difficulties seems to be an advanced coping skill, but a very demanding, and perhaps tiring one. Do they reach a tipping or breaking point?
JK: Absolutely! There’s a lot of wear and tear that goes into high masking because of the psychological and emotional energy expenditure. Many of these individuals cope with masking by abusing substances or through process/behavioral addictions like gambling, shopping, and gaming, to name a few. That’s sometimes why they end up coming to see me, unless they are referred by family members or their employers or school personnel suggest it. But others simply burn out or shut down.
LR: I imagine they may also present with anxiety, depression, and/or substance abuse. But I can also see a therapist missing the Autism if they either don’t look for it or are not trained to look for or assess it.
JK: Absolutely. There are a lot of misdiagnosed individuals out there walking around with a higher proportion of them being female, but there are high masking males out there as well. These individuals may be diagnosed with bipolar disorder because the dysregulation can come out sometimes as mania, or they present symptoms of borderline personality disorder. I was personally misdiagnosed with generalized anxiety disorder.
LR: these individuals may be diagnosed with bipolar disorder because the dysregulation can come out sometimes as mania, or they present symptoms of borderline personality disorder
What are some of the reasons that a clinician, especially one that is non-Autistic, might miss the Autism diagnosis?
JK: Unfortunately, this is a common problem. We have a lot of professionals out there that are really good at what they do, but they have not had adequate or up-to-date training on what Autism now looks like, because they’re still looking at very old stereotypes. It wasn’t even in the DSM until 1980, and even then, they still had a very distorted view of what it was.It’s only now that Autistic researchers are coming out and talking about their own lived experience and we’re finally changing what the diagnosis looks like because there’s a lot of what I would call iceberg Autistics out there. They’ve masked for so long and kept a lot of this stuff underneath. Therefore, a lot of clinicians are over-relying on stereotypes and media representations of lower functioning, higher support needed individuals like Rain Man. They miss the diagnosis of Autism when they see someone like me, thinking something like, “you don’t you don’t look like my cousin who has Autism. So unfortunately, there are a lot of clinicians out there that are doing some harm because they do not have up-to-date training.
LR: there are a lot of clinicians out there that are doing some harm because they do not have up-to-date trainingSo up to date training would tell clinicians that Autism is far more, or far different than being able to count 496 matches on the floor, stimming, self-harming, or having real difficulties making eye contact, to name some of the more familiar symptom clusters. What are the new generation of trained clinicians looking for?
JK: A lot of times, these clients come in because of dysregulation, even though they may not use the term. They may find themselves easily dysregulated in their work environment or in their home environment. They may actually have a visceral, nervous system response to sounds and lights. And since Autism is a dynamic disability, they may struggle in their relationships because of difficulties with pragmatic communication. On a given day, these folks, me included, may have difficulty finding the simplest of words to use. When a clinician is trained to look for these subtleties, they are in a better position to ask the right questions.
LR: Are there benefits of first being diagnosed in adulthood?
JK: That’s a good question and one that a lot of them must decide for themselves. A formal diagnosis in certain settings, like school or work, can help them get accommodations, such as adaptations to the sensory environments, that can put them on par to where they can now be equal and function at a baseline level with some of their neurotypical peers. Sometimes they can get them without a formal diagnosis, but some work environments are exceedingly difficult in allowing that. And sadly, we still have a lot of ableism in work environments.For others not necessarily pursuing accommodations, formal diagnosis can empower them to re-consider their dysregulation, learn coping mechanisms such as mindfulness, and review their life in a way that now makes sense to them.
LR: sadly, we still have a lot of ableism in work environmentsWouldn’t we the want the newly diagnosed adult to be referred to a clinician who knows how to help this particular client?
JK: Absolutely, but unfortunately, there are clinicians out there that can do more harm than good if they don’t have the right knowledge to work with these clients. I’m very picky about who I work with because there’s a lot of nuances that go with the neurodiversity affirming framework, such as learning about the nervous system functioning of an Autistic adult.
LR: Have you seen any downsides to a person being diagnosed in adulthood with Autism?
JK: Within work environments, there are instances of ableism among managers or supervisors who work against accommodations. The problem can be institutional.
LR: So just as there are institutional racism and institutional homophobia, there is also institutional ableism?
JK: It’s heavy and it’s ingrained in all aspects of our culture. One of the things that I’m working on in my PhD research is decolonizing ableism by utilizing and looking at indigenous perspectives of Autism through my own and other tribes. I’m trying to view it through an indigenous and a decolonizing framework, because the Western medicine is entrenched with a lot of deficit-oriented stereotypes. It’s everywhere. It’s in our schools, it’s in our work, it’s in medical institutions. We do have capabilities. We want people to recognize that we are autonomous persons, and just because we struggle with certain skills, there are many things that we are still capable of, and many Autistic adults are quite gifted in many ways.
LR: How has being a late diagnosed Autistic influenced your professional trajectory and shaped who you are in the therapy room with clients?
JK: It’s changed everything. I was formally diagnosed a few years ago, but it was my youngest daughter of my five that was diagnosed before any of us, and now my youngest three are all formally diagnosed with ADHD and Autism. It’s one of those things that’s literally changed every facet of my life. Every conversation that I have with people is entrenched in this.The ways I review my childhood and how I view my future are now entrenched with this view which has also affected my research and PhD journey. I don’t ever see it going back. I’ve had to grieve a lot of my life, but there is no me without Autism because this is who I am. It explains so much. It explains all the things that I’ve probably struggled with my whole life.

Neurodiversity Affirming Intervention

LR: In the case of an Autistic adult, what is neurodiversity affirming intervention?
JK: A person-centered orientation seems to be the best for most of these clients. But knowledge and the understanding of certain Autism experiences like pathological demand avoidance or rejection sensitive dysphoria, goes a long way. So does using correct terms such as identity first language—using the word ‘Autistic,’ rather than ‘a person with Autism.’
LR:a person-centered orientation seems to be the best for most of these clientsWhat do you mean by saying that a person-centered approach is best?
JK: Meeting them where they’re at – a lot of times clinicians have this view that they need to fix people. That’s not what it is. You know? It’s more about matching that congruence and recognizing that you we are capable of so much beyond the narrow limits of what the diagnosis suggests. It’s about recognizing what skills can actually help us be the best that we can be as a person, whatever that looks like. Whether it’s mindfulness, EMDR, or CBT. It’s about grabbing from modalities of all types. Everybody’s different.It’s not about coming from a place of judgment. I don’t want to push my views on my client of what I think they need to be working on. I want them to have an idea of areas they want to grow in and using whatever tools and skills I have to help them get there.
LR: there is this misconception that people are being overly diagnosed, that we’re handing it out like candyAre there myths and misconceptions that clinicians bring into this work that hinders intervention?
JK: There is this misconception that people are being overly diagnosed, that we’re handing it out like candy. Clinicians who believe this go in with automatic blinders. In reality, Autism goes back generations in families, so a new diagnosis should not be that surprising or unlikely. And because these adults are bringing their children in for diagnosis, it makes sense to either formally or informally assess and perhaps even help that parent. And while it’s not a myth or misconception per se, internalized ableism on the part of the client or clinician, or both, can hinder the intervention process.
LR: Have you encountered resistance from some clients who are on the doorstep of the diagnosis?
JK: The only resistance that I’ve noted has not come from the clients themselves. It has been from their families because a lot of them take it as an affront to who they are or believe in some way that they caused it. And so again, that goes back to some internalized ableism. Sometimes, these clients come to me already knowing about the possibility. A lot of them actually did. Sometimes, it comes to them after I’ve planted seeds.
LR: the undiagnosed or unaware Autistic clinician is going to miss it in their clients if they’ve missed it in themselvesIs an undiagnosed Autistic therapist a potential risk to either neurotypical or neurodiverse clients? Or is the therapy potentially limited by a clinician who is unaware of – or resistant to – acknowledging their Autism?
JK: The undiagnosed or unaware Autistic clinician is going to miss it in their clients if they’ve missed it in themselves. I’ve been there too. I have to look back and reckon with the fact that there are some clients with whom I’ve missed important aspects of their experience because I wasn’t thinking about the possibility of Autism.

Transitions and Unique Challenges for the Autistic Adult

LR: We know that stress increases as life demands accelerate, so are older teens and young who have not yet been diagnosed at a greater risk?
JK:  It’s interesting that you ask that question because I was a co-researcher on a Delphi study on what independent living looks like to Autistic adults. And as far as moving out on their own or going to college or working, many of these young people start struggling all of a sudden, or at least far more than they had previously.They did well at home and well in school because there was a lot of structure and stability. But now all of the sudden they’re required to function on a higher level. Logistics are a different monster altogether such as paying bills and adapting to new, and complex sensory and demand environments.
LR: Is the diagnostic threshold different for teens than it is for adults?
JK: I would expect the clinician to be able to identify high masking, and to use multiple sources in the assessment of younger clients who may not be able to report fully. I think it’s often harder to diagnose a child because they can’t speak for themselves. If the clinician uses appropriate measures and asks the right questions, it can actually be easier because they can ask about the internal processes, not just your behaviors and what you do and what others see, but what the internal processes are.
LR: Can you think of a few assessment instruments off the top of your head?
JK: The Social Responsiveness Scale is one that was done on me. I felt like, man, that asked a lot of the right questions, and there was also a Sensory Profile that really nailed it, at least for me.
LR: many people on the spectrum actually have higher than average affective empathyWhat are some of the relationship and family issues that Autistic adult clients bring to you?
JK: There is an interesting challenge for Autistic adults called the double empathy problem. One of the stereotypes is that these people lack empathy, which is the furthest thing from the truth. Many people on the spectrum actually have higher than average affective empathy. The disconnect comes from alexithymia, meaning they may not be able to label that feeling, but they can feel it. A lot of them do struggle with Theory of Mind (ToM), also known as cognitive empathy. That’s the problem with necessarily putting yourself in the shoes of the individual and understanding their perspective.So, you might have two individuals with high affective empathy, but differences in their cognitive empathy. The double empathy problem manifests in, one or the other member of the couple or family member, not feeling understood. They might butt heads, which then leads to a lack of reciprocity. That’s one of those nuances that a non-neurodiversity affirming therapist might miss.
LR: What might be some of the challenges to Autistic parents?
JK: Parents also struggle with the double empathy problem. Some of the biggest communication struggles I had with my teen children were whenever we were coming from different places of reciprocity or understanding each other’s perspectives.
LR: What is internalized ableism?
JK: As a parent, it could be expecting an Autistic child to do something a non-Autistic child can do or expecting a partner to somehow be or act normally, without respecting their diversity and difficulties. That child or adult then internalizes that prejudice and may struggle unnecessarily, beating themselves up, instead of accepting certain limitations and learning effective coping skills.
LR: You identify as indigenous, and work with indigenous clients? Does Autism manifest differently among indigenous people?
JK: Absolutely. Here in Arkansas, I don’t have as many clients as I would if I was back in Oklahoma 20 years ago, which is where my tribe is, the Potawatomi. And we know the Māori in New Zealand have a word for Autism called Takiwãtanga, which means in your own time and place. They have a more positive frame of mind for Autistics.
LR: many Autistics have high affective empathy, and deep sense of justiceWe tend to pathologize differences, but I am now wondering about some of the unique skills and advantages associated with Autism, perhaps that a clinician could capitalize on.
JK: I feel like it’s different for everybody, but many Autistics have high affective empathy, and deep sense of justice. A lot of us are really hard-core advocates in general because of our empathy. It tears us up whenever somebody is being mistreated. Other than that, the noting of patterns. For me, it’s behavioral patterns. I was able to learn behavioral patterns early on to mask my differences, but it can also help me to note incongruences with my clients. We can also be quite analytic. Clearly, we have many broad capabilities, so stereotypes often simply fall short.
LR: Finally, what are some resources and organizations that clinicians can use to improve their identification and intervention skills?
JK: If you’re going to work with Autistics, you need to know about pathological demand avoidance, also known as persistent drive for autonomy, which is PPDA. PPDA North America is a useful resource for this, but there’s also NeuroClastic, which I believe is a 501 C3. They work the business side; working with businesses and hiring Autistic individuals and they do a lot of good. There’s also the Autistic Self-Advocacy Network.
LR: Is there anything I failed to mention, Jessica, or questions I could have asked?
JK: There are so many nuances to appreciate about this population, and it is so much more than reading the DSM when you work with these clients. You’re going to learn the most from individuals with lived experience and those who have entrenched themselves into Autistic research.
LR: On that note, Jessica, thank you so very much for your expertise and sharing your valuable time.
JK: No problem. I really appreciate it.

Becoming an Accidental DBT Therapist

A Curious Professional Journey

I did not set out to become a therapist who utilized Dialectical Behavior Therapy (DBT). When I was in graduate school, I had hoped to become a therapist who worked mainly with married couples and families, which is where I put much of the focus of my training. I had taken a class that referenced DBT and had also heard what a nightmare clients with borderline personality disorder (BPD) were to work with. But since that was never going to be me (ha!), what did I have to worry about?

Turns out, quite a bit.

For my predoctoral internship I was matched with a clinic that specialized in working with families going through oversea adoptions. Often families who had successful adoptions would later discover that the children had attachment disorder. While at this clinic, I worked with various licensed therapists and families in a variety of modalities, including: individual work, EMDR, support groups, skills groups for the children and developmental assessments.

Attachment disorder is difficult to treat and the burnout rate among therapists who do this important work is high. The clinicians I worked with, and under, were passionate and gifted. I still bear a scar on my left arm from where a child who had become dysregulated bit me. In a conversation with my supervisor, he explained to me that many of these children with attachment disorder will grow up to be clients with BPD. This is not a population for the faint of heart, and while the success rate is not exactly through the roof, it was an important part of my development.

Fast forwarding to the end of my internship, I was out pounding the pavement, trying to find a job in the field without much success. A former classmate and friend of mine had recently interviewed for a job at a community mental health center. They were looking for an already-licensed therapist to train in DBT who was willing to work with BDP clients. My friend told me, “this job doesn’t pay for shit, so I’m taking a pass. Thought that you might be interested instead.” Funny right?

Despite the glowing recommendation from my friend, I applied. During the interview, the interviewer (correctly) noted my lack of experience with BPD. I remembered what my supervisor told me and responded that I had experience, I just worked with them earlier in the process when it was still seen as Attachment Disorder.

I never received feedback to know for certain if that’s what sealed the deal, but I had gotten the job. My friend had been right when he said it didn’t pay very much, but what it did offer me was training in DBT and that changed my life forever.

My Challenging Work with Sarah

For those not familiar with DBT, it is a skills-based modality with regularly assigned homework that incorporates concepts and practices drawn from mindfulness, Buddhism, Hegel, and basic methods of therapeutic validation. Many of these concepts are abstract, and often difficult for clients to fully grasp and embrace. It can be especially tough for those with developmental challenges typically associated with attachment and personality disorders.

For me to be able to explain them to these clients in ways that they could understand and implement in their daily lives, as well as during times of crisis, I really had to learn these concepts backwards and forwards, breaking each down to its essence.

One of my earliest clients, whom I shall call “Sarah,” was very hesitant to embrace these concepts. Partly, because they were difficult to understand, but Sarah had also been through a LOT of therapy before arriving at DBT. (DBT is rarely the first stop on a client’s therapy journey and as we say, “nobody gets to DBT by accident.”)

Therapy had yet to help her in any way she could appreciate. Her arms were covered in scars from many attempts at suicide and self-injury. Estranged from most of her family, she lived with her grandparents because no group home or assisted living facility wanted the liability risk. At the time, she proved unable to hold down a job of any kind. As such, Sarah’s world was small, and her human contact was limited to intermittent conversations with her grandparents, therapists, medical personnel, and DBT Group members during her frequent hospital stays.

During one session, we were talking about suicide and self-harm when Sarah stated that she was likely to die from suicide at some point, because what was the point of living if this was all there was to life? What would happen to her after her grandparents passed away? I replied that those were excellent questions. Her life as it was currently constructed was about survival and little more. Why would any therapist expect her to embrace such a life? For Sarah, being told that “things could always be worse,” was of little consolation. What was the point of staying alive when things could get worse?

One of DBT’s core concepts is referred to as “A Life Worth Living.” In essence, it asks the client what would have to change about their life so ideations like self-harm or trying to commit suicide would organically come off the table? Of course, we must survive before we can thrive, but what did thriving look like to Sarah?

Sarah said she wanted to be able to live on her own (or with occasional assistance that would come when needed), to have a job and her own money, and MAYBE (some pie in the sky stuff here) even have some friends! To her, that would be “A Life Worth Living.” I told her it was possible to have those things, but it is going to take work. DBT, like life, is like playing a sport. It requires clients to consider making choices that someone who could live on their own, hold down a job, and had friends would make. I challenged Sarah by asking, “are you making any of those choices right now?”

She reluctantly conceded that she was not. She could not fault her grandparents for not having faith she could live on her own; the paramedics were at their house at least once a month, if not weekly due to Sarah’s self-harm and suicide attempts. Her time in and out of the hospital and subsequent therapy appointments throughout the week, made it hard for her to hold a job.

I asked Sarah what she saw as the biggest obstacle to getting to her “Life Worth Living?”

“The cutting,” she said.

I agreed. If we could find other more skillful and adaptive ways to tolerate distress, the idea of her living on her own and being able to stay out of the hospital (and therefore able to work), seemed more plausible. That session was when Sarah committed to taking self-harm off the table.

This was no small commitment. Sarah used self-harm weekly for over ten years. Neither she nor I had any illusions that it would be easy for her. In a paradoxical way, self-injury had kept her alive as a coping skill on more than one occasion. She had a concept of how to resolve physical pain, while emotional pain seemed too overwhelming. In order for her to make this work, it was a matter of buying into DBT and its skills. Would the skills be as effective as a coping mechanism for her while keeping her safe? It was a leap of faith I was asking her to make – to put her trust in DBT and our therapeutic relationship. We were off.

Sarah’s Rocky Progress Forward

Gradually the ambulances stopped coming to Sarah’s grandparents’ house and while she never went to the hospital again, it was not a smooth, upward trajectory. There were setbacks, but one day without self-harm became a week which became a month, and then we were at her quarterly review. With her grandparents present, they attended many of Sarah’s appointments and reviews, Sarah proudly told them she had gone three months without hurting herself. She had been practicing her DBT skills (Distract, Self Soothe, Opposite to Emotion, Pros and Cons) and she had plans to share!

Sarah told them about wanting to live on her own and have a job. Her grandparents were pleased, surprised, and anxious all at the same time. These were big steps to take. While they praised Sarah for her efforts and progress it didn’t stop them from worrying. Sarah wasn’t derailed and instead offered to negotiate with them: if she could keep up this progress for nine more months and graduate from Stage 1 of DBT, would they support her? First in getting a job and second in finding a place to live?

As her therapist, I jumped in explaining that this seemed like a good Wise Mind (middle path between reason and emotions) compromise. Assuming she succeeded it would be a new experience with new kinds of stress and new opportunities for her to use her skills. If she could navigate holding down a job while using what she had been practicing, it would stand to reason she could do the same living on her own.

Her grandparents agreed to the plan – the smile it brought to Sarah’s face was one I hadn’t seen before. I wasn’t sure who was more excited at that moment, me or her! Being able to observe her having faith in herself and her future remains one of the most powerful experiences I have shared with a client. I did not know then what the future held, but I knew that DBT worked, and I could not turn my back on something that worked. From that moment on, I was a DBT therapist.

***

It’s been almost 25 years, throughout which I have worked with thousands of clients on achieving their “lives worth living.” I have seen clients who went from thinking about suicide almost every day to taking it completely off the table. Many were clients who now have healthy relationships and rewarding careers, just like Sarah. The work is challenging, and I am thankful for the support of a great team. The pride I take in seeing how hard these clients work on themselves is impossible to describe. They continue to make me a better therapist and I would not have it any other way.

Questions for Thought and Discussion

  • What serendipitous experiences have you had over the years that have opened interesting clinical doors for you?
  • In what ways are the core premises of Dialectical Behavior Therapy consistent with your orientation to therapy?
  • What are some of the limitations you have experienced or anticipate in the application of DBT principles and techniques?

Through the Eyes of the Childlike Empress: Play Therapy with Refugee Children

A Newcomer to the Reception Center

Rayan’s story has so much in common with those of hundreds of children I (IC) have met over the years when I worked for a major humanitarian organization as a social worker and head of social services. When I met him at the Reception Center (“Center”) for asylum seekers and refugees, I knew nothing about what had happened in his life and that of his family before they sought asylum in Switzerland. I would simply receive a referral, confirm the possibility of hosting the family, record basic data, and read observations from professionals they met before me.

Rayan was a 5-year-old boy from a conflict-torn area, the eldest of four siblings. Before he had lived for short periods of time in many different locations where no one spoke his native language or shared his culture of origin. Reading the few notes about him reminded me that we might have to deal with a little “Hulk,” the fictional character from American comic books who, when angry, loses control and unleashes superhuman strength. Those notes read, “The child is unsettled, too reactive but too insecure, he is already behind on everything. He is unmanageable and dangerous to other children; he cannot be included in a formal preschool program or in group activities. He has already broken two chairs; we can’t risk having him with us.”

As had happened to me before, I had the feeling that much of the world around this child was constantly reminding him that he did not fit in, and that he had now accumulated a series of labels: clumsy, dangerous, unsuitable, incompetent, irredeemable. Can anyone be cumbersome, unlovable or lost at 5 years old? Some time ago, my colleague (and co-author of this essay) Claudio said to me, “It’s okay for a little child to have never won anything, but it’s not okay for others to make him think he’s already a loser.” Simple as it is, this statement resonates perfectly with what I believe.

What Rayan had (or had not) learned so far did not make it any easier for him in this new context. He had come to a safe place, but his life had not really improved his feeling of safety. Compared to peers, some opportunities were blurring in front of him: play and recreational activities, kindergarten, afternoons in the park with other children—nothing was within his reach yet. He was spending some time in adult contexts, discourses, and rhythms. A vicious cycle was in place: Rayan seemed to be inadequate for any activity, his learning opportunities were reduced, and consequently he became less and less adequate to benefit from future activities.

In my work at the Center and in international crisis contexts, I grasped that one of the main goals of an intervention with displaced children was to help them improve the quality of their lives, and that this depended on having more opportunities and choices in daily life. This is positively influenced by having the chance to acquire new knowledge and skills (1). As with other children, Rayan’s difficulties did not end once his family filed for asylum. On the contrary, the world seemed ironically to be closing down his possibilities.

Even Bastian Did Not Feel Worthy

With the parents’ consent, we started Child Centered Play Therapy sessions. While I was setting up the playroom in anticipation of Rayan’s seventh visit, I wondered what he would come up with today. Would he throw the toys all over the room? Would he want to hit me with the sword very hard? Would I have to use again all my skills and patience to get him out at the end of 40 minutes? Wait a minute, I thought. Was I too, treating him the ways others had in the past?

There he was. Mom holding his hand. They were late and she seemed to be dragging him a little. He was sullen. I couldn’t tell if he had put his sandals on wrong or if he was actually twisting his feet a little. The tight tank top highlighted his few extra pounds. He glanced at me furtively. His eyes were hazel and his hair short and very dark. No, this was not “public enemy number one,” not to me at least. While very dynamic and physically strong for his age, he was, after all, just a 5-year-old.

As I kneeled to greet him, Rayan immediately sat beside me. In that moment, I reflected that it is experience that changes people, and for Rayan, a key aspect of those experiences so far in his little life was being seen differently, a bit like Bastian in The Neverending Story, by Michael Ende. Bastian did not feel he could be part of the adventure. He was afraid of the unknown, of being laughed at, of not being right. He felt he was not brave enough, thin enough, and handsome enough, and yet in the eyes of the Childlike Empress, he suddenly saw himself reflected in a new way: the image of a young prince, proud, agile, and competent, cut out for adventure.

I think Rayan needed new eyes that reflected a different image of him, one that would allow him to put aside the collection of refusals and negative labels and instead be able to develop his full potential.

A Very Special Play Time

Before we started our seventh play therapy session, I repeated to Rayan, “We are about to enter the special playroom. In this room you can do almost anything you want, if there is something you cannot do, I will tell you.”

Even though we already had a few visits, perhaps he didn’t fully grasp what I was saying. I opened the door and this time, rather than walk in, he paused for a few moments in the doorway. I would have loved to tell him:

This is a space of exploration and knowledge where you can do what you want as long as it doesn’t hurt you. Here, you can be whomever you want despite what some think of you. This is your space, and I am not going to tell you what to do and what to change. In your own time, you can discover who you are, who you want to become, and have the adventures that make you feel your best. I am here for you.

All human beings need to be co-regulated, let alone this little boy about whom I knew so little, and whose future was so incredibly uncertain.

“You’re not sure what you want to do today. You’re interested in those swords. You’re intrigued by those little cars.”

Suddenly, Rayan fell to the ground in a very theatrical way. I tried to understand as quickly as possible what he was communicating to me. Feeling that I had been invited into an imaginary play, I rescued him.

“Oh no, something has happened! Here I am, putting a bandage on you.”

I applied a bandage to his ankle and Rayan stood up. He looked around, took a few steps and again fell to the ground.

“Oh, it happened again, here I am, here’s a special medicine,” I said.

After a few moments, he got up and suddenly said aloud, “Help!” and threw himself back on the ground, stretching his arms and legs. I was again ready to rescue him and to respond in the way that seemed most appropriate.

Although I have the recording of this session, I never counted how many times he threw himself to the ground. Possibly 20 times in half an hour. Each time I rescued him as if it were the first. Was he representing a real-life moment? Was he testing my ability to play along and my resistance? Was it a way to elicit attention, care, protection, or a combination of all these things? Trying to understand what children are communicating to us is important, but what matters most is that they feel that they can let go, be themselves, and “tell their wordless story” (2). I wanted to be predictable, attuned and accepting so that Rayan realized that he could feel fully himself and find in me a valuable ally. As with Bastian, he deserved the time and space to tell his story, to create a tailored world in which he was the protagonist.

Facing the Bah

I repeated the initial play session structuring formula before opening the door. We were in the eleventh session and by then, it was clear to him what I was communicating.

“There’s a bah,” Rayan said to me out of the blue.

I had no idea what it was, but from his tone of voice and facial expression, it sounded like something scary, so I showed fear. But Rayan was no longer the same destructive and insecure child. He had begun to recognize his monsters and was now able to face them. In fact, he harnessed a sword, ran in the direction of the front door, and started a thunderous battle. Then he came back to me and let me know that he had defeated the bah. Suddenly this character reappeared, but this time, Rayan entrusted a sword to me too (the smaller one!) and we became allies against the bah.

We fought again and again, the bah moved, disappeared and then returned, and multiplied. At one point, something happened that I perceived out of the ordinary for our play. After a long battle together, Rayan turned to me and told me that the bah was me, and he suddenly hit me on the leg. The script of this version of the story as I understood it, was different. I was surprised, and feeling a bit emotionally hurt, mistakenly exclaimed, “I am not the bah!”

In looking back on that moment, I now realize that Rayan probably felt ready to see the scary character materialize in front of him, so to expand the play, he inserted a variation. Either hypothesis is good news while the video showing my mistake (a definitely directive reaction in a non-directive setting) appears to be useful in our trainings, producing laughter and relieving students’ tension before mock sessions, but above all it raises reflections on the complexity of the methodology, the role and awareness of the therapist’s person and feelings.

As the session continued, Rayan repeatedly called for reinforcements like the police who nevertheless never arrived. It was the two of us who had to defend ourselves. He had very clear ideas: he placed a dollhouse in the center of the carpet and carefully closed all the doors and windows and approached with swords and guns. Something didn’t convince him it was safe, so he slipped under a toy worktable and invited me in, but unfortunately, I didn’t fit. He spotted a large transparent box and emptied it on the ground making a loud noise, sat in it and invited me in. I succeeded but could only stand. Rayan looked around and found a black mantle, made me sit on the ground next to the box, and covered both our heads. Here we were finally in our safe space.

We stay down there, two allies whispering in amusement. Rayan was satisfied, courageous and creative. The bah was not defeated yet but had found a worthy opponent who had an ally who believed in him and would never betray him.

Recovering Lost Play Time

Like other children, Rayan took part in the project “Recovering Lost Play Time” (3) that we developed within Reception Centers for asylum seekers and refugees. After 12 individual sessions he gradually took part in a small group where he had the opportunity to further develop his initiatives and interests, but also to join other children’s play and got involved in several activities.

Mindful that what happens outside the therapy room is just as important as what happens inside (if not more so), the aim of our program was to initiate processes to expand the range of positive experiences in as many contexts as possible including family, school and recreational settings (4).

Many children like Rayan who face migration or protracted difficult circumstances learn that certain events and conditions can make them feel helpless, incapable, fearful, inadequate, unworthy. For them, recovering lost play time means regaining a feeling of safety and possibilities and accumulating, in their own time, different and positive ways of perceiving the world, others and especially their own worth.

References

(1) Cassina, I. & Mochi, C. (2023). ‘Applying the therapeutic power of play and expressive arts in contemporary crisis work. A process-oriented approach’. In I., Cassina, C., Mochi, & K., Stagnitti (eds.) Play therapy and expressive arts in a complex and dynamic world: Opportunities and challenges inside and outside the playroom, Routledge, 6–27.

(2) Damasio, A. (1999). The feeling of what happens. Body and emotions in the making of consciousness, Harvest Book Harcourt, Inc.

(3) Cassina, I. (2023). ‘Recovering lost play time. Principles and intervention modalities to address the psychosocial wellbeing of asylum seekers and refugee children’. In I., Cassina, C., Mochi, & K., Stagnitti (eds.) Play therapy and expressive arts in a complex and dynamic world: Opportunities and challenges inside and outside the playroom, Routledge, 50–68.

(4) Cassina, I., & Mochi, C. (2024). ‘Polyvagal-informed practice to support children and caregivers in war: Toward the creation of a huge and reassuring playroom’. In P., Goodyear-Brown, & L., Yasenik (eds.) Polyvagal power in the playroom. A guide for play therapists, Routledge.

Navigating the Landscape of Spiritual Experience in Therapy

A Discipline Founded in Spirituality

One of my favorite literary quotes is from Shakespeare’s play Hamlet: “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.” It implies that there are mysteries and experiences beyond our understanding of the world. Hamlet says this after encountering his father’s ghost, which is considered a strange and supernatural event.

The Swiss psychiatrist, Carl Jung had many paranormal experiences including near-death ones and a series of visions. He wrote and painted extensively about these experiences. Though committed to practicing practical psychology, he pioneered a way of incorporating mysticism, like astrology and divination, in psychological work.

The American philosopher and psychologist, William James was one of the founders of psychology as a discipline. He identified four characteristics of mystical experience: ineffable, noetic, transient and passive.

All this to say that spiritual encounters are foundational human experiences.

The ACA’s Code of Ethics emphasizes a client-centered approach, meaning whether or not to discuss spirituality is ultimately decided by the client. The counselor should only explore this topic if it is relevant to the client’s concerns and with their consent, and counselors must acknowledge and respect the diverse spiritual beliefs of their clients, including those who may not identify with any particular religion.

I come from a culture with spiritual traditions ranging from Jewish to Pagan to Christian, often blending them. My family’s stories include tales of mysterious visitations (when her beloved grandfather died, my mother said he came to her in the middle the of the night) as well as rituals like baptisms, seances, lighting candles, and making offerings to saints. We also have a Freemason or two among my ancestors. I have engaged in a lifelong exploration of spiritual practices and traditions including Catholicism, Reformed Judaism, Taoism, Tantra Shaivism, and Dzogchen Buddhism so when it comes to spirituality, I’m open to whatever shows up.

Valuing the Client’s Spirituality

A non-binary client in their late thirties was facing a 4-year battle with malignant terminal cancer. They shared that their experience using psychedelics felt initially terrible and filled with suffering, but that when they were able to surrender, they experienced a sense of wholeness and bliss. I suggested we could use this psychedelic vision as a map for their journey going forward with illness and death, something they had not considered nor shared with their previous counselor.

Another client shared that traveling abroad enabled her to soften the edges of her identity and boundaries, allowing her to experience the world and other people with a sense of greater connection and ease. She strongly felt that travel was a spiritual experience for her that aligned with her Jewish roots.

A client who had struggled with intergenerational trauma and loss, practiced self-administering psilocybin alone and shared with me her insights. She described a mixture of experiences, from the more mundane to a profound connection through a vision of an ancestor whom she felt she actually embodied during a mushroom journey. This enabled her to connect with feelings of forgiveness for the suffering she endured.

Perhaps one of my most challenged clients identifies as a Christian. He struggles with an understandable dilemma: if God is good, why does evil exist? And why does God allow women he falls in love with to stay in abusive situations? Though I do not subscribe to his beliefs, I feel strongly that his questions are profound and worth exploring. It is, at times, difficult for me to refrain from remedying his dilemma through my more Eastern spiritual beliefs. Instead, I shared Anthony de Mello’s little gem of a book entitled The Way to Love. de Mello was a Jesuit who lived in India most of his life and wrote bracingly about God, Reality, and Love.

Clients who identify as Pagan or Wiccan, will often discuss their Tarot readings with me. I feel thankful for my familiarity with this tradition and genre of symbology that allows me to explore their concerns using a rich metaphorical language.

These are some of the questions I use when approaching clients’ spiritual experiences:

  • What do you feel or think this dream/vision is telling you?
  • Is there a message here that feels relevant to your life?
  • What troubles or reassures you about this experience?
  • If this experience was “your marching orders” as it were, what would those be?

When clients talk about noetic experiences, I listen closely for clues to discover and incorporate meaning in their experiences. The terrain of spiritual experience is as complex and multifaceted as human consciousness itself. Our therapeutic approach must honor this complexity—recognizing that spiritual encounters are deeply personal, often ineffable, and profoundly transformative. Just as Carl Jung and William James understood, these experiences transcend simple categorization, challenging our conventional understanding of reality and self.

My key therapeutic considerations include:

  • Embracing radical openness to clients’ spiritual narratives
  • Maintaining ethical boundaries while creating space for profound exploration
  • Recognizing spirituality as a potential source of meaning, resilience, and healing
  • Understanding that spiritual experiences are as unique as the individuals who encounter them

As counselor, my role is not to validate or invalidate spiritual experiences, but to provide a compassionate, non-judgmental container for understanding. Whether these experiences emerge through dreams, meditation, near-death encounters, or altered states of consciousness, they represent critical moments of potential insight and personal growth.

Critically, my approach must be rooted in the ACA’s ethical framework: client-centered, consensual, and fundamentally respectful of individual spiritual diversity. I listen not to interpret, but to understand—creating a therapeutic relationship where clients feel safe exploring the most intimate dimensions of their inner landscape.

Just as my own journey has woven through diverse spiritual traditions—from Judaism to Buddhism, from mystical practices to academic inquiry—so too must my therapeutic practice remain flexible, curious, and deeply attuned to the nuanced ways humans make meaning of their existential experiences.

Our relationship(s) with the invisible and numinous (meaning, suggesting the presence of divinity, or just Presence) is as individual and unique as fingerprints, yet has common features. These experiences may elicit awe, offer reassurance, incite action, and clarify issues. I have found the Mystical Experience Questionnaire (MEQ) to be very useful in this regard. It was developed in the 1960’s to assess mystical experiences caused by hallucinogens. It covers dimensions such as unity, sacredness, and ineffability. The Revised Mystical Experience Questionnaire (MEQ-30) is a 30-item version of the MEQ that is used in clinical research & measures four dimensions of spirituality: belief in God, mindfulness, search for meaning, and feeling of security. It can be downloaded here: https://psychology-tools.com/test/meq-30.

***

Ultimately, spirituality in counseling is about creating a sacred space of genuine human connection—where the mysterious, the ineffable, and the profoundly personal can be witnessed with compassion, wisdom, and profound respect.

Questions for Thought and Discussion

Which of the cases the author discussed resonated with you the most? In what ways?

How do you incorporate spirituality into your own clinical practice?

How do you integrate your own spirituality into your clinical work?

Bethany Brand on the Identification and Treatment of Dissociative Identity Disorder

Lawrence Rubin: Bethany Brand is a professor of psychology at Towson University. She’s an expert in trauma, specializing in trauma related disorders, including post-traumatic stress disorder and dissociative disorders. She also maintains an independent practice in clinical psychology in Towson, Maryland. Doctor Brandt serves on international and national task forces developing guidelines for the assessment and treatment of trauma disorders. Welcome, Bethany. Thank you for joining.

Bethany Brand: Thank you so much for having me.

Right Place, Right Time

LR: What got you interested in dissociative disorders, trauma, and ultimately dissociative identity disorder from a personal perspective?

BB: It was a number of things. One of the early experiences I had as an undergraduate at the University of Michigan was working in a shelter for women who’d been battered, which is what it was called back then—not interpersonal violence like we call it now. I started hearing about trauma and remember being very interested in it. In my first semester of graduate school, I was doing a psychological testing practicum at Johns Hopkins Hospital on the kids’ unit. This was in the late 80s, so many of the kids had been abused or neglected according to their charts. I asked my supervisor how that experience might be reflected in their psych testing—how would they be different? And there we were at Hopkins, one of the premier institutions in our country, and she did not know.

To her credit, she acknowledged that and asked her supervisor, who later gave us this fascinating off-the-cuff talk about trauma and his experience with traumatized kids. It was so compelling that I decided that was what I wanted to do my master’s thesis on. I was lucky enough at the time that Frank Putnam, one of the legends in the field of dissociation, called my graduate program, asking for students who might be willing to volunteer on his project—a longitudinal study of girls who’d been sexually abused. I was incredibly lucky to be at that right place at the right time, working with a pioneer.

To be honest with you, I wasn’t sure about the whole idea of dissociative identity disorder because we didn’t see that in the lab and that was not what we were studying, even though Frank was studying it at the National Institute of Mental Health. When I later went on internship at George Washington University Hospital, a woman there said she had multiple personality disorder, with whom I had done the testing.
The treatment team was a little skeptical, but my supervisor referred me to Judy Armstrong at Sheppard Pratt Hospital in Baltimore who offered to review the data with me. After she did so, she said, “You know what; you actually might have somebody with MPD.” After that, it was just luck because I got a postdoctoral fellowship at Pratt, where they had just opened up a trauma disorders unit, and where I did my dissertation on trauma. I remained there and began working very heavily with folks with DID, and other serious, complex trauma disorders. Right place, right time, and fortunately, amazing training with amazing clinical supervisors.

DID and the Dissociative Spectrum

LR: Before I ask you what readers most likely want to know, which is, “What actually is DID,” why the transition from “multiple personality disorder” as a label to, “dissociative identity disorder?”

BB: There were a lot of reasons, but just to be very brief; by calling it multiple personality disorder, many clinicians thought it was a personality disorder like borderline personality disorder, and it’s not in that category. The experts in the field wanted to emphasize it was a trauma related disorder connected to dissociation, not a disorder of personality. The name change was an attempt to reflect that.

LR: Well, I guess relatedly—and I may get back to my initial question—does the DSM’s characterization of DID as a complex post-traumatic developmental disorder, ‘capture it?’

BB: It’s a terrific start. It’s a foundational start, because it implies that it starts in childhood, which is what developmental disorder means. The research strongly points to very early severe chronic child abuse as the cause. But we also know that there is genetic tendency towards dissociation. And often these clients who end up as individuals who develop DID also have attachment problems because they didn’t have secure attachment. There are multiple things going on, but trauma really has an early childhood foundation.

LR: In your writing, you discuss TRD or trauma related dissociation and suggest that DID is almost always related to early childhood trauma and severe disruption of the attachment relationship. Is there such a thing as a NTRD, or non-trauma related dissociation?

BB: Yes! We all dissociate to some extent, so normal non-pathological dissociation can occur. It can be going into a state of automatic pilot. For example, when we’re driving down the highway and we’re really thinking about something, and barely remember the drive when we get home. Or we’re driving down the highway and we miss our exit because we’re so preoccupied, not because of traffic, but because of our mental disconnection from what we’re doing.

It can also happen at moments of peak spiritual experiences or athletic experiences when people can disconnect from their bodies or feel out of their bodies and have this incredible experience. But none of these experiences interfere with functioning.

LR: I imagine getting lost in a book or a song or a movie or a conversation containing elements of dissociation, but on the left side, or benign side of the spectrum.

BB: Exactly. Those are called absorption, and some people are very prone to absorption. We know from research that the more somebody is prone to absorption, they may be more at risk for dissociation. There’s been some debate over whether absorption should be called dissociation or not? For now, it is understood as one of the lower levels, not-so-problematic types of dissociation, which comes from self-report measures.

LR: Is it clinically useful to think of a dissociative spectrum with absorption type experiences on the left or benign side, and DID as the most extreme and pathological form all the way to the right?

BB: Yes, I think it is. But I’ll say that with awareness that some people living with DID really resent that, because understandably, this was an adaptation to horrendous, overwhelming circumstances. And so, I completely get it and respect that they had a brilliant way of adapting and getting through what would have been just harrowing experiences. The research actually supports exactly what you said.
As I said earlier, all of us dissociate to some extent. And then when you start studying dissociation and different psychological disorders, there’s a range of scores that people have on the different, self-report questionnaires. And it starts out with people having [scores] a little bit above what might be for people who are not struggling with any emotional disorder.

And then it gets at the highest level is folks with DID. And in between, there might be people with eating disorders and maybe borderline personality disorder, because there’s often a lot of trauma in those people’s background, and then you start getting into PTSD. And then the dissociative disorders indeed are at the end with the highest levels of dissociation.

LR: I would think that someone who is engaging in non-suicidal self-injury or someone who is in the middle of an intense food or substance binge is in an acute state that requires a certain amount of dissociation to be able to inflict that level of harm on to yourself.

BB: Is there some dissociation that goes on during those moments? The answer is yes! Often people are somewhat disconnected from their bodies. An example is a client who, with DID or severe dissociation, may be cutting and not feel it and be kind of fascinated with what they’re seeing under their skin, like really extreme cutting with the detachment. And they don’t feel the pain.

LR: Is it possible that someone with DID could be cutting while there’s another element of that personality that’s watching? Am I using the right nomenclature for the other “states?”

BB: There are people in the field that are really pushing for those parts to be called dissociative self-states. In the literature, they’re alternatively called identities, personalities, parts, and alters. We’re really trying to emphasize that whatever they’re called, that they’re all parts of one person. They’re self-states. They’re not different people. That’s why we’re encouraging that name to be adopted in the next DSM.

LR: I find myself gravitating toward more questions that may be more of a popular culture artifact, but I’ve heard that different self-states can have symptoms of a particular medical illness or disease while another is asymptomatic. Is that possible in your experience?

BB: It depends on what illness you’re talking about. We know that, depending on our emotional state, our blood pressure may change, right? And Frank Putnam, who I referred to earlier, did some of the early research showing that different self-states have different EEG patterns.

Simone Reinders in the Netherlands has done a bunch of research studying neurobiological differences among some self-states. She’s tried having professional actors impersonate self-states while they were hooked up with all kinds of biological markers, including brain scans. They could not emulate different self-states.

It’s remarkable. It’s not magic. It’s a disorder that is linked to neurobiological changes and differences. And of course, these different self-states are going to include the traumatized self state, the one that remembers trauma and has all the symptoms that go with that PTSD. When they’re scanned, of course you might expect their heart rate to be much faster and for them to have more activity in their limbic system, versus a part that’s very detached and doesn’t recall that trauma. The heart rate of that self-state is not going to be as elevated. And they’re not going to have the intense amygdala activation.

LR: I can see that if someone is in a moment of active sexual abuse, sexual trauma, that it’s in the body’s interest to down-regulate the heart rate and cortical activation.

BB: Yes. There are studies about that, talking about how animals go into survival mode and, you know, like the faint mode or the feigning death mode. There are some animals that have that response of total disconnection from their bottom up to allow them to survive attack. Well, there’s some parallels with humans that have been horrendously abused repeatedly. Their brains shift into dissociation as a survival mechanism.

Their access to memory can be quite different as well. One of the diagnostic requirements is that there be amnesia for some of their life experiences, that are not due to drugs, alcohol, or head injury. Or they may not remember key autobiographical events, like their own wedding. We call that dissociative amnesia.

LR: What are some of the myths and misconceptions about DID that clinicians should know about?

BB: There are a lot, unfortunately. One is that DID is exceptionally rare. On and across different prevalence studies, at least 1% of the general population meets criteria for DID. That’s the same prevalence rate roughly as bipolar disorder and schizophrenia. So, it’s not rare, but there have been some critics.

Critics of the whole notion of dissociation and DID have been putting it out for a long time in articles that are published in journals. And that has found its way into psychology textbooks that undergrads and grad students read that put forward that myth so that unfortunately, many people, even mental health clinicians, think it’s rare. Another myth put forward by the critics is that DID folks exaggerate their symptoms or are prone to create false memories of abuse.

When you actually compare people with DID to people with PTSD to what are called healthy controls, people who don’t have any emotional problem, and professional actors who try and emulate all of this stuff, there are some studies we’ve done that show that people with DID
are no more likely than people with PTSD to develop false memories.

The important thing that most mental health clinicians have not been trained to know is that they are highly symptomatic across a bunch of different domains. They don’t just have amnesia and different dissociative self-states. They also have PTSD. And we know PTSD is a complicated disorder with 17 potential symptoms. And so, at times they’re flooded with traumatic intrusions, pictures, awful memories, awful nightmares. And then there’s periods where they’re shut down and avoid it because it’s so awful to remember and feel that stuff.

And then there can be incredible periods of irritability and sleeplessness and feeling like they’re an awful person and different from the rest of the world. There’s a lot of research showing that dissociation is very common among people with PTSD. They also have major depression and because living with all these symptoms is so brutally difficult, many of them have substance use problems.

They try to knock out the memories by drinking too much or using drugs. They often also have eating disorders because they have a very difficult time tolerating their bodies. They blame their bodies for their abuse, and so they try and get really big so that nobody’s ever attracted to them or—and they often go back and forth, or they get really anorexic and starve themselves hoping to die or to look unappealing that way.

All of that is shown in the literature. And with regard to feigning DID, one of the ways that you look for malingering is when somebody is reporting too many symptoms or reporting exceedingly severe symptoms. They are much more likely to be classified as potentially malingering on some of the evidence-based measures and interviews for malingering. I’ve developed research that helps mental health clinicians and forensic experts know how to differentiate when somebody has true DID and when somebody is attempting to simulate it.

The critics also don’t really understand complex trauma. They are typically not clinicians or academics. But because so few mental health folks are getting trained in the evidence-based information about DID, they come away with these stereotypes out of textbooks that are just wrong. They’re just flat wrong. And myths.

LR: Is there a short list of the cardinal presentations that differentiate DID from some of the other severe forms of psychopathology?

BB: Back when I was trained, I was taught that if you hear voices, you are psychotic. But more than 75% of people who have DID hear voices.

LR: Schizophrenic?!

BB: Yes, schizophrenia or maybe the psychotic phase of bipolar disorder. I would encourage therapists to not automatically assume that hearing voices means psychosis. There’s a whole bunch of research, including people who don’t have DID, experience voice hearing, and this is strongly associated with trauma exposure. There have been meta-analyses that support this, so I suggest that clinicians always ask every client, no matter the setting, if they have been exposed to trauma. So, learn how to do a good trauma assessment.

If somebody endorses having experienced trauma, then ask about PTSD symptoms and dissociative symptoms. Ask about the different types of dissociative symptoms. Ask about depersonalization. Does the person ever feel numb when they should have feeling? Does the person ever feel like their body doesn’t belong to them? Do they ever see themselves at a distance, like outside of themselves, like they’re watching a movie? Those are three common symptoms of depersonalization, and there’s a range of other symptoms they can ask about, like do you sometimes feel like you’re younger or not your own biological age. Ask about voice hearing.

LR: What’s your gut feeling about why there’s such resistance among clinicians to embrace the reality of DID?

BB: It does sound farfetched, right? But that’s because people are misunderstanding the disorder. It is impossible for people to have multiple people inside themselves. It is impossible. Right. But, Lawrence, you don’t have a little Lawrence running around in your brain, and I don’t have a little Bethany running around in my brain. How do you know you’re not me?

LR: I’ll have to check.

BB: I stump my students when I ask that question. You know who you are because you know that you have a cat and that you’ve been married and lived in Michigan, and that you like Hello Kitty, and that you like certain kinds of music and food, and you have knowledge and memory of family and life experiences. But people with DID don’t always feel like all that.

First of all, they have periods of time missing. And so, they’re confused about who they are and what’s happened in their lives. But they’re not different people inside. Now, I’m going to say that, and some of the readers who have the idea are going to object to what I just said, because some people with DID do feel like they are different people.

That is their perceived experience, but people with DID don’t literally have little people running in their heads either. Our personalities are based on the neural firing of networks in our brains. And like we were saying earlier, there’s a neurobiological pattern that is characteristic for trauma related self-states versus ones that are very detached and don’t remember the trauma.

So, I think a lot of mental health people are mistaken and don’t understand what they have heard. It’s rare and I’ve been told this so many times, “Doctor Brand, I’ve been in the field for 30 or 40 years, and I’ve never seen a DID patient.” But I guarantee you, if they’ve really seen a lot of clients, they actually have, but missed it because perhaps they’re looking for dramatic presentations like Sybil. If it was that obvious, then when people switched states, it would be easy to diagnose. But that’s what movies do to make it look right to the audiences. That is not actually what DID really looks like.

A Tiered Approach to DID Intervention

LR: What is a multi-phasic approach to intervention with DID, and why is it considered the gold standard?

BB: It means that clinicians who work with DID and other serious dissociative disorders are realizing that there needs to be three stages of treatment. When somebody comes into treatment with complex trauma, and especially if it’s very serious, there needs to be an initial stage of stabilization of their symptoms. At this early stage, they may be suicidal, self-harming, drinking and using drugs, or engaging in some other kind of addictive behavior.

They often have really high levels of hospitalization, so they need to learn other ways of regulating themselves that are safe and that they can do out of the hospital. If and when they get stabilized, they begin learning how to regulate emotions in ways that ground them, which is the opposite of dissociation.

Once they’re stable and want to go on to stage two work, we are talking about trauma processing. That’s where they may then talk about some of the trauma so that gradually they can heal from that and not have so many intrusions of nightmares and flashbacks and horrible memories or feeling numb to it.

It’s an awful thing to feel like you’re deadened inside. That would be stage two work, which can take a very long time. So can stage one, by the way. And then comes stage three. For complex trauma—and I’m not just talking DID now—but in general, the person works more on developing their life, their friendships, their career goals; they’re no longer so focused on the past and trauma, but integrating into whatever kind of life and relationships they want.

LR: Is this in line with your “Finding Solid Ground” program?

BB: Yes. The program I’ve created with colleagues called “Finding Solid Ground” is a staged stabilization approach where we help clients learn about, first of all, grounding. But it’s not just for people with DID, but also for people with complex PTSD, and what in the United States is called the dissociative subtype of PTSD.

Our research is showing it helps all these folks, not just DID, but they learn to be more present to their emotions and deal with emotions in healthier ways. They learn about how to deal with PTSD so it’s more contained and not so intrusive so they can sleep better so that they’re not having these awful images pop into their mind and interrupt their functioning all day.

We help them learn to separate past and present. When somebody has very bad PTSD, the brain cannot really distinguish the difference between a flashback and the present moment. It feels to the person it is happening now. So, we teach them how to catch their warning signs that they may start being close to being at risk for intrusions of PTSD, that they might start dissociating, that they might start drifting towards self-harm, and then find ways to get out of that cycle. Among other things, we teach them a little bit about the neurobiology of trauma and that it’s not their fault.

LR: Is integration of self-states the absolute end goal for treatment?

BB: When I first accepted that postdoc at Sheppard Pratt in 1993, the emphasis in the field was integration of personality states. And yet that’s not what I was hearing and seeing was happening very often. I was the leader of a study where we asked experts around the world how many patients had they integrated in their careers. It was small numbers.

That may not sound like a jolt of lightning to readers, but it did lead us to rethink whether that was very achievable for most patients or not?

At the same time, many people living with DID do not want to integrate their parts because they have lived often for decades with these parts. And that helps them function from their perspective. That is who they are. They value their parts, or eventually you hope that therapy can help them learn to respect and value their parts rather than be at war. Some of the self-harm and suicide attempts are about one part trying to kill off another. At the time, they don’t recognize they will all die if they commit suicide. So now I have a different perspective and I think there are different options. I think clients should have the right to choose what they want their endpoint to be.

And that may change over treatment. In the beginning, some clients absolutely say get rid of these parts, but they don’t understand. They can’t. I use the metaphor that you can’t live by cutting out your heart or your liver. And it’s the same thing with self-states. You have survived because of the self-state. You can’t get rid of one. You can learn to work as a coherent collaborative group like a business or a healthy family rather than being at war.

DID and the Family Connection

LR: Are there useful systemic interventions that involve family, spouses, children?

BB: Of course, as a therapist, I’m teaching them, but I don’t want their spouse or partner to be doing therapeutic things. Right! But it gets really messy. If they have children who see them switch, and mom or dad doesn’t seem to remember things they’ve said or done, I find ways to explain DID to the kids in an age-appropriate way.

It is incredibly important that they’re not switching a lot in front of their children. Parents should be consistent no matter what, no matter who they are, whether they have DID, bipolar disorder, or PTSD. Children need consistency. So I would work with a client to help them develop the parenting parts and having them learn to look similarly and act similarly with the kids, so they’re not confusing the kids.

LR: In this context, can a person with DID voluntarily call on another self-state, rather than it “taking over” during a time of crisis or trauma-related moment?

BB: Yes. So that might be something that we’d work on, to go back to that last example, when they’re around their children. You would want them to work towards having parts that can be very supportive, caring, loving, consistent parents. And the parts that are little, that feel as if they are young children, terrorized, traumatized themselves, would be in the back of the mind.

All this is metaphor, however, right? There are no little people, right? But metaphorically, those self-states are taken care of internally so that they are consistent. Same thing with work, same thing when they’re driving.

LR: You said earlier, Bethany, that invariably, dissociative states and DID in particular are born out of severe trauma in childhood and attachment disruptions. At what point might a clinician begin to suspect dissociative identity disorder in childhood?

BB: Really good question. Some of the same symptoms that later develop and become more severe in adulthood can be seen in little children with the beginning stages of a dissociative disorder. One thing I haven’t mentioned is that adults with DID can go into trance states where they’re not responsive to the outer world.

Little kids start showing attention and zoning out. They’re often misdiagnosed as having ADHD. So again, we need all clinicians to be trauma-informed and trained. Not that they’re expecting to see a dissociative kid, but they might, especially if they have symptoms of PTSD like nightmares and flashbacks, or report having imaginary friends. Some talk about that for a second.

Developmentally, it’s normal for children to have imaginary friends. But if imaginary friends start to be frightening, or upsetting, or tell the child to hurt their sibling or a pet, or to destroy their toys, that’s not a “normal” kind of scenario. Little kids usually stop talking about imaginary friends around age seven. But people with DID report that they never went away. Those actually linger as parts of their dissociative self-states.

Keyword, Avoidance!

LR: There are clinicians who believe that if we look hard enough for trauma, we will find it. Is it similar for dissociation and DID?

BB: It might be! During medical training, students commonly think they have all the different disorders. The same thing may be happening in our field. For 26 years, I taught a course on differential diagnosis and interviewing. At the beginning of the class, I warned the students that they were going to be tempted to diagnose themselves along with everybody they loved or hated. It is a normal phase of learning the DSM but I asked them to be respectful and stick to the diagnostic criteria, so they don’t go telling people they’ve got borderline personality disorder.

There is a normal stage of training in which, at least for a while, we may overuse certain concepts as we’re learning them. But again, if clinicians are well-trained in differential diagnosis they will be less likely to overdiagnose certain symptoms and disorders—in this case, dissociation and DID. This is one of my research streams.

There is a lot of research out there, and I’ve written a book about how to assess dissociation and how to distinguish it from other symptoms and disorders. Here is where training is critical. The ways you treat schizophrenia and bipolar disorder are very different from the way you treat DID. Schizophrenia and bipolar are the two disorders that people with DID are most often misdiagnosed with.

People with DID don’t need mood stabilizers or heavy-duty antipsychotics. Instead, you do a trauma-informed stabilization approach. Two of my earliest DID clients were misdiagnosed with schizophrenia and treated accordingly for years. One passed away and gave me permission to share her story. By the time I saw her, she had horrible tardive dyskinesia. She had been disfigured by the treatment for schizophrenia that she didn’t have. Once we started working together, she got a lot better— not cured, but a lot better, and she was much more functional. She had dropped out of school and midway through high school, she went back and became a minister in her community.

LR: What do you see as the core elements of training that need to be incorporated into graduate programs so that DID can be correctly identified, and interventions designed?

BB: Only 8% of APA-approved doctoral programs require a course in trauma. That’s gotta change. Information about trauma should be a required part of graduate training in psychology, social work, and related fields. As part of that training, they also need to learn about dissociation and the range of dissociative disorders, and how you assess for dissociative disorders, and how you do differential diagnosis. And, of course, something about evidence-supported treatment. There’s only one program so far based on randomized controlled trial data that shows it helps people with profound dissociative disorders. But they should hear about that. That should be in the textbooks.

LR: What do you think is contributing to that incredible avoidance by the APA of mandating graduate-level trauma training at graduate level?

BB: A group of us have been pushing for different guidelines about working with complex trauma that finally got approved by the APA this last summer. But there is pushback. And a lot of us think there’s a political issue. Let’s just think about what PTSD means. The required criteria center around avoidance. You nailed it there!

Even people who’ve been traumatized don’t want to think about it. It’s human nature not to want to know, think, and talk about trauma. Believe me, it’s a hard part of my job. I do it, and of course I know how to do it. But hearing the stories of what has happened to little children is incredibly difficult.
And there’s some real doubters out there when it comes to thinking about child abuse. Maybe they should read a little bit about child pornography and child trafficking and how rampant they are, because we’ve got plenty of evidence that that happens. Some individuals report that part of their abuse was being the victims of child pornographers.

So, I think we don’t want to think about that stuff!

LR: Avoidance on a large scale.

BB: Avoidance. You nailed that.

LR: Not to get sidetracked, but I wonder if this is what Bessel van der Kolk experienced when he tried to get his developmental trauma disorder approved by APA.

BB: I’m sure that’s some of it, but not-unshockingly, it likely goes back to financial issues.

LR: It’s hard to imagine.

BB: At this point, the National Institute of Mental Health has never once funded a study of the treatment of DID. So, I have literally had to get donations to fund my studies. Do you think cancer researchers do that? Do you think researchers of any other disorder must have bake sales and pass the plate at college?
Where is the money in trauma right now? It’s in the Veterans Administration. I’ve heard this from various people who work there. They do not recognize DID, and they don’t want anybody in the VA system being diagnosed with DID, because that’s a real problem for our military, right? Everybody there has a dissociative disorder. Although believe me, I have assessed people in that system and helped them get honorary discharge. Anyway, there’s a huge amount of funding that goes to VA research and they emphasize working with adults. They want to keep the soldiers “strong” and ready to go or whatever the branches to ready to fight. Yeah. The childhood trauma.

LR: It’s hard not to introduce politics into conversations at this level. But do you have any concerns about funding for dissociative and other disorders as the incoming administration takes form?

BB: I do, and I think many, many researchers are very concerned about funding for new science research in general. But then when you get into groups like research on women, research on children, research on traumatized people, research on any kind of minorities, but especially LGBTQ groups, people are very worried. My funding has always been a problem. But I do have many generous donors.

Wrapping Up

LR: There’s so many big sales you can have, and winter is coming.

BB: So, we’ll have some hot chocolate sales and some coffee. Yes, there is a group called the International Society for the Study of Trauma and Dissociation (ISSTD). They do lots of multi-level, face-to-face and online training for dissociation and children, adolescents, and adults. They also supported RCT studies for our Finding Solid Ground program.

I’m strongly urging clinicians to learn about that program. We’ve got two books out there. One for people living with the disorder, and one for therapists. Our research shows that the Finding Solid Ground program works best when the therapist knows the program and the clients working with the therapist who knows the program.

LR: Has counter transference entered into your work with any particular client?

BB: For anybody working with complex trauma, there is going to be countertransference and traumatic countertransference. And the client will experience transference. There’ve been times I felt like I wanted to rescue somebody because they’ve had such a hard life. But you’ve got to keep the boundaries strong. I consult with a lot of therapists. One of the mistakes I hear from therapists is they do try and rescue, or they go too far. It’s not uncommon that therapists will see a DID client for free and become very burned out. I don’t ever advise that.

The psychotherapy research shows that people benefit from treatment more if they’re paying something. It’s also common for therapists to alternate between feeling helpless, like the child was back during trauma time, and at other times harsh and mean which the client may experience as harsh and mean, almost like the perpetrator or a non-protective bystander. Those three roles are extremely common in the treatment, so I teach a therapists to watch for that, to work on that, and to make that understood.

Something they actually talk about with their clients so neither get stuck in those spaces and can learn from it. It’s part of the healing, rather than becoming the point where the treatment comes off the rails.

LR: I think that we could talk for hours, Bethany. It’s been a fascinating conversation for me as I hope it was for you. Is there anything I’ve left out?

BB: Yes. There are people out there who have died because of this disorder, but there is hope, even despite the tremendous suffering. It’s important that these people know that they are not alone, and neither are their therapists. It’s important that therapists convey that they’re not alone, it’s not their fault, and that they are not weak or dumb. They don’t have to suffer endlessly, and neither do therapists need to feel powerless. There’s hope.

LR: I think the clinical world is a smarter place for your presence in it. Thank you, Bethany.

BB: Thank you!

Finding Healing Through Art: A Case Study in Art Therapy

Art Therapy is a powerful form of psychotherapy that uses creative expression to help individuals explore emotions, process trauma, and find pathways to healing. Unlike traditional talk therapy, Art Therapy offers a non-verbal outlet, allowing clients to express feelings that may be difficult to articulate. By tapping into the subconscious, art can reveal hidden emotions, facilitating self-discovery and growth. In this case study, I’ll explore how art therapy transformed the life of Julia, a young woman struggling with anxiety and self-doubt.

Julia’s Journey to Art Therapy

Julia, a 28-year-old woman, came to therapy seeking help for anxiety. She described herself as “constantly on edge,” plagued by feelings of inadequacy and fear of judgment. She had tried various coping mechanisms, but none provided lasting relief. When talk therapy didn’t yield the progress she hoped for, Julia decided to explore art therapy as an alternative. Although Julia had no formal art background, she had always been creative. As a child, she enjoyed drawing and painting but had abandoned these hobbies as her responsibilities grew. During our initial session, Julia was open but hesitant. She expressed concerns about her lack of artistic skill, unsure if she could convey her feelings through art. I reassured her that Art Therapy wasn’t about creating “good” art, but rather, about expressing oneself freely and authentically. Together, we embarked on a journey to explore her inner world through colors, shapes, and symbols.

Session One: Laying the Foundation

To ease Julia into the process, I introduced her to a simple exercise called “Art for Emotion.” She was given a set of colored pencils and paper, and I asked her to draw how she felt at that moment. Julia chose dark, muted colors—black, gray, and navy. She created a swirling, chaotic pattern, which she described as a “storm” in her mind. This storm, she said, represented the anxiety that constantly loomed over her, making it difficult to focus and connect with others. As we discussed the drawing, Julia began to open up about the ways anxiety affected her life. She described feeling as though she were “drowning” in her responsibilities and unable to meet her own high standards. She admitted that she was often overly critical of herself, which only fueled her feelings of inadequacy. Together, we explored how these swirling emotions manifested in her daily life, from her job to her relationships.

Session Two: Exploring Symbols

In the second session, I introduced Julia to clay. Working with clay allows clients to engage with tactile sensations, which can be grounding and soothing. I encouraged her to create a symbol that represented her anxiety. After some thought, she molded the clay into a small, tightly-wound spiral. The spiral, she explained, was a representation of her tendency to overthink and get trapped in cycles of self-doubt. As we discussed her creation, Julia had an insight: she often felt like she was “spiraling” out of control when faced with uncertainty. By externalizing this feeling through clay, she was able to examine it more objectively. We talked about how anxiety is a natural response, but when it becomes too intense, it can feel like being caught in a relentless loop. Julia began to see her anxiety not as a personal failing, but as a reaction to stressors in her environment.

Session Three: Redefining the Self

By the third session, Julia seemed more comfortable with the process. She was starting to embrace the therapeutic benefits of creative expression, and her initial reluctance had faded. This time, I suggested a self-portrait exercise, asking her to draw herself as she currently saw herself. Julia spent a long time working on this piece. When she was finished, she showed me a drawing of a woman standing on a cliff, looking out over a vast, empty sea. The woman appeared small and vulnerable, dwarfed by the landscape. Julia described the scene as representing her feelings of isolation and uncertainty. The cliff, she explained, symbolized the constant pressure she felt to maintain control and avoid falling into despair. Through this self-portrait, Julia was able to articulate her fear of failure and the pressure to keep up appearances. She expressed how exhausting it was to always be “on guard” and how much she longed for peace. In our discussion, we explored the symbolism of the cliff and the sea. Julia admitted that the sea, while initially representing emptiness, also held a sense of possibility. She recognized that the vastness of the ocean could symbolize potential rather than just fear. This shift in perspective marked a significant turning point. For the first time, Julia began to see her anxiety not as an insurmountable obstacle, but as something she could navigate and overcome.

Session Four: Reclaiming Inner Strength

By this session, Julia had begun to show a marked improvement. She appeared more relaxed, and there was a newfound sense of confidence in her demeanor. For this session, I introduced a collage exercise. Julia was provided with magazines, scissors, glue, and a canvas. I asked her to create a collage that represented her ideal self—a version of herself free from anxiety and self-doubt. Julia took her time with this exercise, carefully selecting images that resonated with her. Her final piece was vibrant, filled with images of nature, people laughing, and symbols of strength like lions and mountains. She explained that the collage represented the qualities she wished to embody: resilience, joy, and courage. We discussed each element of the collage, and Julia shared how creating it made her feel empowered. By envisioning her ideal self, she began to see her potential beyond the limitations of her anxiety. She acknowledged that while she might always face challenges, she could choose how to respond to them. This realization helped Julia redefine her relationship with anxiety, no longer seeing it as a defining characteristic, but as one part of her broader experience.

Session Five: Reflecting and Moving Forward

In our final session, Julia and I revisited her earlier pieces. We discussed her journey through the Art Therapy process, from the initial storm of emotions to the empowered collage. Julia reflected on how far she had come, expressing gratitude for the opportunity to explore her feelings in such a unique and transformative way. She described how the process helped her develop a greater sense of self-compassion, allowing her to accept her imperfections without judgment. Through art therapy, Julia found a new way to manage her relationship with anxiety, one that didn’t involve fighting or suppressing her emotions. Instead, she learned to embrace her feelings, understanding that they were a natural part of her experience. She left therapy with a renewed sense of self, ready to face the challenges ahead with resilience and creativity.

***

Art Therapy offers a unique path to healing, one that goes beyond words and taps into the power of the creative mind. For Julia, the process of expressing herself through art provided insights that traditional talk therapy hadn’t been able to access. By working with symbols, colors, and textures, Julia was able to confront her anxiety in a safe and supportive environment, ultimately reclaiming her inner strength. Her journey is a testament to the transformative power of art and the human spirit’s capacity for growth and healing. [Editor’s Note: Please see our interview with Judith Rubin, Bringing (Art) Therapy to Life: An Interview with Judith Rubin, the preeminent pioneer in the field of Art Therapy.] 

Spilling Over Modernity’s Borders and Boundaries: A Decolonial Story About Alzheimer’s, Family, and Migration

“¿De dónde eres?” My friend’s 9-year-old niece asked me shortly after we were introduced to each other during Christmas. This was in Bogotá last year at my high school friend’s place. She sat next to me, leaning slightly toward me. Her question seemed fueled by a kind of curiosity that two strangers at times share when wanting to rush through the unfamiliar and quickly find a common place from where to discuss matters of much greater importance, like her Christmas presents. It must have been around 15 years since my high school friend and I last knew about each other’s lives. Various life circumstances might have contributed to vanishing from each other’s lives—including living in two different countries—until whenever the day was going to come for us to meet again and pick up our friendship right from where we left off to catch up on whatever many years in between.

My eyes shot open and met her curiosity, sensing all over my body the shock of her question. Did she unwittingly render me foreign to and within my homeland? I wondered.

“Pues de aquí. De Bogotá. Rola 100%!” I said to her, stating what for me was the obvious.

“Es que hablas diferente.” She further explained.

“¿Y tu?” Le pregunté,” pretending to ignore the state of my body, and attempting to reciprocate an interest in our origins.

“De acá.” Me respondió, while organizing her Christmas presents for their exhibit.

My friend overheard our conversation. On the way to the kitchen, she provided some context to resolve her niece’s confusion and to create mine.

“Ella es de aca pero hace mucho que no vive aquí por eso habla así.” my friend explained with the tone of certainty of an irrefutable conclusion.

“Así cómo ???” I yelled in horror; but she had now gotten lost far back in the kitchen as the Christmas host.

Like many, I became well acquainted with the origin question as an immigrant, hence actual foreigner to the sociopolitical and material history of my host country, the United States (U.S.); as well as with the experiences of those who although were born in the United States are inadvertently or intentionally rendered foreign in their homeland by others. This is, when informed by discriminatory singular and monolingual principles about nationals and foreigners from a land. Having left Colombia as an adult, in the U.S. the socio, geo, and body-political history of Latin America/Abya Yala I carry, materializes not only in my accent but in my interactional manners, phenotype, epidermis, and knowledges, which intertwined with local racializing practices, continuously mark the well or ill intended curiosities of the inquirers, nationals or immigrants alike, about their assumptions about my foreign origins. Regardless of their intent, in foreign soil, I share my origins with my chest filled with air, trying out a new sense of pride in the diaspora evoked by its nostalgia, not quite reaching patriotism but maybe darn close to it, if I were to speculate on what incarnated patriotism would be like:

“From Colombia.” I usually respond to that question and sometimes I point at my wrist when I wear its colors.

Re-entering: From Here and From There Migration Experience

During the last couple of years, I have been spending more and more time in Bogotá than I ever have since the early 2000’s when I left. My mother’s health and increasing loss of memory called for it. Although no doctor would diagnose her with Alzheimer’s in her late 80s, that was the family’s narrative about that part of my mom’s life and our relationship with her still to this day. Her four daughters were no longer living in Colombia. My three sisters and I migrated to the U.S. at different times during our adult lives, for different reasons that required no explanation. Mom and dad raised us during the Colombian armed conflict, intensified by the international drug war and the U.S. intervention.

In a country living and enduring the ongoing wounds of war, poverty, and state neglect, as it is the case for many countries living through long-standing conflicts around the world, as I recalled, for many Colombians across various socio-political circumstances, since birth, the idea of leaving Colombia becomes part of what it means to live in Colombia, aspiring for refuge elsewhere. Violence humiliates the homeland and elevates the non-realizable promises of foreign land. Those of us who realized the idea of leaving Colombia represent the 6% of the population who currently live outside of the country—primarily in the U.S., Spain, and Venezuela. According to the Migration Policy Institute, Colombians are the largest group of South American immigrants in the U.S., representing 2% of U.S. immigrants. Colombian migration to the U.S. has increased three times as fast, from 144,000 Colombians in 1980 to 855,000 in 2022.

During our lives in the U.S., mom would come to visit for various periods of time, visiting with each one of us across states. My dad traveled once, which was more than enough contact with U.S. soil for him, given his politics. We would stay in contact through daily emails or texts, otherwise. Also, from time to time, I would travel to Bogotá for a long weekend or so for a visit. Before migrating, and all throughout the Covid pandemic, my oldest sister lived with and cared for mom in Bogotá until the impending heart-wrenching decision finally came knocking at the door to meet the four of us face to face.

The emotional intensity, and dedicated care my sister and her children had been providing mom with for the last few years had proven to be no longer sustainable for either of them. Con cabeza fría, we had to make the overdue decision, even against mom’s wishes that she no longer remembered. Mom needed to be relocated to a specialized nursing home for her proper care. She had outlived friends and close relatives. My father died back in 2008, and we heard that mom’s last living sibling, the oldest, Alberto, was still alive but bedridden in deteriorating health conditions. He died not too long after mom moved to the nursing facility.

My relatively advantageous immigrant conditions afforded me alternatives that only so many immigrants in the U.S. have in similar circumstances, with aging parents still living back in our home-countries. I began traveling to Bogotá regularly during the last year before mom died, spending months at a time with her while working remotely. My sisters would visit when able. Daily, morning and afternoon, raining or not, I would walk back and forth to visit mom at the nursing place in the north area of Bogotá from the small place nearby I rented during my stays. I would pick up on my way some kind of dessert for my mom’s sweet tooth that memory loss had forgotten to forget. I became very well acquainted with mom’s co-living folks and their visiting families; and also the nurses, aids, physical therapists, and cooking and cleaning staff, majority women, to the extent that exceptions for their visiting hours became the new visiting hours. It was through their lives—the only people I had close contact with at that point in Bogotá—that I re-entered a sense of living a life in Bogotá, although still having more than one foot in my immigrant life in the U.S., to which I remained virtually connected through a laptop.

Through life at the nursing home, I reintegrated myself to the familiar tensions of the Colombia Nation-State’ s sociopolitical heartbeat, revealing along the signs of the 24 years that have passed and have transformed both the country and my politics in the diaspora. The tensions were palpable. On the one hand, the advantageous circumstances of the families who could afford their relatives to live there were visible. And, on the other, so were the injurious sociopolitical conditions and longstanding neglect by the Nation-State toward the lives of the people working there. Although responsible for the care of the facility’s residents, they had to do so while undergoing living conditions that seemed to cry out in state neglect. This was one of the other jobs they needed for their survival and the survival of their family.

Some of their children were being educated under precarious conditions in public schools. Evictions from their home were more tangible month after month. The impeccable makeup of some of the women working in the kitchen kept hidden the marks of patriarchy’s hands from the night before, some of which was documented in futile police reports as well as in her self-defense fingernails imprinted on his skin. Their clothes served as curtains behind which their bruised bodies were concealed, while their bones would heal from their forceful impact against the wall, or the push down the stairs. Their children were their witnesses. According to the Colombian newspaper, El Pais, between May of 2023 and 2024, 149.017 family violence incidents and 630 femicides were reported in the country. Limping, the women would arrive on time at the nursing home after a 3-hours-long commute from the south of Bogotá to care for my mom with the best of dispositions possible. Story after story, the nostalgic Nation-State Colombia of the diaspora that I was so proudly holding tight to, wearing it on my wrist, and expanding my chest, started to melt throughout my body, transpiring through my skin, forming a polluted stream of outrage that took off running through la Avenida 19, running all the red lights, turning toward la Autopista Norte, eventually merging with Bogotá River, considered one of the most contaminated rivers in the world, according to WSP.

My relationship with mom that year was not exempt from a sort of re-entering experience. It was similar to how my re-entering to a life in Bogotá was. On occasion, mom would seem as if she could see in my face sort of a familial resemblance but not quite family. I was beginning to feel that way about everyday life in Bogotá although not linked to a matter of memory but migration. I recognized aspects of what I remembered was my homeland out of the unrecognizable features of the obvious changes since I left. I was able to discern some things but not others with my renewed borderland eyes as a Colombiana inmigrante en the U.S.

My life from when I lived in Colombia during the late 1900s met with my life as an immigrant living in the U.S. since the beginning of the 2000s only to discover they had already met over two decades ago and have become inseparable since. My memories from Colombia were never left behind. On the contrary, they carried me through the making of a new life in a new land. After all, we can’t separate ourselves from the history that makes us. I have been living both lives simultaneously, through a multiplicity unfolding either in Colombia or the U.S.

A sense of foreignness within the familiar, and a sense of familiarity within the foreign helped me discern the experience of dwelling in the borderlands, which my friend and her niece also brought out in the open during Christmas, when I reconnected with them months after mom died on March 29, 2023. The borderlands became a point for reflection on what it was bringing forth—difference—to ultimately transcend modernity’s definition of difference as fracturing borders or boundaries since the conquest of the Americas—the colonial difference. Walter Mignolo has written extensively on this topic.

The colonial difference refers to a hierarchy of separation (for control purposes) through the development of borders or boundaries that create races, cultures, Nation-States, identities, languages, genders, etc. Modernity’s colonial difference fractures the bones of the communal into hierarchical separate pieces whereby those lower in the hierarchy can be thrown down the stairs or against the walls of separation that it created. Thus, my friend nieces’ question about my origins, became a recognition of difference stemming from my 24 years in the diaspora crawling up my Colombian accent to renew it within a sense of plurality. My renewed accent marks a difference that does not have to be of borders, exclusion, fracture, or separation, but of relationality and connection out of what it means to live relationally, or in more than one world simultaneously.

I have heard many stories, mostly from Mexican, Chicanxs, Mexican-American, or Texanes, about their experiences when returning to their homelands in the Nation-State of México. They shared being made to feel that they do not belong on either side of the border: “not from here, not from there,” “ni de aquí, ni de allá [neither from here nor there].” I understand this to be a symptom of modernity’s logic of criminalization by difference and punishment when crossing the border. Anything that does not represent nationalism on either side of the border, thus promotes monolinguality, monoculturality, or singularity, is destitute and criminalized. On the contrary, from the borderlands of my experience, I am thinking about immigration interrogating the borders while being interrogated; thus, opening at the same time possibilities to rethink the fracturing premise of separation modernity promotes into being “from here AND from there, simultaneously, thus relationally.” This revised premise eases my body when facing the origin question by Colombians in Colombia.

Rendering the Familiar Unfamiliar: Radical Listening

More often than not, mom did not know exactly who I was, or when and where we may have met at some point in our lives. Only a couple of times, she recognized me as her youngest daughter, “marce,” as she used to call me. Although she never forgot her name, Gloria, she did not know where she was nor recognized her own image in the mirror. Sometimes I was her youngest sister, and other times, she would address me as her nurse or aid. When I would rub her hands, the touch would call her to reposition her hands and to start giving me instructions on how she wanted her nails done that day. When I would pass my fingers through her hair, sometimes she would address me as her hairdresser, or quite firmly in a tone I did not recognize, she would push my hand away demanding that I do not touch and mess her hair.

As much as mom did not remember that I was her daughter, I did not always fully recognize mom in the body and interactions of the 89-year-old woman living in the nursing home—except during her brief inconfundibles momentos [unmistakable moments] of humor here and there. This was not surprising to me, having learned about similar yet different stories from folks from various backgrounds with parents living with Alzheimer’s or dementia, not only in my therapy work. My family was now living through those stories but creating our own. Our story is also likely to be my story about possibly inheriting from mom a life with Alzheimer’s yet to manifest, at least as far as my memory can tell thus far.

Although not surprising, witnessing mom’s increasing experiences of discomfort, suffering, and loss of conversational abilities was at times hard. Yet, unexpectedly, under such unfortunate circumstances, not being remembered by mom at times opened alternative relational possibilities. But it required radical listening to recognize these as possibilities and through the rather overwhelming presence of Alzheimer’s. I have learned radical listening from various perspectives that I carried with me every day to the nursing home during my visits. These include perspectives on borders, memory, history, and aesthetics shaped by my lived experiences as a bilingual immigrant, my understanding of Narrative Therapy in English as a family therapist, and mostly by my engagement with the decolonial project from Abya Yala y el Caribe in Spanish and Spanglish as a member of the civil political society. These are perspectives that have shaped not only my family therapy work but my life as I write here.

Cognitively speaking, Alzheimer’s configured mom and I as strangers, no longer family. We became foreigners to one another. Most interestingly, however, it rendered us foreigners to modernity’s concept of the family. As an immigrant, working and living in community with immigrants in the U.S., questioning, revising, expanding, or delinking from the westernized idea of family has not been uncommon. Migration is a context for the necessary renegotiation of our ties and kinships within the context of voluntary or involuntary separation, and deportation. For example, during the current administration in the Nation-State of the U.S., during the last four years, nearly 4.4 million people have been deported to more than 170 countries according to the Migration Policy Institute.

Mom and I became foreigners to the western idea of the family settled and promoted in Colombia, and many other parts of the world, through Catholicism, heteronormativity, patriarchy, capitalism, and their institutionalization of relationships. As one of mom’s four non-adopted or non-in vitro children, our half a century-long enfleshed relationship was governed in great part by humanized fracturing assumptions of reproduction, motherhood, productivity, and gendered relationships founded on who gave birth and who was birthed to constitute a family. Thus, oddly, Alzheimer’s liberated us, not from accountability for all the headaches I caused mom over the years, rather, from thinking ourselves, and listening to each other, through the institutionalization of boundary-based relationships, its imposed social expectations, and Nation-State’s laws whereby the western family has been instituted as some sort of a social mandate. If I were to take a guess, these sort of institutionalized human laws and western concept of the family might be the sort of conundrums that would make la Pachamama, Madre Tierra, shake the earth. Mom’s forgotten aspirations for my life and my sisters’, which included growing up to become Colombian mothers, with good husbands, and decent, healthy, economically independent (from men), and hard-working women, were no longer shaping our relationship.

Deinstitutionalized by the unfortunate circumstances of Alzheimer’s, thus no longer being a Colombian mother and a Colombian daughter in the modern sense, we learned each other and cared for each other otherwise, sometimes minute by minute. The fracturing logic of the family boundaries planted by modernity was removed. Thus, I understood care to be instead about honoring the relationship with the person I owed my existence to in so many ways in addition to giving birth to me. As a family therapist, I am attentive to what the global and western concept of family imposes on relationships in an exploration of what sort of relationships are possible otherwise or in addition to.

My relationship with mom was unpredictable and in constant movement. It was to be discovered by dwelling in the moment of its expression. We had to discover who we were, a cada momento (every moment), according to the memories invoked and received as they came, no matter what. Was I the hairdresser, the woman who does her nails, her sister, one of my sisters, her nurse, or any other character out of my mom’s history? I could not arrive at the nursing home with certainty of who I was, but with clarity of where my existence—and my sisters’— came from. I became someone only through the act of being with mom and our memories, some of which we invoked together.

We connected through the ever-changing moment of the circumstances that brought to life some of the memories of what we were made of. The circumstances I am referring to were for the most part sensorial. The senses evoked sparkles of memories, interconnected with other memories, both hers and mine. The taste of the daily desserts, my touch, the temperature of my hand over hers, the boleros we listened to, the noise from the novelas on the TV we stared at, pictures of her younger life, the colors and textures of my clothes, my gray hairs, the co-living folks’ speech or appearance, the birds’ colors and their singing having Bogotá’s traffic as their symphony far in the background, as well as the colors of the flowers around us when we sat outside in the garden evoked memories intertwined. Those memories that have shaped, among other things, our half a century relationship, not only formed our lives but who we were to become moment by moment. I realized I was mom’s sister, por ejemplo, only in the brief moment that she saw me as her sister. Undoubtedly, we were radical historical and relational beings.

I can’t help to think about how social relationships, including relationships within the context of westernized therapy look like when we are to arrive at the encounter with someone else not with certainty (or doubt of) of who we are as therapists but with clarity about where we come from—as historical beings. This shifts away from the mainstream conceptualization of the therapist as an empty (no history) interventionist, solely performing according to the regulations of the institution and professional Eurocentric theories to be good or effective therapists. As historical therapists, instead, we become available to engage and receive the encounter with another, attending carefully to our histories, intentionalities and how we are shaped by the experience of the encounter. Thus, similar to who I became when visiting mom, who is the therapist is not independent from the encounter with who consults. The therapist becomes a therapist in the encounter with the person who is consulting. This shift requires an initiative to des-institutionalize the therapist, and to foreignize westernized therapy perspectives that situate an ahistorical therapist.

The Sensorial Grammar and Temporality of Memories

As mom’s cognitive abilities continued to deteriorate, it seemed as if for those of us around her, her presence in this world began to disintegrate into oblivion. She was talked about, no longer engaged with, her body moved from one place to the other, and words were put in her mouth, at times necessarily. Her existence was for the most part reduced only to her possibilities, or lack thereof in her present, in the here and now. Although her body was present, the growing absence of thought, reason, and the ability to access frameworks of intelligibility to express ideas in the present moment seemed to cast doubt on her very existence. Hence, if we were to recognize mom’s existence and vivid presence in this world, it required us—decolonially speaking —to overcome modernity’s spatial (here), temporal (now), universal assumptions. It also meant to cast doubt on the overemphasis on cognitive function, (capitalist) productivity, modern storytelling (or framework of intelligibility), and conversational skills as the only ways of being or existing. Then, it became more possible for me to continue to relate to mom, to learn from her, and to be transformed with her.

I came to understand that the sensorial had become the grammar of our communication, through memories. Mom’s life was unfolding through her bits of memories that situated us in their respective temporalities. Although evoked in the present, mom’s slivers of memories were transgressing modernity’s contemporary framework, its universalized linearity—past, present, and its spatial metaphysics that places the present as the monopoly for the principles of what is real and represented as real. She brought me into her life to take part in events that were happening before I was even born. When some of the aides or co-living folks would overhear our conversations at the nursing home, however, it was not uncommon that they would mistakenly “correct” mom’s temporality when instructing her about their (modern) sense of time—the time most of us operate under. They would persist in telling mom what year, place, and person she was, alluding to the calendar present even though it did not match the temporality of her memories. I could see in mom’s face deep concern and confusion by their efforts. She was in complete disbelief and shocked by how wrong and confused they were.

“What are they saying?” She would ask me.

Thus, even as an unborn person, unquestionably I was mom’s companion through the pieces of her history from a time that for folks in the nursing home and in the majority of the Eurocentrically educated world, was not chronologically feasible. Both of us experienced those brief moments often to resolve whatever concerns she may have had, at times involving her parents and siblings—my grandparents, aunts and uncles, all biologically dead—and her childhood home in La Candelaria, in Bogotá’s historic downtown. She worried if we had locked the house after we left, or if we had brought the keys with us, if we had enough time to eat dessert and get home in time before her younger sister, Estella, would get there, or Alberto, her oldest sibling, would pick us up. It seemed as though the sensorial grammar of our communication implicated mom’s entanglement with what decolonial theorist Rolando Vázquez calls a relational idea of time and space that doesn’t have either a geometrical, chronological, linear, or circular understanding of time like modernity marks reality.

I got a sense of the temporality of mom’s memories not by asking mom her age, since she no longer had reference to that kind of time-thinking. Modernity’s temporality—defined by calendar date, clock time, age, or generations—were not determinants for tracking her stories or a reference to time. Instead, it was the people who featured in that memory and its setting that gave me a reference to the time of the events, making them feasible. Her experience in the present was happening through her history—that is, through her memories from a time when her parents were alive, she was living in la casa de La Candelaria with her siblings, and I had not been born. Hence, there were no westernized life span or human developmental theories that would serve as frameworks to interpret her experiences.

Instead, the vegan cheesecake de maracuyá of La Despensa, the bakery around the corner of my rental, would bring to the surface memories that contained mom’s lived experiences with their own temporalities in no specific order. Events would unfold through particular relationships and their settings. Her memories jumped from one moment to the other according to what the cheesecake called for, and I jumped along. Following her memories was more helpful than listening to them from assumed theories of time, stories, and development. I would say, decolonially speaking, that relational time re-dignified mom’s existence that modernity’s capabilities of erasure through its overinflation of cognition, the contemporary idea of time, and the metaphysics of presence had rendered it suspicious. For modernity, Alzheimer’s had placed mom in an evacuated present time—with no history. She was seen as living in an empty time like Walter Benjamin’s because all that counted as a measurable reality was no longer mom’s reality. Thus, on the contrary, from de-modernity, I would say that by radical listening to the plurality of mom’s lived experiences in their own terms that modernity destitutes through erasure, the senses restituted.

Sensorial Invocation

One of the settings or temporal references that would come up quite a bit in mom’s memories was the colonial casa de La Candelaria of my grandparents. It was the house where mom and her siblings were born and raised until she married dad. This was also the house that kept many explanations of the scars still visible in my body—head, knees, and face by roller skating throughout the house from one patio to the other, running up and down, and playing with my sisters on the swing set by the large fig tree in the back patio still standing. Every weekend mom would take us to visit our grandparents. The house was finally sold to an Italian man much later after my grandparents died. He renovated it into a hotel, maintaining its colonial architecture.

Late afternoon on Sundays when Bogotá’s traffic would be more bearable, I would drive mom from the nursing home to la casa de La Candelaria. The first time we got there I was dying of anticipation for the memories and experiences we were about to live together and for what I was going to learn about mom’s history once she would see the house and the colonial neighborhood. I was hoping that seeing the material presence of the house we have visited several times, through her memories, imaginatively, from the nursing home, would call upon a flood of pieces of memories here and there, unleashed from Alzheimer’s and running loose through La Candelaria’s narrow streets, passing through la Catedral Primada were she married dad, right across from the presidential residence, el Palacio de Nariño.

Overjoyed, I would yell out calling and pointing out various landmarks of our shared history through the neighborhood. I had not been there in years! It was extraordinary to be back. To my surprise and quite a bit of disappointment, my persistence in calling upon mom’s memories was futile. The house we had been at through the memories evoked and configured from the sensorial grammar of our relationship was not the material house of la casa de la Calle 11 con 2nda in the year 2023, nor its representation. It existed in a different temporality.

Over a year after mom died, cousins on my dad’s side, my sisters, and I were finally able to arrange a time to meet in Bogotá and drive to my dad’s family farm in Sasaima, one hour away with no traffic, to bury mom’s ashes. She is buried next to my dad’s, my paternal aunt’s, and paternal cousin’s ashes. They are overlooking the mesmerizing landscape of the Andes mountains, surrounded by the farm’s variety of lush vegetation that my dad had a deep connection to. The scars on my body that la Casa de la Candelaria could not explain, the farm in Sasaima could from rolling down the hills, swimming, and barbecuing with my sisters and cousins during the various trips with dad’s family growing up. Unlike the scars of the women working at the nursing home, these were privileged scars of a life from the minority in Colombia also living in the midst of Colombia’s armed conflict. Privileged and all, even so, neither la casa de La Candelaria nor the farm in Sasaima were exempt from becoming sites for violence where kidnappings took place of an aunt and cousins on both sides of the family while I was still living in Colombia.

During our day or weekend trips to the farm growing up, at lunchtime the family would get together and sit around the large dining table to eat what the land offered–herbs, vegetables, and fruits among other foods. We were always served delicious vegetable soup with cilantro. In the diaspora, I have experienced being at that table and sipping soup with cilantro millions of times. Cilantro calls on that memory. In a split of a second, cilantro opens the door for me to enter into that moment although I am on U.S. soil. It brings me to the sensing of the taste of food, the light coming from the wood windows, the touch on my skin of Sasaima’s humidity in the mid 70’s, and the crackling sound of the straw woven mats. I can’t recreate that experience otherwise. I’ve tried. I can see static images but can’t experience the sensation of being there that cilantro brings to life.

Returning to the farm in 2024, I was amazed by being at the same table, eating the food of the land, and soup with cilantro. I couldn’t believe it. It did not take me too long to realize though that it was a different “coming back,” it did not feel the same as the experience of the memory from the diaspora. It was as if the memory linked to cilantro existed in a life with a different temporality, in a parallel reality, yet intimately connected to the material farm. Just like mom’s experience of driving by la casa de La Candelaria in 2023, the vividly sensed farm within my connection to cilantro also belongs to a reality that was embedded in a different temporality, and therefore a different relationality. It is a place I can no longer drive to on my own—no matter the traffic or the day —but I can taste my way to it.

In connection to a decolonial premise, I would say that la casa and the farm exist in memories that do not subscribe to an understanding of modernity’s contemporary, its linear temporality, and notion of reality as presence. Although I would say that our memories surfaced in the present as expressions from a relational time, relationally, not always on our own volition, but under certain circumstances, such as sensorial. According to Vázquez, these memories, like all our memories, live in a plurality that is always moving. Hence, memories are not chained to a particular date or someone’s age in a dead or static past, for example. In that sense, these memories are not representations of the material in the present—mom lived certain moments of her day at La Casa de la Candelaria while being at the nursing home, but could not recognize the material house on Sundays when we drove by.

Our lived experiences live in our memories and grow their own heartbeats, giving us life. We are made of memories, collective memories, with their own lives, sensings, and times. Our existence comes from those memories. Thus, it might be more suitable to say that memories are beside us. They are not deep in history but wide in history, next to us or in front of us, accompanying us, guiding us, and constituting our lives, even though they do not always show up in the present, unless relationally and sensorially called upon.

Like my memories, mom’s seemed to be interacting with other memories, perhaps being that the reason why it was possible for me to join her in a moment in her life when although I had not been born, memories of my aunt, uncles, grandparents and the house better helped me to be there for her and with her. Therefore, although mom’s ability to recall events that took place in the nursing home that morning, an hour ago, or last week kept dwindling, her memories interconnected to mine and our senses kept alive aspects of what she had lived, shaping how she lived, and continue to live through us, her four daughters’ memories and the memories of all she had contact with, perhaps even before she was born.

Her existence spilled over modernity’s placed boundaries of her skin to re-exist via her relational memories in a relational time that has kept her alive after her biological death. Mom got to re-exist, inadvertently putting doubt to and rendering suspicious for me modernity’s persuasive cognitive driven and over inflated perspectives that previously rendered mom’s life doubtful and suspicious, when her life was reduced to be only cognitively spoken about.

Re-existence: Restitution by De-institutionalization

After getting over my disappointment from my mom’s unexpected response to La Candelaria, I chuckled a bit and rolled my eyes while driving back to the nursing home before it got dark. “Really?” I thought. Although I had been experiencing and learning from the ongoing and uncertain movement of my relationship with mom, and attentive to what the unpredictability that each bit of memory would offer to us, my over-a-decade of experiences as a therapist, academic, and researcher—Eurocentrically trained—couldn’t help it but to show up.

I realized that I had begun to identify a pattern of response from mom to “study it” and identify its conditions or context. I tried to generalize it by manufacturing similar conditions for the sustainability of the pattern of response. I wanted to replicate it. In doing so, I was attempting to manipulate mom’s response at my will by driving her to la casa. Ugh! I was guided by my own assumption and best intentions to create a “happy” moment for mom. I am fairly confident in saying that this is somewhat similar to modernity’s logic of knowledge production in therapy.

Based on the therapeutic model’s theory of change—or what the therapist believes (based on research) makes people “happy” (well, stable, healthy, or problem free etc.), interventions are identified with expected outcomes (via research or clinical case examples) to be replicated (mostly to a homogenous population). Such interventions are technified or manualized for easier distribution, consumption, and implementation for others to use with the persuasive generalized promise of delivering an outcome of change to help a-historical people. I am afraid that by doing so, I was imposing a boundary between the subject (investigator) and object (mom) to arrogantly identify sensorial tools for change, to technify and manualize our relationship based on modernity’s arrogance to self-define what is good for others.

Very gladly so, unintentionally perhaps, mom sort of delivered a candid middle finger—not the first nor the second in her life—at my attempts at technifying our relationship. I received her delivery happily. I had re-institutionalized our relationship, losing sight of the possibilities that come from the borderlands, memories and their sensorial grammar, relational time, and defamiliarization from modernity’s logic of erasure.

Mom’s implicit middle finger reconnected me to our lived experiences to sense more clearly what institutional practices do and fracture, like the institutionalization of the land, bodies, relationships, healing, and histories. Thus better discerning deep connections—being from here AND from there—to my home-land, in various relational times, my languages, and relationships with the people I owe my existence to, the food the land offers, the Andes where my parents ashes are spread, la casa and the farm along with their explaining histories, the Bogotá altitude, the strangers in the street, the acquaintances of the bakery around the corner, and the long-time friends and the people they owe their existence to. These are the sort of experiences that contribute to de-institutionalizing my work as a therapist and training therapists, to begin conceptualizing our work first and foremost from the histories that make us.

Author’s Note: I want to thank Jill Freedman & Gene Combs at the Evanston Family Therapy Center and their 2024 training cohort for listening to my reading of an earlier version of this story, which helped me revise it. 

Analyzing the Intersection of Play and Existential Therapies

Before there was “empirical” support for the use of play in therapy, and long before the discipline was formally established, play’s clinical value was broadly recognized. And the value of play as an important element of human development dates to antiquity. The notion of Homo Ludens (man, the player) captures, at least for me, the idea that play is an intrinsic characteristic of humanity. Interested readers can sample offerings from the International Journal of Play Therapy and the American Journal of Play.

Like what you are reading? For more stimulating stories, thought-provoking articles and new video announcements, sign up for our monthly newsletter.

But I digress! My purpose in writing this essay stems from a friend and fellow clinician’s recent dream about an (as yet perhaps) unwritten book with the title, “Existential Questions Children Would Ask.” It immediately brought me to the mental intersection of play and existentialism, which was only a short distance from the idea of play therapy qua existential therapy (I’ve always wanted to use the word qua in my writing!). Interestingly, and going briefly back to the realm of empiricism, it is child/client-centered play therapy (CCPT) that has received the most empirical support of all modes of play-based treatment.

What about this particular form of Play Therapy has attracted so much clinical attention and held up so well under the bright light of empirical scrutiny? I think it is because this particular form of intervention capitalizes upon and provides fertile clinical space for the expression and core existential concerns and existential practice. But first, a quick look at CCPT.

Child Centered Play Therapy as an Existential Laboratory

Virginia Axline described eight cornerstones of her approach to play therapy, She believed that the therapeutic space for children should be a safe one, grounded in acceptance, warmth, freedom of expression, and patience with and respect for their capacity to make choices and solve problems.

If we consider that these core elements of child-centered play therapy align quite nicely with the basic benefits of free, or unstructured play in general, it makes sense that this mode of intervention has historically enjoyed widespread use while also withstanding the harsh and often fickle winds of empirical scrutiny. As such, it is, based on my experience, the ideal existential laboratory, or playground, in which children—of all ages— a can express, address, and work on, and occasionally through some of their deepest concerns that they might not otherwise recognize, acknowledge or talk about. When these children come to us, it is usually at the behest of their teachers and/or parents who can’t quite understand why their child is aggressive, sad, unregulated, or any number of other behaviorally expressed concerns.

Irvin Yalom identified four core existential challenges that clients (and non-clients) experience throughout their lives. For Yalom, freedom, with its promise of limitlessness and choice can also be threatening, as it taps into a fundamental fear of loss of structure and foundation. Isolation, not to be confused with independence or autonomy, is about feeling alone and disconnected from the world of people. When meaning is perceived as a linearly navigated destination rather than a circuitous and often confusing journey, the traveler often wearies, wanders, and worries their whole life. And finally, and in every sense of the word, death as a final frontier, leaves so many clients fearful, un-completed, and regretful. Paraphrasing Yalom, many of us don’t take the loan of life (live fully) for fear of the ultimate payment, which is of course, death.   

If we now think of the client- (or child-)centered play therapy as a space created for and with the child that satisfies Axline’s criteria, then that space becomes an existential laboratory in which the client, with the clinician’s agenda-free guidance, is free to explore those four elements of existence.

Exploring the Four Existential Dimensions through Play

Josiah was a young adult who had long struggled with the physical and emotional challenges of a congenital illness that factored heavily into the decisions he had to make as he left adolescence behind. Finally free of the many demands college made of him, he weighed the choices ahead with a sense of gravitas. He wanted a career and a long-term intimate relationship but had so parsed them in his mind that having both seemed impossible.

While he wanted the freedom to choose both goals, Josiah believed that pathways to both were distinct and that he could not pursue one until the other was accomplished. The freedom to choose was blocked by the structural mental barrier he created. I asked him to show me the challenge in the sand tray, and his depiction appears in the figure below. Through our play in the sand tray and other creative-expressive media, Josiah took down the invisible barrier he built that separated the two goals he sought along his path to freedom.

Devon was eight when his parents brought him to me for occasional aggressive behavior towards his younger sister. A strong academic student, sociable child, and typically loving family member, his behavior seemed to change soon after the death of his grandfather. Overcome with grief, Devon’s parents struggled to open family conversations around their deceased patriarch. As a man who had held such a prominent place in the family, the grandfather had literally disappeared from their lives. Devon’s attempts to ask or speak about his grandfather were met with resistance and confusing dismissals. Devon began lashing out at home and at school.

Our play took many forms, but Devon particularly gravitated to an old-fashioned game of marbles, one that he had learned from his grandfather. He set up difficult obstacles and goals for himself as the “shooter,” often becoming frustrated when his shot missed its intended mark. In one particular round of marbles, Devon decided to seek some heavenly inspiration, so to speak. He named his shooting marble, the biggest one on the floor, the “grandfather marble.” Almost at once, his accuracy improved as he moved effortlessly around the floor, skillfully guiding the marbles to their destinations—with the help of his “grandfather marble.” I did not feel the need to literalize the metaphor of the grandfather marble, although Devon began talking about his beloved grandpa. Conversations began to open in the family, and Devon’s aggressive behavior, its roots finally exposed, diminished, and both he and his family began sharing their feelings and stories about their lost loved one.  

Micah, age six, was small for her age, and very shy, both at home, but particularly at school where she was occasionally bullied by one of the “bigger kids.” She would often come home crying and began resisting going to school in the morning. Her sleep was also increasingly affected. When she did go to school, she would keep to herself on the playground and rarely initiate conversation or play with others. As much as she wanted to interact, Micah became increasingly isolated. When the parents finally found out the details of the bullying, they took swift action, and changes were made at the school.

As with Devon, Micah’s play took many forms including art and dollhouse play; however, she particularly liked building solid structures out of blocks into which she would hide a particular toy car. The structures were elaborate and impenetrable, and once erected, remained so for the balance of each of our meetings. I did not want to impose my words or thoughts on Micah, but instead gave her the time and space to play through what I thought was the need to build protective enclosures for their small vehicular inhabitants. As we built and rebuilt these bastions, we talked of safety, danger, fear, and courage. And as the bullying stopped, and as weeks of play passed, and with the support of her parents, Micah took down the walls once and for all and freed their inhabitants from their previously protective isolation.  

Sianna was soon to leave adolescence behind, hopefully with a greater sense of purpose and self than had characterized her earlier years. She never quite fit in, nor did she seem to want to. Perhaps she did, at a deeper level, but she seemed quite content being alone with her art. Through her drawings, both on paper and her skin, Sianna expressed both frustrations over and wonder about what lay ahead. She had the sense that her purpose lay beyond traditional education, but no clear sense of what that was or would be. While she found art to be a meaningful endeavor, she was not quite sure how to channel it into a sense of purpose.

I enjoyed Sianna’s drawings, which she readily shared as she discussed the challenges of being in this no-person’s-land on the doorstep to whatever would come next. She seemed to lack a coherent sense of self beyond her drawings. I had a wonderful lava lamp in my office during our work together, which was always percolating during our sessions. One day, she brought in this image, which said it all. Finally freed from the inchoate mass of bubbling lava from which it sprang, this little formless creature looked back at its previous entrapment and said, “Thank God, now what!?” That said it all for her, and I felt no need to impose interpretation.

***

Like most other forms of contemporary play therapy, client-centered work carries with it no assumptions other than freedom to express, freedom from judgment, and freedom from scripted technique. As such, clients are encouraged to work on the deeper existential issues related to freedom, isolation, meaning, and of course, death. It doesn’t rush, it doesn’t judge, it doesn't impose, nor does it rely on specific agenda, per se, other than the play therapist’s presence, patience, attention, and caring. These four case snippets and their accompanying images nicely demonstrate that, at least for me, this unhurried form of intervention is in many ways an existential playground.

Questions for Reflection and Discussion

What are your impressions of the author’s connection between CCPT and existential therapy?

What existential concerns have you noticed in the play of your young clients?

How do you address these concerns when they are expressed through play?