Daryl Chow on Reigniting Clinical Supervision

Supervision at the Crossroads

Lawrence Rubin: Good morning Daryl. Thanks for sharing your time with our readers. Your research and writing suggest that supervision as it has traditionally been practiced is in crisis. What is the crisis in the field of supervision that you are responding to in your work?
Daryl Chow: I think there are weaknesses in the status quo practice of supervision, and that is something that we should pay attention to and do something about. I think change needs to start to grow from what we know from the research, as well as from clinical practice in supervision. We need to do something that's closer towards two domains: helping therapists improve their performance and, while they're doing that, also emphasize what they are learning. So,
it's not just helping supervisors with what they're doing on a case-by-case basis, but also helping them to develop and evolve through time
it's not just helping supervisors with what they're doing on a case-by-case basis, but also helping them to develop and evolve through time.
LR: What does it mean to help supervisees or therapists grow and develop, as opposed to just performing in supervision?
DC: In my online course, Reigniting Clinical Supervision, we make an important distinction from the get-go between coaching for performance and coaching for development and learning. Coaching for performance is one way of doing clinical supervision where we help each therapist improve in the stuck cases they are presenting in supervision. This is indeed important in helping them work through the clinical issues that may be blocking progress or preventing them from making inroads in their work with clients.

But I also think what supervisors need to support is an undulating process of helping clinicians with their stuck cases, while also trying to glean general principles with which they can help clinicians then create or identify patterns that are showing up through these stuck cases. It is a matter of looking closely at the cases in which the clinician is not making progress in order to help them in their own personal and professional development. This transcends a case-by-case supervisory discussion in order to focus on the therapist’s growth edge; those skills and characteristics that are generalizable, or what Wendell Berry talks about in terms of agriculture, which is solving for patterns. So, these two worlds of coaching, or supervising for performance and development, need to come together in the supervisory relationship.

If you look at the literature right now from Edward Watkins and others who have done great work in the study of clinical supervision, we have not made any progress. If the outcome of effective supervision is reflected or measured in client improvement, we have not actually moved the needle.

Tony Rousmaniere and his colleagues wrote a paper in which they concluded that
the variance in client outcome accounted for by clinical supervision is less than 1%
the variance in client outcome accounted for by clinical supervision is less than 1%, which means not much, right? That's concerning, because we put so much time, effort, and money into supervision. So, while I don't think I would use such a strong word as crisis to describe the field of clinical supervision, there is definitely a need for change. I really think that we are seeing things slowly changing on the ground level and there are people who are trying to change what we have come to accept as standard practice in supervision. 

Supervising for Development

LR: Okay, so what is the supervisor actually working on when she is focused on the supervisee's development?
DC: Well, the short answer is specific stuff such as the supervisee’s learning objectives. And their learning objectives are based on their performance. I will give you an example. If a clinician was to seek help from a clinical supervisor, that clinician (the supervisee) would first need to have a baseline of their performance, not just at the client-by-client level, but based on a composite of cases that they're seeing that provides them with enough reliable client outcome data.

And then, from those results, they would try to figure out where they're at before deciding where they need to go and what issues they need to address in supervision. I think that's a critical first step, because better results in in clinical supervision as measured by client outcome are obtained sequentially, not simultaneously. By that I mean we need to figure out where the supervisee is at. If their clinical outcomes are average, that really doesn’t say much about what they need to do in order to improve their performance. It is a matter of taking the second step, which is zooming in or focusing on those areas of clinical practice and therapeutic relationship where that clinician needs to improve. Simply focusing on the fact that the clinician is “average regarding their clinical outcomes,” doesn’t tell the supervisor where she needs to focus her lens regarding the supervisee’s skills and development.

So, as an example, if a clinician’s performance was average compared to international benchmarks, the supervisor would then focus in on those cases in which the clinician was stuck. They might listen to some recordings of the clinician’s work to discover that the clinician and the client did not develop therapeutic goal consensus. And it is often the case that
goal consensus is one areas that's not often fleshed out or verified in the process of the first or even in subsequent sessions
goal consensus is one areas that's not often fleshed out or verified in the process of the first or even in subsequent sessions. You and I both know that the goalpost changes as we go, right?

Sometimes the goal is to figure out the goal, to figure out what is or should be the focus of the session. Then the therapist and supervisor work on that one specific area. And then—and this is the critical piece—if the clinician and client are indeed working on goal consensus, it's important for both the therapist and the client, as well as the therapist and the supervisor, to follow through with the work towards that goal and then determine if doing so actually had an impact on therapeutic outcome.  
LR: And just to define the outcomes variables you're talking about—are you talking about outcomes in the client progress, or in the supervisee’s behavior?
DC: I think you hit on an important note, because the feeling of benefit for the therapist does not mean actual benefit for the client that they work with. Remember, we're dealing with two steps removed from the office, so we need to make sure that the work we are doing with the supervisee translates into positive outcome for the client. It's almost like a paradox if you see two overlapping circles. Yes, it's about the supervisee’s performance, but if you focus purely on their performance, you're not going to go anywhere with the client. You're going to be riddled with anxiety. "Am I doing well? Am I doing badly?" And there's so much judgment involved.

We need to see the impact on our clients and see if our learning leads to impacting the people that we're working with. If the learning was focused on goal consensus, we want to see that it actually translates to an actual impact on the clients that you're working with on that level, on one client at a time. But we also want to see if that helps you to move up your effectiveness above your baseline. 
LR: It seems you're saying that, if a supervisor is good at his or her job and guiding the supervisee effectively in the deliberate practice of therapy, then the client will by definition improve.
DC: Wouldn't you expect that?
LR: I would, but isn't it possible that—and I'm not trying to be provocative—but that a supervisor may be very effective in guiding the supervisee or the clinician in deliberately practicing their craft, but the client doesn't improve? Does that mean that the supervision failed? Or might it just be that something was missed? In other words, can you have good supervision and still poor therapeutic outcomes? Or do poor outcomes in therapy mean that the supervision was not effective?
DC: That's a really good point that world-champion poker player, Annie Duke, talks about in her book, Thinking in Bets. She makes a very important distinction which I think we need to think about slowly and carefully. And the point that she was making is:
we tend to conflate outcomes with process
we tend to conflate outcomes with process.

She says that when we get a poor outcome, let's say in the game of poker, we think that our process is responsible for that outcome. She says we tend to conflate the two. If you take some time to think carefully about how you're making decisions, how you're building the process and making a good plan, then if the outcome is bad, don't make that conflation too quickly.

Because in the game of poker, just like in the game of life, there's a lot of random noise, a lot of things that are beyond your and my control. But if you understand with the help of a supervisor that you are working on something critical—in our case, goal consensus because we know the effect size for goal consensus is huge, then it becomes a matter of focusing more directly on building that particular skill in supervision, not other skills unrelated to goal consensus.

And if goal consensus is indeed important—even if one client doesn't work out well, you don't want to go and throw the baby out with the bathwater. You want to just go back and refine goal consensus building skills again. Close the loop. And this is one thing supervisors and therapists can do, is to make sure that, after a discussion, they close the loop.

It sounds so plain and simple, but I think it's really something that's lacking in supervision as well as clinical practice, that people don't really close the loop by figuring out ways to refine the important skills in supervision that actually impact client outcome. If you continue doing this with other clients, will this have an impact as well? 

Deliberate Practice

LR: Along these lines, you have an upcoming book, Better Results: Using Deliberate Practice to Improve Therapeutic Effectiveness, with Scott Miller and Mark Hubble. How can supervisors use deliberate practice to improve not only their supervisee's performance but their own performance as supervisors?
DC:
When we are working in supervision… we are really working within a multi-tiered structure that includes the supervisor, supervisee and the client.
It's a brilliant question, and I know, Lawrence, we've talked about this. My belief at this point is I think that it is critical. We are really in the early days of this type of investigation, but I think it's an important area to work on, and here's why.

My belief is that knowledge is multilevel. When we are working in supervision, we are doing just that because we are really working within a multi-tiered structure that includes the supervisor, supervisee and the client. And let me just use an analogy from the world of music. I'm always impressed by not just what the musician does in a music studio or how they work. I'm always interested in who else is in the room. And one of the things that comes up very often for me is the role of the producer. Sometimes it's the group of artists itself, and sometimes it's someone else.

And a couple of people that stick out to me are Brian Eno, who has worked with Talking Heads, Madonna, U2, and Rick Rubin who has worked with death-metal bands like Slayer. He's worked with many Hip Hop artists. He's also worked with the late Johnny Cash. There’s something about being in the presence of these types of producers that brings out the best in the musicians.

My question is twofold. One, what the hell are these producers doing that brings out the best in the musician? But I also am interested in how I can help others and myself be able to become more like a coach or mentor the likes of college basketball’s John Wooden. And the one thing that I think is becoming a little bit clearer as I go is that we really need a system of practice, a way to systematically organize ourselves around how we think about supervision. So, when I say system, it just means as simple as: how do we track outcomes?

My mentor and collaborator, Scott Miller, talks a lot about feedback-informed treatment. To me, measuring what we value is key, because measurement precedes professional development, so it is critical to help people, supervisees in this case, to systematically track their outcomes and to have a system of coaching already in place by the time they come into supervision.

And then we develop a taxonomy of deliberate practice activities so we know where they're at in the baseline, how to help them figure out a way to deconstruct the therapy hour and then pick up little things that they can work on. So, I guess my short answer, or rather my long answer is really, to figure out a system that can function as a platform from which we can begin to work on the more nuanced stuff in the role of supervisor. Am I making sense about this? 

A Portfolio of Mentors

LR: You are indeed, Daryl, and related to this notion of the producer and artist working in collaboration, you recommended that clinicians build a portfolio of mentors. Does that mean that, even though supervision is, as you call it, a signature pedagogy, that clinicians should build a production studio of sorts with other professionals? 
DC: As much as supervision is a signature pedagogy for our field, what's interesting for me of late is how people reaching out for consults or coaching often follows having given up on working with a supervisor for various reasons, unless they are in an agency setting where that is provided. But, yes, I think the idea of a portfolio of mentors is to say that
if you can figure out what's your leading edge or the gap that you're trying to work on, your default supervisor may or may not have the knowledge to help you
if you can figure out what's your leading edge or the gap that you're trying to work on, your default supervisor may or may not have the knowledge to help you.

And what you want to do is to create a community of people that you can turn to, that you can talk with, and then maybe a certain person you turn to more routinely. For instance, I've known a supervisor for more than a decade, and I always return to her. But if there was something else that was missing, or I wanted to stretch out and pick another mind to think of it from a different perspective, I would reach out to other people, even people who are so-called experts, and send them an email. I would ask them, "What's the fee? Can I come talk with you?" And most people are friendly. 
LR: In a way, isn’t that what you are trying to provide through your online supervision training, Reigniting Clinical Supervision?
DC: My focus for Reigniting Clinical Supervision is to help clinical supervisors design better learning environments that sustain real development for therapists, so as to achieve better client outcomes. The choice of an online learning platform is not a mere substitute for live teaching. Instead, gleaning from the best of what we know of optimizing learning, adopting a “one idea at a time” drip-based method of delivery of content and maintaining learner engagement, helps the busy practitioner weave what they learn into practice, and return to renew and reconsolidate new knowledge as a result of being in the course with me and other clinicians/supervisors.

Here’s how I think about the difference between a live training and how Reigniting Clinical Supervision is designed: A real-time training/workshop is like a river. It is a constantly flowing torrent of ideas. If the learner steps out of the river for a few minutes, or needs some time to think, he is now behind. The learner may be able to ask questions but needs to constantly try and catch up and not fall behind. A chance for a revisit of the content after some time of reflection is not possible, with only the notes or slides that you've captured.
Online learning, on the other hand, is like a lake. The learner can step in and out of the water at her own time
Online learning, on the other hand, is like a lake. The learner can step in and out of the water at her own time, and pace herself as she moves along; the water remains the same. This stillness allows for pausing, revisiting the material, reflecting, and connecting with past knowledge. Online learning at its best allows for the learner to ask questions, revisit the materials, and for the person to master a difficult segment before moving on.
LR: Within this community of mentors model, there are different factors that predict therapeutic outcome. They include goal consensus, alliance and repairing therapeutic ruptures. Can the same principles be applied to improve supervisor performance and development?
DC: Hopefully, that's paralleled or modeled within the supervisory work. I would encourage supervisors to also elicit feedback within the supervision. And most of us do that, but it is also important to do it in a way that's a little bit more about a ritual. This would mean using some quick check-ins that give the supervisee some space to think about it, and then to explore the nuances of the supervisor/supervisee relationship. It's much harder when you really know somebody well, like the supervisor knowing the supervisee, to give feedback.
LR: Have you experienced working with expert clinicians who are lousy supervisors?
DC: I'm thinking of the converse. So, let me look back in my mind. I don't mean this in any disrespectful way because I really respect this person's work. Jay Haley of the strategic school of family therapy talked about this and said that he was really good as a supervisor, but not as good as a therapist [laughs].
LR: I think of myself as being a better supervisor and teacher than therapist. In your language, perhaps that’s because I have not deliberately practiced therapy.
DC: Yes, right.
LR: I've performed therapy, but in the words of Scott Miller, I've not deliberately practiced it. So, it's interesting that just because someone may be a very competent clinician, it doesn't mean that they have the patience or skill to guide a fellow clinician as a supervisee, and vice versa.
DC: This harkens back to your question about the role of training supervisors in how they do deliberate practice, because, to me, there are overlaps, of course, but there are also distinct skills required in their roles as supervisors and therapists.
The role of a supervisor requires some skill to be able to articulate the concepts without getting lost in the weeds of abstraction
The role of a supervisor requires some skill to be able to articulate the concepts without getting lost in the weeds of abstraction.

Cardinal Supervision Mistakes

LR: Talking about getting lost in the weeds, you wrote an article for us about seven mistakes in clinical supervision. If you were to pick the top two cardinal mistakes from that list of seven that supervisors make, which ones flash red to you, and what can supervisors to do about them? 
DC: This is tough because the language around mistakes is all negative. I think, for me, the one that I've seen in my own experience and through my own mistakes is that of too much theory talk.
I think we talk too much. On the ladder of abstraction, talk is quite high up there
I think we talk too much. On the ladder of abstraction, talk is quite high up there. Bear in mind, when we're in supervision and in the absence of the actual client, we spend all our time talking in abstractions, at the level of theories about the client rather than about the therapeutic relationship.

When we're doing that, we've got to bear that in mind, that we don't have that person there, and we're talking at the level of theoretical abstraction, so many steps removed from what is occurring between the supervisee and the client. It's very easy to speak of it from whatever orientation or whatever philosophy you hold, without joining the dots of what's going to ripple down into the actual therapeutic relationship where the real work is happening.

Another big mistake in supervision is that when the clinical work is stuck and the supervisee and client are not making progress, the supervisor may say something in an attempt at being supportive to the supervisee like, "Well, at least they keep coming back, right?" In this instance, the supervisor is doing little more than what I call, patting them on the back–encouraging the supervisee without giving her any clear direction out of the stuck situation.

I'm really conflicted about that statement that I hear very often. Is that good enough for you, that they still come back? Or what else? What else can we be thinking of? How do we escape this domain of just talking on their level and to be able to make some real impact?  
LR:
Another big mistake in supervision is…encouraging the supervisee without giving her any clear direction out of the stuck situation
I know that being able to effectively conceptualize a clinical case, to think about it from different theoretical perspectives, is important. But you're saying, Daryl, that sometimes we err on the side of overthinking the theory at the expense of guiding the supervisee in building the relationship with their client, and then we congratulate the therapist for minimal progress? Seems like damning by faint praise.
DC: Yes and no. I think all prudent supervisors know that therapeutic relationship really matters. And by therapeutic relationship, let's be clear, it's not just about the emotional bond, even though that is one critical part. But the other part is the focus, which is about the goals, the directionality, where it's going. The next is also about whether there is a cogent method for both the therapist and the client. Are we in agreement? Is there a fit in where we're going? All those things relate to the therapeutic alliance.

I think most people are focused about that. But as you will see in the upcoming blog that I am writing for Psychotherapy.net, I will be talking about the three types of supervisory knowledge. One type of knowledge is about the content knowledge, about the clinical case, about the psychopathology. Those things are necessary but not sufficient. The second type of knowledge is the process knowledge about how you engage with somebody who's, say, depressed? How do you engage with somebody who's anxious? That's a process or type of relating kind of knowledge. How do you have that kind of conversation? As David Whyte, the poet and philosopher, would say, "the conversational nature of reality." How do you engage in that? How do you come into being with another person into that field? But the third one is conditional knowledge, which is; if you're working with somebody who's depressed due to bereavement, it's going to be very different than when you're working with somebody who is depressed as well but due to, say, domestic violence. The context is very different, and you need to figure out a way of relating with them given the different situation. So, by considering all three of these in supervision; playing into the content knowledge, process knowledge and conditional knowledge, I think the supervisor can synergize them for the benefit of both the therapeutic work and the development of the supervisee. The supervisor and supervisee having this multi-level conversation will benefit both the client and the supervisee. 

The Humble Teacher

LR: What do you see as some of the important personal qualities of an effective supervisor or a clinician who might become an effective supervisor?
DC: For me, of course,
a good teacher is somebody who is willing to be a good student
a good teacher is somebody who is willing to be a good student. If I'm picking a supervisor for myself, I'm always looking for somebody who implicitly—and it's not something that people would say explicitly, is willing to be wrong, willing to seek the counterfactuals, and then to have by default a stance of humility not just because they're trying to act humbly or bragging about their humility.

This humble teacher will say, “Hmm. Oh, hang on a second. I've really never thought of that.” And they're rethinking. That, to me, is interesting. And it's not because they don't have a wealth of knowledge. It's because this is dis-confirming what they know. And that's so exciting. That's like fresh air, you know, when you're working with somebody that way.

Additionally, somebody who has mental models or mental representations and concepts in their head about different ways to think about clinical situations and suggestions for the supervisee. They know that when they're facing this kind of situation, they have what Gerd Gigerenzer calls fast and frugal heuristics. They have little maps of how they will approach stuff. You know, they've thought it through before. They have ideas in their memory bank that they will pull into their working memory.

And you know that because when they're just giving off-the-fly statements, you know that it's off the fly. But if you know that they've thought about it, you realize their mental networks are vast. They know that it's an “if-then” situation, and they're thinking about it and all kinds of communications. That excites me because that shows to you this person has done some thinking before meeting with you. 
LR: Is this what you refer to when you say that true experts think like novices, or beginning therapists, while true novices think they're experts? Is it related?
DC: I think so. [chuckles] I think so.
LR: I like that idea that the expert supervisor, who may or may not be an expert clinician, has these—what did you call them—fast and frugal heuristics? Was that the term that you used?
DC: That's right, and I mean that's the term from Gerd Gigerenzer, who studies cognitive science. He talks of the importance of having these sorts of heuristics. You know, the way we've been terming it is mental representation. Things that happen might not just be easily explained using therapeutic models but by different ways of thinking. Like, what do you do if you meet somebody who is angry or depressed in the session? These heuristics or maps are not like stock answers but are based on clear principles that flow from these mental representations. What do you do with somebody who doesn't have a goal? How do you work with them? They have a rough and ready guide.

At the Cutting Edge

LR: So, the supervisor should aspire to flexible thinking, drawing on different belief systems, different ways of looking at the human condition, different interpretations of the same clinical presentation? It sounds like the advanced supervisor is out at this cutting edge of creativity, untethered to any one way of thinking.
DC: Yes.

This domain of creativity is something I'm really interested in. I think one thing we need to remember about creativity is that it's about something novel and something useful coming together? Wouldn't it be great if supervisors were not restricted to thinking solely in terms of the field of psychotherapy in the course of doing their supervision, and could bring in greater creativity?

Just thinking about architecture, music, art—thinking about other aesthetic forms and how all of these can inform ways of thinking. Coming back again to the example about goal consensus, why do we need to only think about this within the domain of psychotherapy? Why don't we learn about how other fields and business organizations think about creating focus? 
LR: So, we should consider using a flexible system of metaphors that transcend psychology and psychotherapy. When we first contacted each other, I mentioned that there seemed to be almost a spiritual undertone to the way that you described your personal philosophy of living and helping. Am I seeing it correctly, that there's a certain spirituality or spiritual dimension to your work as a clinician and a supervisor, and perhaps we should embrace that as well?
DC: Well, I'm grateful that you picked that up. To me, the answer is yes. And I think that's personally a deep embedment in my life. I was raised a freethinker from my Singaporean days. You know, this means I'm free to think or whatever that means. But I converted to become a Catholic when I was 21. When everybody else was running out of the Church, I was going back in. So, to me, that was my start.

But I think, fundamentally beyond religion, what's really driving me on a first principle level is human dignity. And the way I think about this is that
if a person comes to seek help and opens up to another person, that's a sacred moment
if a person comes to seek help and opens up to another person, that's a sacred moment. We need to honor that. We need to figure out a way that we can help each other come alive, because it's not just about creating purpose and meaning, but it's really to help each other come alive. And the therapist needs to come alive. The therapist needs to be alive and kicking and playful and to be able to ignite that. And the therapist also needs help and guidance from a supervisor. And for the supervisor to do that, the supervisor also needs to come alive. 
LR: I remember Bill Moyer’s interview with Joseph Campbell at George Lucas’ Skywalker Ranch. He said to Joseph Campbell, “So, you're saying that people are searching for the meaning of life?” And Campbell said, “No. People are searching for the experience of being alive.” How does that find its way into the world of supervision, that tripartite relationship between supervisor, supervisee, and client? Where does that element of being alive get infused in that three-level process? And whose responsibility is it?
DC: Sounds like a family.
LR: Yeah, doesn't it?
DC: Yeah. I think everybody is going to come into play. I think it is the interaction. It's this ecology of a systemic perspective that's going to be important. How does it come alive? You know, I think we need some kind of platform for this to work, which we have talked about. But I think it critical is to keep this conversation going. Once we see that therapists are working hard to improve in what they are doing—once they figure out the baseline, once they figure out what to work on based on the baseline, then they develop a system to help them do their practice on an ongoing basis. And that they see the payoff of what they're doing.

It's like your child who's worked hard for the math test and starts seeing see the result. There's the real payoff. I mean the whole temperature of the room changes. Their focus becomes more intrinsic. And at that point, the role of the guidance is going to evolve as well. There's always going to be state of change. You’re right when you pointed out that quote from Joseph Campbell as well. That's something I'm very familiar with, and I think it's important that we continue to keep the conversation alive within clinical supervision as well as at the level of the therapist and client. 

Fanning the Flames

LR: So, just as we encourage clinicians to take care of themselves and to grow and to rest and to seek meaning and a reason for being alive, so too must supervisors continually replenish and rest and grow and seek internal expansion, because if they wither, then the supervisee withers and the client withers. Who are the roots, and who are the leaves in this tree? It's a quite interconnected system.
DC: [chuckles] It is. It's just like our world now, isn't it? I mean I'm suddenly reminded about this teenager from Sweden that's really been striking me about what she's doing. I don't know if you follow the news about Greta Thunberg and how she's doing this protest about climate change and rallying a million teens around the world to protest about how the adults in this world had better take this seriously. And she's been going on global forums just speaking about this.

And I heard one of her speeches which she starts by saying, “Our house is on fire. What would you do if your house was on fire?” And she expands on that. And I think that's so important, that somebody her age is speaking about this. 
LR: So, supervisees must find ways to, in your words, reignite supervision. I have one last question. You were born in Singapore, you live and practice in Australia, and you've traveled the world doing training in therapy and supervision. What have you noticed about teaching and supervising cross-culturally?
DC:
I think the first thing that comes to my mind is how similar across culture we are in terms of helping people
I think the first thing that comes to my mind is how similar across culture we are in terms of helping people, trainings and our roles as therapists and supervisors. But, of course, each culture has its own subcultures that you're dealing with. But to me, really what's striking is how much similarity there is. We're all in the same boat.
LR: What do you mean, the same boat, Daryl?
DC: We're all struggling to get better. We all want to. I mean all therapists and all supervisors want to do a better job. And that propels us. That makes us stay hopeful. It makes us invest time, money and effort to go and do CPE [continuing professional development] activities. You know, we're all trying to get better. But what's implicitly underneath that wish to get better is worry. We do worry about, “Am I getting any better? Is what I'm doing really helping to translate?”

And people are asking this question as they are looking deep, long, and hard. And I think the onus is on us as a collective, as a field, to start to come together, to start to build this brick-by-brick, to help out from the therapist's level and the supervisor's level, and to help us build this house, build it up again, and to help us to get just that 1-2% better each step of the way. Because the payoff and the morale that comes with that is going to move us even further. 
LR: So, if everyone in that multilevel relationship strives to be a little bit better, then the whole system becomes better.
DC: That's right.
LR: If client outcome improves, then that goodwill is shared beyond the therapeutic space. If the supervisor is dedicated to practicing their craft, then they are in a better position to teach clinicians. And if clinicians practice deliberately, they are in a better position to help their client. And that is consistent across cultures.
DC: That's right. And, you know, I'm not the only one who is doing this, but I think I've started doing this whole thing about clinical supervision because I think we are a critical piece to the puzzle. And I think this one little story might help to illuminate this. You know, this gentleman, he knocks on his son's door, and he says, “Jamie, wake up, please. Wake up. You've got to get to school.”

Jamie then says, “I'm not going.” And the father says, “Why not?” He says, “Well, Dad, there are three reasons. First, school is so dull. And second, the kids tease me. And third, I hate school anyway.” And the father says, “Well, I'm going to give you three reasons why you must go to school. First, because it's your duty. And second, because you're 41 years old. And third, because you are the headmaster.”
LR: [laughs]
DC: I think we play that critical role. We do need to show up. And when we show up, we then need to think about what's our status quo and what's the one thing we need to start in order to refine our work to bring us alive again.
LR: To play that instrument a little better, to hit that tennis ball a little straighter, to run a little bit more efficiently. The supervisor must have a commitment to continued growth and development if the supervisee and the client are to improve.
DC: Yes, and I will say one last thing, if I may, Lawrence.
LR: Of course.
DC: If we use the musician analogy, I don't think it's to play the instrument a bit better.
LR: No?
DC: I think it's to play the instrument well enough but to be able to become better songwriters. I think that's a tougher job, because you can get technically better as a musician, but to write the next Hard Day's Night or Yesterday or Bohemian Rhapsody, I think that's a different skill. And I think we need to find a way to become better songwriters in our field.
LR: So, we can make better music together and because the audience is indeed listening.
DC: That's it.
LR: I think on that note, Daryl, I'm going to say goodbye, and on behalf of our readers, thank you so very much.
DC: Thank you.

How to Master the Art of Developing Your Therapeutic Voice

Becoming an Artist

Surrounded by a sea of attendees at Psychotherapy Networker’s annual conference, I waited to ask my hero the question that had been burning inside. One man, with an uncanny resemblance to Sigmund Freud, entranced us yet again with a story of the work we’d all been celebrating and emulating in our own offices for so many years. Our master clinician and storyteller, group therapy guru, and most importantly, the single most generous and open discloser of his clinical process, Irvin Yalom was reflecting on his lifetime contributions.

It was now our turn to ask him questions. “Dr. Yalom, you’ve shown us how to embrace the process, and as the poet Rilke advised, to: ‘be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves.’” Was I even talking into the microphone? The notes on my phone bounced out of focus, but I pressed on.

“Like jazz musicians, you’ve reminded us to enjoy the dissonances and savor the surprises we find within them. Can you talk about that, the role and importance of being an artist in our field?” I was grateful when he acknowledged that yes, he had thought of calling his book Letters to a Young Therapist after Rilke’s famous missives. “Even though I idolized so many, no, no, I never thought of myself as an artist. Even though I had wanted to be one, it wasn’t me!” It was like I had framed the wrong man. With him ready to quickly move on, I was stunned, stung, crestfallen. If Yalom couldn’t recognize being an artist, how could any of us?

Luckily for me — and us — Sue Johnson, the puckish British couples therapist and our evening’s interviewer, held him up a minute to take stock of his knee-jerk demurral. Wasn’t his work — its graceful storytelling and open embrace of the therapeutic process a testament to the power of our art to heal and enlarge? Was this any less artistic than the poet, musician, or actor’s craft?

Yalom’s initial objection ripened into delight on stage, and after the conference, in a private email, he thanked me, stating simply, “I’ll remember your comment for a very, very long time.” That’s what this essay is about: the artistry of our work and how we develop a therapeutic voice to help us get there. This is vital not only for ourselves and our supervisees, but even more so for our clients, who cultivate their own voice in the interplay with ours. Happily, there is ample scientific and empirical support for this artistic venture and cultivation of the voice, and I will use it to contextualize and illuminate our journey along the way.

Finding Our Voice

All artists — whether writers, musicians, or actors — must develop a voice, that hard-to-define yet distinctive style which runs like an invisible thread through their work, opening a space of creative possibility between their art and audience. As a supervisor of beginning therapists, I view this as essential, and liken it to the process we see on television each week on the show “The Voice.”

Just as Kelly Clarkson, Blake Shelton, and Adam Levine compassionately and thoughtfully mold, mentor, and inspire young talent, so too must we as supervisors help our beginning clinicians. Each has their own music and style they come in playing, and supervisors help them draw out their raw talent, experiment with new genres, and ultimately learn about how to make music that is, as Duke Ellington said, “beyond category.” This is therapy that transcends theoretical orientations, becoming a unique blend of the clinician’s theoretical and empirical knowledge, their personality, and emerging therapeutic repertoire.

There is a yin and yang here that, when in proper balance and harmony, lead to a fully developed artistic voice. This voice not only serves the therapist but promotes the opening and expansion of the patient’s own voice, becoming the driving force of creative therapeutic work. This also forms the basis for a lifetime of creating art. Yes, all of us therapists (veterans too!) do this daily, in the poetic and musical lines we shape in what others easily pass over as ordinary prose. Freud had it right from the beginning when he suggested, “When we can share that is poetry in the prose of life.”

Wouldn’t it be inspiring if all of us — beginning and veteran clinicians alike, supervisors and supervisees — could embrace the artistry of our everyday work? Wouldn’t it be illuminating if we had a working model of how to cultivate and deepen this?

Building a Voice

The model that I’ve arrived at is both simple yet expansive. A therapeutic voice is the combination and interplay of therapeutic presence and therapeutic authority, the complementary and seemingly contradictory elements that like yin and yang, enable us to create a three-dimensional picture of our patients and ourselves. Think of it like how our two eyes, each with their independent perspectives, magically create depth perception.

An ambitious supervisee recently confessed to me, “I have to anticipate everything before our session, and know exactly where I am taking my clients. I feel like a white-water rafting guide who’s one turn away from taking the whole crew down with me!”

This supervisee, like so many others, is proficient at being directive, setting goals, and moving quickly towards intervention. Unfortunately, they don’t offer enough room for the patient to openly explore and steep in their feelings or draw on the relational process to entertain new possibilities, which is why they so often feel up a creek without a paddle.

Therapeutic Presence

What they need more of is the yin of therapeutic voice, therapeutic presence — the capacity to be receptive, mindfully attentive, emotionally available, nonjudgmental and resonant with the client’s unfolding experience (1). Freud originated this concept in his earliest recommendation for practicing therapists in 1912, underscoring the vital importance of “evenly hovering attention.” Like a koan, the therapist should “simply listen and not bother about whether he is keeping anything in mind.”

Considered the foundation for tuning in to the patient’s unconscious, it provided a potent tool for opening one’s mind and heart to new possibilities for understanding and engaging the patient’s psyche. Like the Zen Buddhist notion of “beginner’s mind,” or mindfulness itself, therapeutic presence comes from the framework of “not knowing” in the service of creativity. To paraphrase the Nobel prize-winning poet Wislawa Szymborska, the point — like the poet’s main task — is to say I don’t know and keep on going. It’s to wonder aloud!

Therapeutically present therapists are understanding, open-minded, and comfortable with a range of different feelings and perspectives.These therapists have internalized Robert Frost’s prescient quip, “No surprise for the writer. No surprise for the reader!” Patients feel a sense of safety, trust, and warmth in their company. The space seems to open with them. This disarming quality makes it easy for patients to explore new subplots and turns in their stories. They find themselves surprised at how much they are saying and learning in just the telling itself.

Therapists who practice this kind of presence don’t have to know immediately and aren’t bothered by the ambiguity or complexity of what they are hearing; they “dwell in possibility,” as Emily Dickinson said, a “fairer house than prose.” They allow patients to be in the driver’s seat so that they can show them the territory first, and in so doing, instruct their therapist how to best be of service. This openness allows patients to take more risks in therapy, to deepen the exploration of their thoughts and feelings, and to get to genuinely enjoy the deeper waters of the psyche, even providing modeling for them to be more open to the various and contradictory sides of themselves! In short, to paraphrase Whitman, they are reminded that, “We are large. We contain multitudes!”

Owning A Voice

Plopping down in my office chair, and letting out a formidable sigh, another supervisee recently lamented: “Sometimes I feel like I’m taking it all in but then can’t get a word in edgewise, and I’m not even sure if what I’m thinking even makes sense. Am I really helping them at all, or are my own mixed-up feelings just getting in the way of making any headway?”

I know many fantastic supervisees who excel at being empathic, reflective, and thoughtful with their patients, but lack the confidence to make discriminating interpretations that take into account their valuable instincts and intuition regarding new creative possibilities.

These supervisees, understandably, worry that if they use too much of their authority, they will overwhelm or possibly hurt their clients.

They need more of the yang of the voice of therapeutic authority — which I define as the command of theory and technique and a discriminating awareness of how to put these into practice. It is the confidence to properly select, apply, time, and adjust one’s interventions in a multicultural and relationally sensitive manner (by relying on the yin of therapeutic presence, of course!).

The clinician with therapeutic authority is happy to show patients how to blaze a new trail and empower them to sort through the various aspects of their experience to find bigger patterns and new possibilities. Like an artist mentoring a new student, they can see the bigger and smaller picture and can help with the difficult passages encountered in putting new skills and pieces together. Most importantly, the therapist with a balanced dose of therapeutic authority knows how to do this with proper timing, tact and empathy. They are not going to break patients down like a military drill sergeant, but instead are going to be thoughtfully discriminating and penetrate deeper into problems and their implied solutions.

Supervisory Support

It is vital for supervisors to support beginning clinicians in developing their clinical intuition and instincts, the confident application of their theoretical and empirical knowledge, and a sense for having the “authority” to make therapeutic moves. Just as a singer needs to take risks with trying out new ways to expand their interpretation of a song, so too does the beginning clinician, and as supervisors, we are right behind them to encourage it!

Supervisors also need to model how to both be comfortable with and to chase the kind of not-knowing that makes creative therapeutic work possible. Like Yoda to Luke Skywalker, we help emerging clinicians to learn how to use “The Force,” showing them that, paradoxically, it is only by surrendering and letting go that we truly open the space for something new to emerge.

Just like our young poet needed Rilke to learn how to become an artist (and Rilke in turn was mentored by the great sculptor Auguste Rodin), so too do our beginning clinicians need us to illustrate how they can be balanced and integrated in their own unique therapeutic voice by uniting these two crucial faculties. And it turns out that all of us, no matter what level we are at, need to remember that we are always cultivating and expressing this artistry!

Empirically Supported Artistry

Art never needs more than its own justification, but as a scientist practitioner, you might need to be reminded of the scientific support for viewing therapy as an artistic enterprise. Look no further than Neuroscientist Antonio Damasio’s recent book, The Strange Order of Things, which eloquently showcases the way in which our “right-brained” feeling comes first, inspiring and motivating our greatest cultural innovations and products, and that joined together with the logic and language of our left-brains, becomes something truly extraordinary. Daniel Pink in In a Whole New Mind illustrates the 21st century’s cultural sea change from a left-brained leaning computer age, to a right-brained leaning conceptual age that integrates right and left to make the best of both worlds.

In my model, therapeutic presence is the right-brain dominant aspect of our therapeutic artistry, and therapeutic authority is the left-brain pilot, so to speak. Therapeutic presence is at once dreamlike and free-associative, holistic and big-picture, image and metaphor centered, and largely implicit and nonverbal. It undergirds the profound empathic connection between us and our patients, especially to those sides of our clients that have experienced trauma and yet still long for—even in secret — a more redemptive narrative.

Therapeutic authority flows from the language and logic-based sides of our brain with its highly developed executive functioning. More largely conscious and deliberate, this side enables us to zero in and edit the many clinical possibilities before us so that we can work with true specificity and discernment, tailoring our treatment for the unique person sitting across from us, and getting to the heart of the matter.

A 19th century poem by Frances Cornford sums up this lovely process best. Entitled “The Guitarist Tunes Up”, we learn that this musician leans into their instrument with ‘attentive courtesy’:

Not as a lordly conqueror who could

Command both wire and wood,

But as a man with a loved woman might,

Inquiring with delight

What slight essential things she had to say

Before they started, he and she, to play.

For a visual of this interplay, we can look to none other than that famous Renaissance man — Da Vinci and his iconic drawing of his Vitruvian Man. It is only by integrating the square of our logic with the circle of our feeling do we become something truly divine — artists in our own right.

Learning & Teaching from Art

If we are to find and develop a therapeutic voice, we must first look at how therapy itself connects to the arts and how, as supervisors and supervisees, we can attend to these important dimensions. We’ll look specifically to poetry and music as starting points.

Poetry Lessons

A poem, such as a sonnet, compresses a question or problem, its exploration, and a final statement of some revelation or new understanding into 14 lines. In Shakespeare’s famous sonnet, “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” the speaker wrestles back and forth with how his love is and is not like summer. Initially, it seems very fitting to compare her to the beauty and splendor of the season, but upon further inspection, new ideas emerge. Among other things, she is much more constant, evenly tempered, reliable, and more lovely than the summer months.

Much like Shakespeare’s speaker, we wrestle with our initial diagnostic impressions of our patients: Shall I compare thee to a borderline personality, a depressive, or an adjustment disorder? It is not immediately clear, and so many of our first sessions entail testing out various hypotheses to determine who the patient is and is not.

As Shakespeare’s poem continues, surprises and new discoveries emerge and toward the final turn of the poem, the poet concludes that his love will be eternal as a result of the poetic act itself: “So long as men can breathe or eyes can see/so long lives this, and this gives life to thee.” This is the aim of a transformative therapeutic process. Much like a sonnet, by the end of the therapeutic experience, a patient will be able to make a few “turns” and come to a way of internalizing the therapeutic process so that it too will become eternal.

Music Lessons

Beethoven’s fifth symphony provides an immediately recognizable compressed musical idea. In only four notes, a focal theme is established that is explored, varied, and reharmonized much in the same way that occurs in therapy. The capacity of the therapist to articulate that melody — the dominant trend or relational pattern that pulls the various strands of a patient’s story together —goes very far in clarifying what has been troubling patients while it points them in the direction of how they can move forward. Much of the time, patients are playing the notes of their issues but are not aware of the melody and cannot synthesize it into a focal theme. They bring us their own invisible scores and hope we will give them feedback to recognize their own music.

About seven and a half minutes into the third movement of Rachmaninov’s Symphony in E minor, we hear the main theme played by the French horn, in the manner that a patient initially expresses when it is recognized by the counselor: “You hear me! This is the song I didn’t know I was singing.” Shortly after, the theme gets played by the violin with a melancholy poignancy: “I have been waiting a long time suffering with this alone.” This is the sense of sadness and mourning that the patient feels for having had to sequester this aspect of self in the service of protection and adaptation.

As the theme gets worked upon and elaborated, new instruments, such as the oboe and flute, come in to take on the line, with hope gathering. Calmer and with greater poise, a certain pride and expressiveness opens now that this very significant idea can be incorporated into the larger musical narrative of the patient’s story.

Let’s see how this artistry translates to a representative case and get a preview of putting all the pieces together.

A Case of You

I’ve named this “A Case of You” as a nod to Joni Mitchell’s heartbreakingly beautiful song because this patient seemed at first blush like she was too much to handle. Pretty quickly into our first session, I realized that, like for so many of our cases, the following lyrics truly applied:

“You’re in my blood, you’re my holy wine, you’re so bitter and so sweet, oh I could drink a case of you, and I’d still be on my feet!”

A student came to her intake appointment complaining that her friends did not understand her, that she couldn’t fathom why they were so turned off by the razor blade that she kept on her desk as a reminder that she could cut herself, and that she had been told to come to counseling many times, but it had never been helpful in the past. She asked, why should she bother now?

Previous counselors told her that she needed a higher level of care than they could provide, and those appointments left the student feeling misunderstood and blamed for troubles she could not fathom. She also felt a sense of hopelessness at not being able to make true contact, just as she had not with family and friends. Aiming right for the jugular, she also scoffed at me: “Counselors are incompetent and don’t really understand me. You probably won’t either!”

In addition to feeling interpersonally rejected on several fronts, as a first-generation college student, she experienced the pressure of well-meaning parents who hoped to see the family’s metaphorical stock rise with her success. At the same time, her family expected her to be at the ready when they called her to take care of her younger siblings. She was a painter who loved the darkest colors of her palette, with her works centering on Hopperesque misfits wandering in the night.

Initially, her cutting was a regular strategy to express and modulate her emotions, combined with a preoccupation with death, and the ways in which friends and other therapists had been repelled by her behavior made me wonder whether this student had borderline personality disorder. Like in Shakespeare’s poem, though, I was not sure whether this comparison truly fit.

Here we see the internal wrestling of therapeutic authority and presence. The first stab at therapeutic authority can have us all too quickly categorize or even pathologize what we are seeing before we get the full story. At the same time, this discriminating faculty provides crucial information that we really need to follow. Like a samurai warrior, psychologically speaking we need to forge the sword and learn how to use it appropriately. Toggling back and forth between this function and therapeutic presence — the open and receptive Buddha nature — allows us to see the big picture clearly while also focusing keenly on the supporting details that we need to assess and intervene incisively.

As I got to know more about the patient’s relational backdrop and leaned into my therapeutic presence, things looked a bit different. I learned about her parents’ difficulty tolerating fear, anger, and sadness, and their own struggles with managing chronically high levels of stress. I also learned about my client’s repeated experiences of the family being unable to acknowledge or stay with her emotional experience.

Just as the subject of the Shakespearian poem was no longer so much like the summer, it seemed more and more that she was no longer like a patient with a borderline organization and instead more like one with a neurotic organization or a possible adjustment disorder. She appeared to be in a conflict that could not be acknowledged squarely as she was in the midst of an important developmental transition, both issues coloring each other and placing her in an ever-tightening Gordian knot.

By trusting my therapeutic authority, a focal theme emerged. When this patient expressed negative emotions, people could not tolerate them and emotionally and physically abandoned her. This pattern was consistent with her emerging friendships — others were not interested in hanging out with her despite her charm and intelligence — and extended to her early family experience, in which her parents subjected her to the silent treatment for days whenever her emotions ran too hot. Taken together, the patient internalized a message that her emotions were problematic and disruptive and that they must be put aside and suppressed. In other words, they became “not-me” and funneled into the dissociative symptom of cutting.

Until I was able to home in on a focal theme, I, like the therapists before me, was part of the problem, imagining in my countertransference that it was the patient who had the major issue. Internally, I underestimated how much my feelings were part of an enactment, containing only a small piece of the story. Initially, I was bracing myself for difficult work, assuming that the student had a great deal of pathology and would make little movement. In a way, I was reenacting the dynamic of the student’s relational backdrop, finding her issues disruptive to my sense of authority just like her parents and her prior therapists had — “it is not me, it is her.” By maintaining a therapeutically present stance, I was able to observe this crucial dynamic and incorporate it into a new understanding and relationship with the client.

Therapeutic authority led me to a focal theme that helped me see that it was totally understandable for her to shy away from sharing her intense feelings and need to hide and express them in her not-so-secret ritual of cutting. She was protecting both myself and herself from “not-me” and letting the world know, with what seemed to be twisted pride, that cutting was her right and a very valuable part of her emotional life. Looking back on that detail now, it was very prescient in the way it encapsulated her attempt to express and independently resolve her bind.

Reading and Tracking Changes

Guided by a mindful application of therapeutic presence and a discriminating use of therapeutic authority, the student went through the kind of musical sequence referenced above. Initially, having a therapist who was able to respect and receive the fullness of her experience without mistreating or abandoning her by becoming critical or explosive or falling apart was a tremendous step toward a new relational experience. The recognition that her focal theme was understandable and heard enabled her to begin to speak of it without the kind of shame and dissociation that often accompanies a “not-me” experience. It also enabled her to begin to trust and hope again.

She became inwardly and outwardly relaxed so that she could begin to examine the many facets of her current and past experience and thus begin the riffing that is essential to the jazz improvisation that is therapy. In short, she began to find and develop her own voice as a patient!

The patient could view her behaviors as more comprehensible and expressive of the hidden conflicts she had been harboring and that had been left unformulated and disconnected. This expanding sense of self-compassion became an important antidote to her cutting behavior and provided an alternative avenue for exploring and containing her emotional experience. Interpersonally, she became less defensive and fearful of others abandoning her, having had a transformative set of experiences in which she felt the consistent presence of a reliable other. She began to show her pain not only in her words but in the artwork, she did as a painter.

When a poetic turn or musical theme has been established, shifts can immediately be seen in the patient and felt in the relationship. These can occur simply in the change of posture (often, a straightening of the back and sitting up in one’s chair), a richer tone of voice, a feeling of newfound connection and space in the therapeutic relationship, or in the spontaneity and flow of narrative or images that emerge in the therapeutic interplay

In the first session, trust was developed as the student began to see me as a figure who could understand and appreciate the depth of her pain and recognize the myriad ways in which she had been misjudged and pigeonholed by her family, friends and, most notably, other therapists. We also developed a focal theme centering on how this rejection led her to suppress and negate her important and precious feelings. Taken together, I believe that these turns led to decreased scores in hostility and emotional distress, each indicative of the fact that she was feeling more trusting, less defensive, and relieved at being able to begin to experience her emotions more directly.

These scores continued to remain significantly lower than baseline for the next few sessions, whereupon we worked on developing ways of shifting patterns in her relationships with friends and family. At around session five, the student’s depression scores started to decrease as she began to feel greater self-efficacy and agency in being able to affect change in her life inside and outside of the therapy space. Simultaneously, her levels of anxiety followed suit as they made a statistically significant drop from baseline in our final session of the semester. Our work together concretized the notion of making a more poetic and musical line in our therapeutic work, and the importance of drawing on artistic metaphors to inform treatment and expand both the therapist’s and the patient’s voice in that process.

A New Slant on Working Dynamically

We are very accustomed as clinicians to thinking vertically, troubling ourselves over quick diagnoses and assessments, especially given the limited time we often have. At some points, this may take away from focusing horizontally on the musical line and the movement of the intervention. In music, in order to play or sing a melody successfully, one needs to be as attentive to the horizontal motion of the notes carrying a melodic line forward as to the vertical axis of hitting the note itself.

In clinical practice, one can analogize the horizontal forward motion to the momentum of an intervention, the movement toward a new relational experience. The vertical playing of the note is the clinical equivalent of ensuring you understand the patient’s experience correctly and getting a proper diagnostic read. This horizontal motion is informed by therapeutic presence just as, conversely, the vertical movement is guided by therapeutic authority. Both are essential, and they need to be worked in concert to turn notes into music.

This musical way of approaching relational work helps us to be more efficient, fluid, and creative, focusing simultaneously on how to skillfully assess and intervene in our fast-paced culture. Moreover, it enables us to carry the themes of the patient’s past into new orchestrations and harmonizations in the present, providing a model for continued transformative possibilities in the future. Through this process, patients internalize working creatively with their own themes and then take us into new melodic and harmonic territory, stimulating further treatment progress and development. Taken together, this fosters a positive feedback loop in the creative matrix between patient and therapist, and from this synergy, transformative changes quickly follow. This is precisely what a well-tuned therapeutic voice does for the clinician and their client.

References

Cornfeld, F. D. (1965). Collected poems. Cresset Press.

Questions for Thought and Discussion

Who inspired you to find your voice?

What are some of the unique attributes of your therapeutic voice?

Which of your clients helped you to find your therapeutic voice?

In what ways do you compare psychotherapy to an art?

How to Maintain Your Therapeutic Dignity with Blood Dripping Down Your Chin

When we moved from Dallas, Texas to Fayetteville, Arkansas back in 1993, I quickly realized that any therapeutic anonymity I'd experienced in Texas was a big “not happenin,” that is unless I wanted to hole up in my house and never partake of food, fun or the festivities that went on in my lovely new hometown. The place was too small and just Southern enough where your business wasn’t just yours.

Now, after practicing 26 years in Arkansas, I'm far from reclusive so I regularly run into people I’ve seen as patients. I’ve been aware of how running into one another in public might impact their relationship with me and any work we did together, but often it was the result of simply living.

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I'd been in Arkansas for about four years when I auditioned and earned the role of radical feminist and socialist Emma Goldman in the vaudeville musical TinTypes. I came on stage at one point in roller skates, singing raucously and playing violin…badly. I worried a bit, “Does anyone really want to see their therapist doing that?” When I played the passionate Desiree in Little Night Music, a patient told me they had to quit seeing me, “Because you kissed another man.” I explained about how kissing on stage is not really kissing, and we looked into her feelings. My son had a horrific tantrum at a toddler birthday party that violently came to a halt when his very hard head bounced off my lip, causing blood to spurt all over me and him. And of course, the story in my head became, “Hmmm…are those moms I’ve seen questioning my competence?”

It's like trying to live your real life while also retaining some amount of therapeutic professional respect and dignity—in roller skates and with blood dripping down your chin.

Since that fateful afternoon, I've taken even more risks—and hope that the ethical disclosure gods don't chew me up and spit me out. For several years, I've had a blog and a podcast and I'm quite open there as well. I respect that this isn't everyone's cup of tea. And might not, depending on your theoretical orientation, sound like good, responsible practice. But I've come to believe that we as therapists may be unintentionally enabling the silence of mental illness stigma by not being more up front about our own struggles.

Don't get me wrong. I use discretion. I go many a day without saying a word about myself. My job is to listen, to hold, to contain, to suggest, to educate, and to guide. However, I've revealed that I went through a divorce when I think it will be helpful. Actually, two divorces. But that's not the point. I've also disclosed that I have performance anxiety, panic attacks, and a history of anorexia, again, when I think it's helpful for the patient. And I reveal that I've been on both sides of the couch—as patient and psychologist.

The criteria? If it's truly helpful to the patient and not about some need I have to “share.” What I've experienced is that my openness is respected. My vulnerability and risk—helpful. People now tell me, “Your openness about your own vulnerabilities gives me more permission to do the same.”

This all came dramatically to the fore two years ago, when I presented in a local This Is My Brave show. If you don't know this organization, it was begun by Jennifer Marshall, who'd been blogging anonymously about her bipolar disorder for years. It was only when she came forward—as herself—that her blog's audience skyrocketed. And she realized that her vulnerability mattered. The organization now hosts programs both nationally and internationally, featuring people with mental illness telling their stories to a live audience.

When I agreed to do it, I thought it wouldn't be anything. I'd already been writing about my anxiety. So, what could be difficult about it? Once again, my own running narrative was ill-conceived. It was quite emotional. And hard. Yet I'm so glad I did it. I've revealed my own vulnerability, my own passions, and my own struggles. Bloody chin and all. 

What Do I Say Now? Coping with Uncertainty in Unstructured Psychotherapy

Come On, Be Helpful!

“I’ve been thinking about what we discussed last time,” the client began. “I think it would be best if I came here for long term therapy and I have to leave in half an hour.”

For a moment I was mind boggled by this dramatic expression of ambivalence. But I shouldn’t have been entirely surprised. The client, a 23-year-old woman named Sandra, had been disconcertingly difficult to pin down in the previous session, our first. She had come to therapy at the suggestion of other people, had described vague symptoms, and, when questioned about issues that sounded significant, had consistently denied that they troubled her much.

My work with Sandra occurred while I was in graduate school, and relatively new to doing therapy. At that time, I was still struggling with a problem that many of us experience early in our careers, especially when doing unstructured and/or non-behavioral psychotherapy: anxiety about how to respond to a client who gives you no clear focus and leaves you feeling increasingly lost.

I had encountered several such clients. Unlike the “easy” clients I’d always imagined and sometimes actually gotten—that is, clients who responded readily to questions and who moved quickly into important issues—many other clients were not so easy, and some especially not. For example, they might have trouble articulating their concerns, or, after articulating them, might find it hard to talk. Or, they might become superficial or tangential, or might seem unable to voice any clear focus or sense of what I could do to help them. “I knew it was my job to find the right questions to clarify their issues”. I was committed to exploring their concerns from a humanistic and psychodynamic perspective because I knew from my own experience how valuable such exploration could be. But this approach to psychotherapy rarely gives definite answers; rather, it emphasizes the importance of gradual self-discovery. And my training in these orientations now seemed hopelessly abstract and irrelevant in the face of these more difficult clients, and of their confusion—and my own—about what exactly we needed to do. My confusion was often accompanied by a nagging feeling of anxiety that sometimes bordered on a panicky sense of paralysis: Come on, Michael, do something helpful! But what?!

At the time, I did not know how common this anxiety is among inexperienced therapists—especially those of us who are inclined toward hyper-responsibility. In his excellent book Restoring Mentalizing in Attachment Relationships: Treating Trauma with Plain Old Therapy, Jon Allen recalls how lost and anxious he felt when he treated his first patient with systematic desensitization only to find that the patient was not satisfied with structured treatment and just wanted to talk about his problems. Allen went on to describe how he spent much of his early career hoping to find a clear-cut structured procedure for working with such patients, only to realize, eventually, the “utter folly” of his quest.

Exhausting Learning Curves

Much later in my own career, I saw the same struggle in many of my students when I taught an undergraduate course in elementary counseling techniques. The students were eager learners, and many had been in therapy themselves. When I cautioned them early in the semester that good counseling cannot be achieved simply by applying rules and techniques, they expressed understanding and agreement. But when they embarked on regular practice sessions in which each of them had to counsel another student about a real issue, these students had to face, for the first time, something that every counselor and therapist has to confront at one time or another: the anxiety of sitting face-to-face with another human being who is struggling with a real issue, and realizing that you haven’t the faintest idea what to say or do next. A few of the students had impressive natural skills and took to unstructured work like ducks to water; but most of the others experienced varying degrees of anxiety, sometimes expressing intense frustration that they were not learning enough.

I tried to explain to them that there is a learning curve and that as you increase your knowledge and experience in counseling, your anxiety is gradually replaced by a disciplined sensitivity and intuition that begins to guide your exploration. But the problem with this kind of reassurance is that the learning curve to which it refers is maddeningly difficult to describe. I will attempt to do so below, but it may be helpful to start by telling a story that clarifies the kind of learning curve I am talking about.

A few years ago, a young woman approached me in a coffee shop and identified herself as a student who had taken my counseling class ten years previously. She told me that she had gone on to attain a masters degree in a mental health profession, and she said that she wanted to thank me because my undergraduate counseling class had taught her more about doing psychotherapy than any of the courses she had taken in her graduate program. Naturally, I was delighted to learn that she had gotten so much from my class. But what really surprised me was that I remembered this student quite well, and that her course evaluation, which I still have, had expressed great anger about how little she had learned in my class!

So, what is this mysterious learning curve to which I refer? Well, it involves a number of things: learning how to create a supportive atmosphere; learning how to draw the client out with the right kind of questions; learning how to listen—really listen—to what the client is saying; and learning how to follow the many hints and leads in what the client is saying that may not be entirely obvious to the client himself or herself. Of course, these “hints and leads” are different for every client, which is why they cannot be specified in advance. But it is possible to show examples of this discovery process by looking at specific cases; and this brings me back to the client I described at the beginning of this article, Sandra.

An Introspective Swamp

As I have already mentioned, Sandra had presented in her first session in a way that was elusive and confusing. She had voiced vague complaints of anxiety and a general sense that she did not know if she could open up to a therapist. She was equally vague about the history of her anxiety, stating that both her mother and a friend named Matt had encouraged her to seek therapy after she had experienced abusive treatment by a man she had dated briefly. When I asked her about this and other experiences in her life, she had touched on several apparently important topics, including a sense that her relationships with men never seemed to work out; yet she denied that any of these issues had troubled her much. She expressed a feeling that it would be nice to talk to a therapist about these things, but she also questioned whether therapy might just lead into unnecessary rumination and depression. Given her ambivalence, I had suggested that we meet for three to five sessions to evaluate her concerns and then decide about possible further therapy.

As noted at the start of this article, she had begun her second session with the disorienting announcement that she had decided on long-term therapy and that she had to leave early. The remainder of this session did little to clarify where she was coming from. I began by asking her what had made her decide she needed long term therapy. She replied that she had had a long and intense conversation with her friend Matt in which they had discussed her personality. Matt had told her that she was “neurotic,” that she had “the worst self-image of anyone that he had ever met,” and that she needed therapy. After this, “Sandra had fallen into an “introspective swamp” and had been depressed for most of the week”, eventually concluding that she must be “messed up” and in need of long-term therapy.

Remembering that she had wondered in her first session about therapy leading to unnecessary rumination and depression, I reflected that she seemed to have mixed feelings about therapy. On the one hand, she felt she needed long term therapy, but on the other hand, she worried that too much introspection might lead into a “swamp” of depression, as had apparently happened with Matt. She quickly dismissed this possibility, however, and said that therapy once a week would not be too much introspection. Her dismissal seemed a little too easy.

Since I wanted to determine if her wish for therapy was coming primarily from her—as opposed to Matt—I asked if she could tell me which areas of her life might be problematic.

“Define problematic,” she said.

“I’d rather leave that to you to define.”

“Well, do you mean my childhood, or what?”

“I wasn’t necessarily thinking of your childhood. I was wondering about problem areas in your present life.”

“I’m not sure. I can’t think of any.”

“Well, last time you mentioned that your present life is not too happy in certain areas”

“True, but they’re not that bad. They only seemed that way when I thought back on them.”

“My confusion was increasing rather than decreasing”. She wanted therapy but seemed to be saying that she had nothing to work on. I tried again.

“How was it that Matt convinced you that you were neurotic?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Well, I understand that Matt thinks you’re neurotic, but I don’t know how you see yourself, what you think your problems are.”

“I don’t know what my problems are. That’s why I’m here!”

My head was starting to spin. I tried a different tack.

“What do you want in life?”

“Well, I’d like to graduate, to get good grades, to get a good job that pays well, and to have happy relationships.”

“Are you getting what you want?”

“Academically, yes. I have friends, and I’m getting along with my parents all right.”

“What about happy relationships?”

“Well, my love life is not perfect. But I believe it will get better.”

“What do you suppose is interfering in your love life right now?”

“I really don’t know,” she said. “Maybe it’s just a coincidence that nothing has worked out so far.” As I was pondering this, she added, “Is this normal?”

I observed that she seemed to be concerned about the process of the evaluation. She replied “Yes, you’re right. I shouldn’t do that.” I replied that there was nothing wrong with being concerned about it but that it might be helpful if we talked about it more in our next session. She said “No, that’s okay. I promise not to ask so many questions next time.” As our time was up, the session ended on this note.

Managing Uncertainty

Over the next week, I thought a lot about this case. I was baffled by Sandra, and frankly had no idea where to go from here. It wasn’t even clear to me that she needed therapy or, if so, why, since she was unable to identify a focus and seemed to have come to the clinic under significant pressure from her friend Matt.

I was starting to experience some of the anxious confusion described above—the kind of distress that early-career therapists experience, particularly in sessions where the client’s concerns seem persistently vague and elusive. Like Jon Allen, I could feel myself longing for reassuring structure. I considered referring Sandra for psychological testing, but as I thought about it I realized that this was more to still my own anxiety than to aid in evaluating her. I thought about doing a more traditional evaluation, asking her about various areas of her life (work, family, friends), but we had already done some of this and it appeared to be leading nowhere. I thought about focusing further on her feelings about being evaluated, but there was a very real possibility that we might end up spending the rest of the evaluation talking about the process of us talking about the evaluation!

As previously mentioned, this case occurred while I was still in graduate school, and I can add now that it was at just the point when the learning curve was beginning to bend for me. I had experienced confusing clients before and knew that the anxiety they evoked in me could signal important dynamics, both within our interactions and within the client. I knew that if I could read these signals correctly and use them to guide further therapeutic actions, they could become an aid rather than a hindrance in the treatment. I had absorbed a significant amount of clinical theory that had helped to guide this process. And one theoretical insight that had struck me as particularly relevant to coping with my own anxiety in doing unstructured psychotherapy was a central tenet of existential psychotherapy—the idea that every act in life, and in psychotherapy, is, in some sense, a “leap of faith,” a “jump from being into nonbeing.” There is no way of knowing where it will lead; what really matters is how we handle the uncertainty.

I thought about this now and realized that the most important thing that I could give this client was the willingness to continue the unstructured work, to step once again “from being into nonbeing” with her, and to see where it led.

Sandra arrived early for our third session. When we met, I began by asking if she had had any thoughts about our previous meeting. She said that she had. She had decided that Matt’s “thing” was therapy and that he had influenced her too much. She had also thought about the questions I had asked about her life and her relationships and had decided that most of her questions were “Dear Abby type questions,” like how to act on a date and when to kiss someone. She said that she would like to have a longer-term relationship, but she added that her relationships were not too brief and that brief relationships could be fun too. When I asked about the anxiety she had mentioned before, she said that she did feel “sort of” anxious at times, but “not too often,” and she speculated that maybe she just got too wrapped up in thinking about it.

At this point she suddenly asked, “What do you think of me?” I replied that she seemed concerned about being analyzed and noted that she had wondered about normality in our last session. She agreed that she had wondered about this—especially when she was in high school, a time when she had been shyer and more introverted—but that this was not much of a problem anymore. I said that I had the impression, however, that there was something attractive to her about the idea of therapy. She admitted there was, and asked what other people talked about. I replied that they talked about a wide variety of things and that I wondered if she was concerned, again, about whether she was normal.

“Yes, I probably am,” she replied. “I’m only here because of Matt. He called me just before I came today and said, ‘Don’t back out.’ I told him “Now listen, I’m going to go by whatever the counselor says. It’s up to him.”

“Why didn’t you tell him it was up to you?”

“Matt would never accept my judgment.”

“Suppose he didn’t. What would happen then?”

“He would say ‘You’re making a big mistake, you’ll be sorry!’ Then I’d have to defend myself to him, especially if things went badly and I became upset later.”

“Wow!” I said. “That sounds pretty uncomfortable. You’d have to defend yourself, maybe at a time when you were already feeling upset about something else. I can understand why you wouldn’t want to be in that position.”

“Yes, it would be uncomfortable! “I don’t know why I’d have to defend myself to Matt. It’s not up to him. We’re not doubles”.”

“What do you mean?”

“He seems to regard us as emotional doubles. When I first told him about the abuse I experienced, he described how he had been in a similar situation once. But we’re not that much alike. He doesn’t necessarily know what’s best for me. No one knows everything.” She sounded a little surprised by this insight.

At that point, I reminded her that when she had first come to the clinic she had said that her mother had also recommended that she come in for counseling. She said that that was true, that her mother had also felt that Sandra had been traumatized by her recent experience of abuse. When I asked why, Sandra explained that her parents had known she was upset and that her mother had attributed many little reactions of Sandra’s to the abuse. She added that her parents were surprised that the abuse had not “blown her away” or “freaked her out.” She had always been “sort of high-strung” and they had expected her to react a lot more negatively than she had. I commented that sometimes people in families fall into certain roles; the family expects them to be a certain way and then they begin to see themselves that way. I wondered if this had happened in her family and if it had had anything to do with her concern about how normal she was. She seemed quite interested in this idea and said that it might. She said that her whole family was somewhat volatile and that she was just a little more open about her feelings than the others.

By this time, we were nearing the end of the session and she said to me, once again, “What do you think of me?” It seemed appropriate to give her more feedback at this point. I told her that I thought she was very influenced by other people’s evaluation of her. I added that I suspected this had something to do with her experiences in her family and that it had operated regarding Matt. She said “Well, Matt is kind of a unique case” and then stopped mid-sentence and corrected herself, saying that a boyfriend she had had in the past had done the same thing. I suggested that we discuss this further in our next session. She said thoughtfully, “Yeah, they don’t have divine inspiration.”

Lessons Learned

Sandra and I met two more times. During the first of these sessions, Sandra reported that she was in a good mood and felt good about our previous session. But, she had realized that her parents had imposed labels on her many times, such as “hyper” and “emotional.” We explored her relationships with men and how she might better, or at least differently, handle feelings of insecurity. We also discussed whether further therapy would be helpful. I emphasized that her own judgment about this was most important.

In our final session, Sandra said she had been feeling good and that she had been taking things more in stride since our sessions. She had tentatively decided not to pursue longer term therapy, but she asked if she would be able to see me if she decided to come back later. I said she could, and we decidedly left the door open; however, she expressed satisfaction with things at present and a sense that she could deal with things on her own. She did not return.

I have described this case in some detail because it embodies a moment when I became particularly aware of how one can manage one’s anxiety about doing unstructured treatment while feeling lost at sea in a complicated therapeutic dynamic. Sandra’s presentation, particularly during her first two sessions, had evoked significant anxiety in me due to its elusive and confusing character. Before our third session, I had given much thought to this and realized that “I had to accept my anxiety, recommit to the unstructured approach, and follow it through to increasing clarity about Sandra and her concerns”. Reflecting on the case now from a more experienced vantage point, I see three factors that made this possible.

First, I had already accumulated a degree of confidence from my previous experience working as a volunteer counselor and a graduate intern. Of course, confidence is a double-edged sword. It does not always match good performance and can even reinforce poor work, a fact which therapists—especially new therapists—cannot afford to ignore. But in my previous work, I had gained real experience and had supportive supervision that had taught me a great deal. Looking back on my work with Sandra, I now see that even amidst the confusion of our first two sessions, I had laid more groundwork with her than I had initially realized—if nothing else than by taking her concerns seriously and working hard to understand them. And Sandra’s movement toward greater openness, her willingness to revisit material I had not understood, her remaining in the session she had planned to leave early, her arriving ahead of time for her next session and her increasing interest in therapy all suggested that she was feeling a greater sense of trust in our work. I believe, therefore, that some confidence was justified. But perhaps more importantly, if this had not been the case—if things had been moving in the opposite direction toward greater confusion and discomfort in the sessions—I believe I had also acquired some justified confidence in my ability to recognize when these kinds of problems develop, to point them out, and to carefully engage her in an exploration of why.

Second, by this time in my career I had studied a variety of theoretical perspectives on psychotherapy and I was able to draw on several of them during my work with Sandra. Having these perspectives available gave me the tools to ask questions that seemed to move the process forward; and furthermore, they had sensitized me to important clues in what Sandra had already said—the “hints and leads” to which I alluded above. In the third session, particularly, I can now see that—while I was not conscious of it at the time—I drew on several different theoretical perspectives in the following interventions to better understand and work with Sandra: (1) Rogerian reflection (to deepen our understanding of her concerns about normality, rumination, depression and social influence); (2) existential confrontation (to point out that the decision about further therapy was hers, not Matt’s or mine); (3) Rogerian empathy (to validate her concerns about Matt’s criticism); (4) psychodynamic exploration (of the childhood sources of her self-doubts), and (5) systems theory (to consider the role she might have fallen into within her family).

Though I drew on diverse perspectives, “I believe I escaped the dangers of shallow eclecticism” and/or using various techniques mechanically (as I was later to warn my students against) because I was also developing my own overarching theoretical perspective, which was primarily psychodynamic. From this perspective, I was forming a rudimentary sense of Sandra which could point the way forward in using these interventions productively and which was roughly as follows: She was a young woman whose family circumstances and social experiences had left her with some issues of hurt, shame and over-reliance on the opinions of others; but her inherent strengths and intelligence were also enabling her to develop an increasingly strong sense of autonomy. Her ambivalent presentation in therapy reflected feeling caught between, on the one hand, wanting to explore in detail the sources of her insecurity; and on the other hand, wanting to assert her autonomy and move on with her life. Between the second and third sessions, I came to realize that the most helpful thing I could do for Sandra was to sideline my own anxiety, to stay with her exactly in the middle of her ambivalence, and to use what I knew about psychotherapy to help her discover precisely what she wanted to do.

The third and most important factor that made this possible was the inherent strength of the client herself. Even though she was, at times, exasperatingly vague and ambivalent, she also showed a consistent commitment to hang in with the therapy and continue exploring her concerns. In fact, Sandra’s investment in the treatment and her ability to use it successfully highlight a crucial truth for me about psychotherapy, one that should be both sobering and reassuring to any relatively new therapist: in the final analysis, the most important factor in successful treatment is not the work of the therapist but rather the work of the client.

This point can hardly be overemphasized. Anxiety in new therapists is almost always accompanied by an overestimation of the importance of their own interventions. Of course, interventions are important, but not as important as the client’s ability to use them. This fact may be a blow to our therapeutic egos, but it should also be deeply reassuring. My students sometimes feared that they would make a mistake that would damage the client. I assured them that all therapists make mistakes and that these mistakes, in themselves, are rarely damaging. What is truly damaging is when we fail to realize that we have made a mistake and go on to make it again and again—usually as a result of inadequate training, impaired self-reflection, narcissistic overconfidence, or some combination of the three.

Barring serious mistakes by the therapist, most clients will get better if they are motivated to do so. Even without psychotherapy, most people who suffer from psychological problems will tend to show improvement over time. But competent psychotherapeutic help from any number of theoretical orientations can significantly strengthen and reinforce this process, especially when the relationship and fit between the client and the therapist is good. And in unstructured psychotherapy, the commitment of the therapist to step with the client “from being into non-being” can play an important and helpful role.  

Therapy with a Condom On

Editor's note: The following is an excerpt taken from Maybe You Should Talk to Someone: A Therapist, Her Therapist and Our Lives Revealed, by Lori Gottlieb, published by Houghton Mifflin Harcourt © 2019 and reprinted with permission of the publisher.

Shall We Skype?

“Hi, it’s me,” I hear as I listen to my voicemails between sessions. My stomach lurches; it’s Boyfriend. Though it’s been three months since we’ve spoken, his voice instantly transports me back in time, like hearing a song from the past. But as the message continues, I realize it’s not Boyfriend because (a) Boyfriend wouldn’t call my office number and (b) Boyfriend doesn’t work on a TV show.

This “me” is John (eerily, Boyfriend and John have similar voices, deep and low) and it’s the first time a patient has called my office without leaving a name. He does this as if he’s the only patient I have, not to mention the only “me” in my life. Even suicidal patients will leave their names. I’ve never gotten Hi, it’s me. You told me to call if I was feeling like killing myself.

John says in his message that he can’t make our session today because he’s stuck at the studio, so he’ll be Skyping in instead. He gives me his Skype handle, then says, “Talk to you at three.”

I note that he doesn’t ask if we can Skype or inquire whether I do Skype sessions in the first place. He just assumes it will happen because that’s how the world works for him. And while I’ll Skype with patients under certain circumstances, I think it’s a bad idea with John. So much of what I’m doing to help him relies on our in-the-room interaction. Say what you will about the wonders of technology, but “screen-to-screen is, as a colleague once said, “like doing therapy with a condom on.””

It’s not just the words people say or even the visual cues that therapists notice in person–the foot that shakes, the subtle facial twitch, the quivering lower lip, the eyes narrowing in anger. Beyond hearing and seeing, there’s something less tangible but equally important— the energy in the room, the being together. You lose that ineffable dimension when you aren’t sharing the same physical space.

There’s also the issue of glitches. I was once on a Skype session with a patient who was in Asia temporarily, and just as she began crying hysterically, the volume went out. All I saw was her mouth moving, but she didn’t know that I couldn’t hear what she was saying. Before I could get that across, the connection dropped entirely. It took ten minutes to restore the Skype, and by then not only was the moment lost but our time had run out.

I send John a quick email offering to reschedule, but he types back a message that reads like a modern-day telegram: Can’t w8. Urgent. Please. I’m surprised by the please and even more by his acknowledgment of needing urgent help–of needing me, rather than treating me as dispensable. So, I say okay, we’ll Skype at three.

Something, I figure, must be up.

At three, I open Skype and click “call,” expecting to find John sitting in an office at a desk. Instead, the call connects and I’m looking into a familiar house. It’s familiar to me because it’s one of the main sets of a TV show that Boyfriend and I used to binge-watch on my sofa, arms and legs entwined. Here, camera and lighting people are moving about, and I’m staring at the interior of a bedroom I’ve seen a million times. John’s face comes into view. “Hang on a second” is how he greets me, and then his face disappears and I’m looking at his feet. Today he’s wearing trendy checkered sneakers, and he seems to be walking somewhere while carrying me with him. Presumably he’s looking for privacy. Along with his shoes, I see thick electrical wires on the floor and hear a commotion in the background. Then John’s face reappears.

“Okay,” he says. “I’m ready.”

There’s a wall behind him now, and he starts rapid-fire whispering.

“It’s Margo and her idiot therapist. I don’t know how this person has a license but he’s making things worse, not better. She was supposed to be getting help for her depression but instead she’s getting more upset with me: I’m not available, I’m not listening, I’m distant, I avoid her, I forgot something on the calendar. Did I tell you that she created a shared Google calendar to make sure I won’t forget things that are ‘important’”—with his free hand, John does an air quote as he says the word important—“so now I’m even more stressed because my calendar is filled with Margo’s things and I’ve already got a packed schedule!”

John has gone over this with me before so I’m not sure what the urgency is about today. Initially he had lobbied Margo to see a therapist (“So she can complain to him”) but once she started going, “John often told me that this “idiot therapist” was “brainwashing” his wife and “putting crazy ideas in her head.”” My sense has been that the therapist is helping Margo gain more clarity about what she will and will not put up with and that this exploration has been long overdue. I mean, it can’t be easy being married to John.

At the same time, I empathize with John because his reaction is common. Whenever one person in a family system starts to make changes, even if the changes are healthy and positive, it’s not unusual for other members in the system to do everything they can to maintain the status quo and bring things back to homeostasis. If an addict stops drinking, for instance, family members often unconsciously sabotage that person’s recovery, because in order to regain homeostasis in the system, somebody has to fill the role of the troubled person. And who wants that role? Sometimes people even resist positive changes in their friends: Why are you going to the gym so much? Why can’t you stay out late—you don’t need more sleep! Why are you working so hard for that promotion? You’re no fun anymore!

If John’s wife becomes less depressed, how can John keep his role as the sane one in the couple? If she tries to get close in healthier ways, how can he preserve the comfortable distance he has so masterfully managed all of these years? I’m not surprised that John is having a negative reaction to Margo’s therapy. Her therapist seems to be doing a good job.

“So,” John continues, “last night, Margo asks me to come to bed, and I tell her I’ll be there in a minute, I have to answer a few emails. Normally after about two minutes she’ll be all over me—Why aren’t you coming to bed? Why are you always working? But last night, she doesn’t do any of that. And I’m amazed! I think, Jesus Christ, something’s finally working in her therapy, because she’s realizing that nagging me about coming to bed isn’t going to get me in bed any faster. So, I finish my emails, but when I get in bed, Margo’s asleep. Anyway, this morning, when we wake up, Margo says, ‘I’m glad you got your work done, but I miss you. I miss you a lot. I just want you to know that I miss you.’”

John turns to his left and now I hear what he hears—a nearby conversation about lighting—and without his saying a word, I’m staring at John’s sneakers again as they move across the floor. When I see his face appear this time, the wall behind him is gone, and now the star of the TV series is in the distant background in the upper-right corner of my screen, laughing with his on-camera nemesis along with the love interest he verbally abuses on the show. (I’m sure John is the one who writes this character).

I love these actors, so now I’m squinting at the three of them through my screen like I’m one of those people behind the ropes at the Emmys trying to get a glimpse of a celebrity—except this isn’t the red carpet and I’m watching them take sips from water bottles while they chat between scenes. The paparazzi would kill for this view, I think, and it takes massive will-power to focus solely on John.

“Anyway,” he whispers, “I knew it was too good to be true. I thought she was being understanding last night, but of course the complaining starts up again first thing this morning. So I say, ‘You miss me? What kind of guilt trip is that?’ I mean, I’m right here. I’m here every night. I’m one hundred percent loyal. Never cheated, never will. I provide a nice living. I’m an involved father. I even take care of the dog because Margo says she hates walking around with plastic bags of poop. And when I’m not there, I’m working. It’s not like I’m off in Cabo all day. So, I tell her I can quit my job and she can miss me less because I’ll be twiddling my thumbs at home, or I can keep my job and we’ll have a roof over our heads.” He yells “I’ll just be a minute!” to someone I can’t see and then continues. “And you know what she does when I say this? She says, all Oprah-like”—here he does a dead-on impression of Oprah—“‘I know you do a lot, and I appreciate that, but I also miss you even when you’re here.’”

I try to speak but John plows on. I haven’t seen him this stirred up before.

“So, for a second I’m relieved, because normally she’d yell at this point, but then I realize what’s going on. This sounds nothing like Margo. She’s up to something! And sure enough, she says, ‘I really need you to hear this.’ And I say, ‘I hear it, okay? I’m not deaf. I’ll try to come to bed earlier but I have to get my work done first.’ But then she gets this sad look on her face, like she’s about to cry, and it kills me when she gets that look, because I don’t want to make her sad. The last thing I want to do is disappoint her. But before I can say anything, she says, ‘I need you to hear how much I miss you because if you don’t hear it, I don’t know how much longer I can keep telling you.’ So I say, ‘We’re threatening each other now?’ and she says, ‘It’s not a threat, it’s the truth.’” John’s eyes become saucers and his free hand juts into the air, palm up, as if to say, can you believe this shit?

“I don’t think she’d actually do it,” he goes on, “but it shocked me because neither of us has ever threatened to leave before. When we got married we always said that no matter how angry we got, we would never threaten to leave, and in twelve years, we haven’t.” He looks to his right. “Okay, Tommy, let me take a look—.”

John stops talking and suddenly I’m staring at his sneakers again. When he finishes with Tommy, he starts walking somewhere. A minute later his face pops up; he’s in front of another wall.

My Idiot Therapist?

“John,” I say. “Let’s take a step back. First, I know you’re upset by what Margo said —.”

“What Margo said? It’s not even her! It’s her idiot therapist acting as her ventriloquist! She loves this guy. She quotes him all the time, like he’s her fucking guru. He probably serves Kool-Aid in the waiting room, and women all over the city are divorcing their husbands because they’re drinking this guy’s bullshit! I looked him up just to see what his credentials are and, sure enough, some moron therapy board gave him a license. Wendell Bronson, P-h-fucking-D.”

Wait.
Wendell Bronson?
!
!!
!!!!
!!!!!!!

Margo is seeing my Wendell? The “idiot therapist” is Wendell? My mind explodes. I wonder where on the couch Margo chose to sit on her first day. I wonder if Wendell tosses her tissue boxes or if she sits close enough to reach them herself. I wonder if we’ve ever passed each other on the way in or out (the pretty crying woman from the waiting room?). I wonder if she’s ever mentioned my name in her own therapy— “John has this awful therapist, Lori Gottlieb, who said . . .” But then I remember that John is keeping his therapy a secret from Margo—I’m the “hooker” he pays in cash—and right now, I’m tremendously grateful for this circumstance. I don’t know what to do with this information, so I do what therapists are taught to do when we’re having a complicated reaction to something and need more time to understand it. I do nothing—for the moment. I’ll get consultation on this later.

“Let’s stay with Margo for a second,” I say, as much to myself as to John. “I think what she said was sweet. She must really love you.”

“Huh? She’s threatening to leave!”

“Well, let’s look at it another way,” I say. “We’ve talked before about how there’s a difference between a criticism and a complaint, how the former contains judgment while the latter contains a request. But a complaint can also be an unvoiced compliment. I know that what Margo says often feels like a series of complaints. And they are—but they’re sweet complaints because inside each complaint, she’s giving you a compliment. The presentation isn’t optimal, but she’s saying that she loves you. She wants more of you. She misses you. She’s asking you to come closer. And now she’s saying that the experience of wanting to be with you and not having that reciprocated is so painful that she might not be able to tolerate it because she loves you so much.” I wait to let him absorb that last part. “That’s quite a compliment.”

I’m always working with John on identifying his in-the-moment feelings, because feelings lead to behaviors. Once we know what we’re feeling, we can make choices about where we want to go with them. But if we push them away the second they appear, often we end up veering off in the wrong direction, getting lost yet again in the land of chaos.

Men tend to be at a disadvantage here because they aren’t typically raised to have a working knowledge of their internal worlds; it’s less socially acceptable for men to talk about their feelings. While women feel cultural pressure to keep up their physical appearance, men feel that pressure to keep up their emotional appearance. Women tend to confide in friends or family members, but when men tell me how they feel in therapy, I’m almost always the first person they’ve said it to. Like my female patients, men struggle with marriage, self-esteem, identity, success, their parents, their childhoods, being loved and understood—and yet these topics can be tricky to bring up in any meaningful way with their male friends. It’s no wonder that the rates of substance abuse and suicide in middle-aged men continue to increase. Many men don’t feel they have any other place to turn.

So, I let John take his time to sort out his feelings about Margo’s “threat” and the softer message that might be behind it. I haven’t seen him sit with his feelings this long before, and I’m impressed that he’s able to do so now. John’s eyes have darted down and to the side, which is what usually happens with someone when what I’m saying touches someplace vulnerable, and I’m glad. It’s impossible to grow without first becoming vulnerable. It looks like he’s still really taking this in, that for the first time, his impact on Margo is resonating.

Finally, John looks back up at me. “Hi, sorry, I had to mute you back there. They were taping. I missed that. What were you saying?” Un-fucking-believable. I’ve been, quite literally, talking to myself. No wonder Margo wants to leave! I should have listened to my gut and had John reschedule an in-person session, but I got sucked in by his urgent plea.

“John,” I say, “I really want to help you with this, but I think this is too important to talk about on Skype. Let’s schedule a time for you to come in so there aren’t so many distract —”

“Oh, no, no, no, no, no,” he interrupts. “This can’t wait. I just had to give you the background first so you can talk to him.”

“To . . .”

“The idiot therapist! Clearly he’s only hearing one side of the story, and not a very accurate side at that. But you know me. You can vouch for me. You can give this guy some perspective before Margo really goes nuts.”

I Won’t Do It!

I noodle this scenario around in my head: John wants me to call my own therapist to discuss why my patient isn’t happy with the therapy my therapist is doing with my patient’s wife.

Um, no.

Even if Wendell weren’t my therapist, I wouldn’t make this call. Sometimes, I’ll call another therapist to discuss a patient if, say, I’m seeing a couple and a colleague is seeing one member of the couple, and there’s a compelling reason to exchange information (somebody is suicidal or potentially violent, or we’re working on something in one setting that it would be helpful to have reinforced in another, or we want to get a broader perspective). But on these rare occasions, the parties will have signed releases to this effect. Wendell or no Wendell, I can’t call up the therapist of my patient’s wife for no clinically relevant reason and without both patients signing consent forms.

“Let me ask you something,” I say to John. “What?”

“Do you miss Margo?”

“Do I miss her?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not going to call Margo’s therapist, are you?”

“I’m not, and you’re not going to tell me how you really feel about Margo, are you?” I have a feeling that there’s a lot of buried love between John and Margo because I know this; love can often look like so many things that don’t seem like love.

John smiles as I see somebody who I assume is Tommy again enter the frame holding a script. I’m flipped toward the ground with such speed that I get dizzy, as if I’m on a roller coaster that just took a quick dive. Staring at John’s shoes, I hear some back-and-forth about whether the character—my favorite!—is supposed to be a complete asshole in this scene or maybe have some awareness that he’s being an asshole (interestingly, John picks awareness) and then Tommy thanks John and leaves. To my amusement, John seems perfectly pleasant, apologizing to Tommy for his absence and explaining to him that he’s busy “putting out a fire with the network.” (I’m “the network”). Maybe he’s polite to his coworkers after all.

Or maybe not. He waits for Tommy to leave, then lifts me up to face level again and mouths, Idiot, rolling his eyes in Tommy’s direction.

“I just don’t understand how her therapist, who’s a guy, can’t see both sides of this,” he continues. “Even you can see both sides of this!”

Even me? I smile. “Was that a compliment you just gave me?”

“No offense. I just meant…you know.”

I do know, but I want him to say it. “In his own way, he’s becoming attached to me”, and I want him to stay in his emotional world a bit longer. But John goes back to his tirade about Margo pulling the wool over her therapist’s eyes and how Wendell is a quack because his sessions are only forty-five minutes, not the typical fifty. (This bugs me too, by the way). It occurs to me that John is talking about Wendell the way a husband might talk about a man his wife has a crush on. I think he’s jealous and feels left out of whatever goes on between Margo and Wendell in that room. (I’m jealous too! Does Wendell laugh at Margo’s jokes? Does he like her better?) I want to bring John back to that moment when he almost connected with me.

“I’m glad that you feel understood by me,” I say. John gets a deer-in-the-headlights look on his face for a second, then moves on.

“All I want to know is how to deal with Margo.”

“She already told you,” I say. “She misses you. I can see from our experience together how skilled you are at pushing away people who care about you. I’m not leaving, but Margo’s saying she might. So maybe you’ll try something different with her. Maybe you’ll let her know that you miss her too.” I pause. “Because I might be wrong, but I think you do miss her.”

He shrugs, and this time when he looks down, I’m not on mute. “I miss the way we were,” he says.

His expression is sad instead of angry now. Anger is the go-to feeling for most people because it’s outward-directed—angrily blaming others can feel deliciously sanctimonious. But often it’s only the tip of the iceberg, and if you look beneath the surface, you’ll glimpse submerged feelings you either weren’t aware of or didn’t want to show—fear, helplessness, envy, loneliness, insecurity. And if you can tolerate these deeper feelings long enough to understand them and listen to what they’re telling you, you’ll not only manage your anger in more productive ways, you also won’t be so angry all the time.

Of course, anger serves another function—it pushes people away and keeps them from getting close enough to see you. I wonder if John needs people to be angry at him so that they won’t see his sadness.

I start to speak, but somebody yells John’s name, startling him. The phone slips out of his hand and careens toward the floor, but just as I feel like my face might hit the ground, John catches it, bringing himself back into view. “Crap–gotta go!” he says. Then, under his breath: “Fucking morons.” And the screen goes blank.

Apparently, our session is over.

Ethics Over Coffee

With time to spare before my next session, I head into the kitchen for a snack. Two of my colleagues are there. Hillary is making tea. Mike’s eating a sandwich.

“Hypothetically,” I say, “what would you do if your patient’s wife was seeing your therapist, and your patient thought your therapist was an idiot?”

They look up at me, eyebrows raised. Hypotheticals in this kitchen are never hypothetical.

“I’d switch therapists,” Hillary says.

“I’d keep my therapist and switch patients,” Mike says. They both laugh.

“No, really,” I say. “What would you do? It gets worse: He wants me to talk to my therapist about his wife. His wife doesn’t know he’s in therapy yet, so it’s a non-issue now, but what if at some point he tells her and then wants me to consult with my therapist about his wife, and his wife consents? Do I have to disclose that he’s my therapist?”

“Absolutely,” Hillary says.

“Not necessarily,” Mike says at the same time.

“Exactly,” I say. “It’s not clear. And you know why it’s not clear? Because this kind of thing NEVER HAPPENS! When has something like this ever happened?”

Hillary pours me some tea.

“I once had two people come to me individually for therapy right after they’d separated,” Mike says. “They had different last names and listed different addresses because of the separation, so I didn’t know they were married until the second session with each of them, when I realized I was hearing the same stories from different sides. Their mutual friend, who was a former patient, gave both of them my name. I had to refer them out.”

“Yeah,” I say, “but this isn’t two patients with a conflict of interest. My therapist is mixed up in this. What are the odds of that?”

I notice Hillary looking away. “What?” I say.

“Nothing.”

Mike looks at her. She blushes. “Spill it,” he says.

Hillary sighs. “Okay. About twenty years ago, when I was first starting out, I was seeing a young guy for depression. I felt like we were making progress, but then the therapy seemed to stall. I thought he wasn’t ready to move forward, but really I just didn’t have enough experience and was too green to know the difference. Anyway, he left, and about a year later, I ran into him at my therapist’s.”

Mike grins. “Your patient left you for your own therapist?”

Hillary nods. “The funny thing is, in therapy, I talked about how stuck I was with this patient and how helpless I felt when he left. I’m sure the patient later told my therapist about his inept former therapist and used my name at some point. My therapist had to have put two and two together.” I think about this in relation to the Wendell situation. “But your therapist never said anything?”

“Never,” Hillary says. “So, one day I brought it up. But of course, she can’t say that she sees this guy, so we kept the conversation focused on how I deal with the insecurities of being a new therapist. Pfft. My feelings? Whatever. I was just dying to know how their therapy was going and what she did differently with him that worked better.”

“You’ll never know,” I say.

Hillary shakes her head. “I’ll never know.”

“We’re like vaults,” Mike says. “You can’t break us.”

Hillary turns to me. “So, are you going to tell your therapist?” “Should I?”

They both shrug. Mike glances at the clock, tosses his trash into the can. Hillary and I take our last sips of tea. It’s time for our next sessions. One by one, the green lights on the kitchen’s master panel go on, and we file out to retrieve our patients from the waiting room. 

That’s Child Abuse

“She can’t come today. I’m actually not really sure where she is.”

Little did I know, this would be the opening line to a new chapter in my nascent counseling career. Every therapist remembers their first child abuse report, and on an overcast day in central Massachusetts, this was about to be mine.

As the phone call continued, I learned that during a particularly heated argument, this mother had struck her daughter, and the teen had run away as a result. Although it was clear to me that mom’s blow to her daughter’s head constituted child abuse, when I consulted with my supervisor, his questioning was along an entirely different line. How long had my client been missing? Had her mother filed a missing person’s report with the police? 

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I informed him that my client had been missing for over two days, and during a second, very awkward phone call, we learned that although she had called the homes of several of her daughter’s friends, my client’s mother had not contacted the police. To my surprise, my supervisor informed me that the mother’s failure to make timely and reasonable efforts to locate her child also constituted child abuse, because being missing put my client at risk of imminent harm.

For new and seasoned clinicians alike, the line between what is and is not legally considered child maltreatment can be difficult to distinguish. Laws vary widely from state to state, and are frequently updated to reflect new findings in abuse and neglect research. The best way to familiarize yourself with your state’s laws is to read the relevant statutes yourself from beginning to end. The U.S. Department of Health and Human Services maintains an excellent search engine through which you can look up your home state’s child maltreatment laws in a matter of seconds.

Although some behaviors clearly constitute child abuse or neglect, other instances of child maltreatment are not as obvious. For example, making believable threats to kill, disfigure, or severely harm a child is considered child abuse in many states, even if the caregiver never acts on them. And many forms of punishment that may not leave physical injuries—such as excessive physical restraint and extended periods of isolation—also fall under legal definitions of child abuse. Additionally, a wide variety of parental inactions are considered child maltreatment, such as failing to establish a significant relationship with a child, failing to seek assistance with school refusal, or engaging in sexual activity with reckless disregard as to whether or not a child is present. Other unconventional forms of child maltreatment include encouraging a child to engage in criminal activity, knowingly exposing a child to sex offenders, and driving under the influence with a child in the car.

The criteria for neglect can also be difficult to navigate, as laws vary significantly from state to state. In some states, a caregiver is not considered neglectful if they are unable to meet their child’s basic needs due to financial inability, unless that caregiver has previously declined public assistance that would have allowed them to meet those needs. In other states, however, a caregiver’s failure to meet a child’s basic needs is considered neglectful regardless of the caregiver’s financial ability to meet those needs.

Similarly, there is wide variation among states in laws related to children’s exposure to illegal drug use. In some states, the issue is not directly addressed in current law, leaving mandated reporters to simply report the emotional or physical injury caused by parental substance abuse. Other states, however, have extensive and detailed legislation on this topic. For example, many states specify that child maltreatment includes knowingly exposing a child to drug paraphernalia, bringing a child to a location where drugs are manufactured, allowing a child to witness a drug sale, placing a child in a vehicle where drugs are being stored, and exposing a child to the materials necessary to manufacture drugs, even if no illicit substances are actually used or manufactured at the time the child is present.

Additionally, increased awareness about abuse to elderly, intellectually disabled, and physically disabled persons has resulted in mandatory reporting laws for these populations in several states. If it has been years since you read your state laws, I encourage you to review them the next time a client no-shows and you find yourself with an unexpected hour. You may be surprised at what has changed!

When in doubt, consult your supervisor and err on the side of caution. It’s always better to report an incident and weather the damage to your therapeutic alliance than to not report one and go home with an uneasy conscience.

In my client’s case, I was surprised at how little changed between her mother and me following my call to the Department of Children and Families. Mom was fully aware that I would be required to report her physical altercation with her daughter, so it made very little difference that her limited attempts to locate her child would also have to be reported. In fact, my call improved my client’s outcomes because being involved with DCF allowed the family to access in-home therapy resources that had been previously unavailable. Although I was terrified of alienating a family in need, reporting this mother’s struggle to discipline her teen turned out to be my most helpful intervention. 

The One Thing a Therapist Should Never Say to a Client

As a graduate student I was given the old stand-by assignment: seek out an accomplished therapist and interview him or her. Since my overwhelming desire in life was to become a private practice therapist myself, I didn't envision this as just an assignment, but rather an exciting adventure. I was going to put my whole heart and soul into it.

Since I wanted to pick a person of note, I spoke to a cadre of folks in the field, including my esteemed professors, and decided on a therapist I’ll call Mindy. She seemed to be a real therapist's therapist. A large private practice? You bet. A superb reputation? Affirmative. A mental health conference presenter? Check. She even ran workshops around the globe in remote countries I had never heard of. This was going to be great.

Mindy’s administrative assistant was kind enough to set me up with the necessary appointment and it was off to the races. Her office was in the high-rent district in a city about 130 miles away from my hometown in St. Louis, but I knew the long drive was well worth it. As the elevator to her office sped from floor to floor, I glanced in the mirror to check my hair a couple times. Okay, maybe it was more like a dozen or more times, but keep in mind I wanted to come off as a serious future professional. Maybe we would be working together in the same practice one day. Yes indeed, I had high hopes.

Mindy was dressed in a muumuu that made her look like she might be playing a part opposite Elvis the classic Blue Hawaii.

I had imagined I might see a couch or a rosewood desk with spit-shined brass handles, but that was hardly the case. She motioned for me to have a seat while she sat down in an antique rocking chair.
We were separated by an unusually large sheet of paper like one might use in a lecture for a flip chart. But the paper was on the floor. Hmm, what was that about?

Before I could get my first question in which was something like "Did you know you wanted to become a therapist as a child?", she began firing questions at me.

I was way too timid at the time to ask this exalted expert what in the world was going on here, so I answered perhaps five or six questions. As I spoke, she would lean forward in her rocker and scribble something on the massive sheet of paper on the floor using a King Kong- sized marker.

Wait a moment. We weren't here to therapize me, or were we?

After just minutes, I tried to talk and she said, "Howard stop. I know exactly what your problem is."
Wait, I didn't know we were talking about my problems.

"I know you came here to interview me for your graduate class, but we need to deal with some much more important issues. You are just like me. You have severe anger problems and you are a quitter. Yes, a quitter. I am sorry to say you will never finish your master's degree. I'm going to set you up for a few sessions of individual as well as group psychotherapy. You still won't ever get your master's degree, but I can help you in other ways."

Had this merely been a bad dream we could have analyzed it, but it wasn't. I hadn't recalled saying anything even remotely related to anger and certainly nothing about giving up on graduate school. For gosh sakes, it was the number one thing in my life at the time.

Now fast forward to the present. I did an internet search and low and behold I discovered that Mindy never finished her degree. But wait. It gets even more interesting. Since she was attending a doctorate in psychology program where the master's was not conferred until you completed the doctorate, to this day she still possesses just a bachelor's degree in psychology. She was only allowed to practice back in the day when I saw here because licensing had not yet been enacted in our state.

So, what's the take home message? Well, I believe the behaviorist, hypnosis expert, and assertiveness training pioneer Andrew Salter (a famous therapist himself with just a bachelor's degree) nailed it when he gave the best definition I have ever heard of reaction formation: "You think you are looking out a window, but you are really looking in a mirror."

The worst thing a therapist can do? Well it is as simple as looking in a mirror while convincing yourself you are gazing out the window and making a pernicious statement about why the person sitting in front of the desk, or rocker will never be able to do something.

Oh, and by the way, Mindy, if you happen to be reading this blog and decide to email me to express your anger or discontent, just for the record, it's Dr. Rosenthal now.
 

In Praise of the Life of a Psychotherapist

“Clients often ask me how I can stand listening to them drone, whine or complain.” Just yesterday someone said, “I’ll bet you need a stiff drink after listening to this stuff all day”. I can safely say after nearly 25 years in practice that I have never had this day that they seem to imagine—a long, tedious day of listening to self-pity and self-absorption. Particularly lately, what I feel is mostly gratitude. Somehow, I get to do this: come to work to listen to the stories of the intimate lives of others, to know and to love the hard-fought struggles of their lives, and to share and assist in their journeys toward healing, growth, and transformation. And what I have been thinking about a lot lately is how those journeys have in turn shaped my own journey in myriad positive ways. I know I am far from alone in my experience, and that my grateful thoughts could not begin to be comprehensive, but I think it is useful for us as psychotherapists in what is often a beleaguered world to remind ourselves of the many personal and psychological benefits of our chosen path, such as emotional maturity, unlimited opportunity for continuing education, learning about love, practicing mindfulness and self-awareness, accepting failure, and fostering resilience.

Emotional Maturity

For me, much of this feeling of gratitude is a happy by-product of maturity. When I was younger, I was so afraid of not being enough, or of doing something wrong, or of not being liked, that it was harder for me to stay focused on the great gift of being able to do this kind of work. As I have aged and grown in confidence, the energy I used to expend fussing about my own probable inadequacy no longer draws as much from my other resources. I am able much more easily to make myself fully available to another without such a weighty anchor of self-doubt and self-consciousness. Another reason for gratitude: I managed to find myself in one of the few fields of work where a few gray hairs and wrinkles, and the maturity that hopefully comes with them, is a benefit.

In turn, maturity seems also to be a by-product of the work. I have often thought that one of the reasons therapists are so often drawn to various forms of meditation is that mindfulness is an intrinsic aspect of the work of psychotherapy. Years of practice in itself create a habit of focused attention that is a growth-promoting emotional self-discipline. There is self-surrender in entering a session that I have come to welcome wholeheartedly. It is not as though I have ever completely and perfectly stayed attuned and present for every moment, but like mindfulness meditation, I and all of us who do this wander in our minds, draw ourselves back, wonder about the wandering—and return. Unless the stress of my own personal day is truly overwhelming, “listening to others helps me to move into a mindful space and draws me out of myself”. The constant practice of moving into this mode of being no matter how tired or irritated or stressed or sad I may be is a daily workout that leaves me stronger, more flexible, and more resilient in all aspects of my life.

Unlimited Continuing Education

Learning as a psychotherapist is a lifelong project. In seeking ways to help clients, I read and consult and attend workshops and, in the process, learn about myself and understand myself and them better. Often when a client is exploring an issue or attempting to create change it challenges me—because I want to feel my own integrity with them—to push to grow equally. I cannot suggest assertiveness without finding it within myself, ask clients to trust their own authority without trusting mine, or ask clients to challenge their own fears and avoidances without challenging my own. So many of my clients are or are learning to be brave, loving, compassionate, and skilled, among many other gifts, and I am grateful for the opportunity to share in and learn from their growth.

To give a recent example, I have been working with a woman who has been trying to cope with a serious illness, recent job loss, and a disintegrating marriage to a husband who is psychologically unravelling and will likely end up in prison, all while trying to keep life stable and sane for two small children. In the last few weeks, her home went into foreclosure and she had to get a restraining order against her husband. She came into a recent session not surprisingly sad and overwhelmed, but in the context of our conversation mentioned that she had gotten a journal so she could keep a daily record of all the things she is grateful for. She is worried with all that is happening in her life that her perception will become distorted if she doesn’t make an active effort to recall what is good and positive. Having never faced the kind of comprehensive disaster she is now confronting, I truly don’t know how well I would marshal my psychological and spiritual resources to meet it, but I know her example has added to whatever resources I will bring to bear to cope with whatever inevitable hurts arrive in my life. I hope I will be able to remember that in the face of enormous losses and challenges, it was clear to her that she needed to focus on successes, however small, on moments of beauty, and gestures of kindness and generosity. I am grateful that in a context where I am supposed to be the guide, I am also so often guided.

Love

As therapists, we are rightfully cautious about how we think about love in our work, but “I have come to feel that love is inevitably a part of any authentic caring relationship”, and therefore an inevitable part of most therapy. Love of course is a big word and can be used to describe a lot of different relationships, from one we have with chocolate to one we have with a lifetime companion. I mean the non-possessive, boundaried love that is often created within the unique intimacy of the therapy relationship.

Recently I participated in an exercise in meditation class that I believe is relatively common but was completely new and unexpected to me. We class members were led, eyes closed, to sit in two rows of chairs facing each other. When we opened our eyes, we were asked to look into the eyes of the person across from us with all the love and understanding in our hearts and to imagine that this face across from us was the face of the divine here on earth. I gazed into the beautiful brown eyes of the middle-aged man across from me, a total stranger recently arrived in the US from India, and saw myself reflected in them. Both of us teared up as we grasped each other’s sweaty hands. We were totally unknown to each other, but for those moments, intensely close. It was far from a perfectly transcendent moment—it is uncomfortable to stare at length into the eyes of a stranger, and I found myself worrying about the unattractiveness of my blotchy, tearstained face, or if he wanted me to let go of the hand I was inexplicably clutching like a lifeline—but I was powerfully moved, and shocked by my sense of recognition and awe. We were asked to close our eyes again and shifted our seats before opening our eyes to another, a different stranger, to whom we were to open our hearts in love and share that deep, long and reciprocal gaze. The message was a yogic one, about the divine that dwells in all of us if we choose to see it, but it also made me think about love in therapy, and how this exercise resembles in many ways what we do in our offices day and in and day out.

We ask another person to open themselves up, to sustain our gaze, and to trust that we will see them as gently and with as much acceptance as we can. When we add compassion, empathy, understanding, patience, respect—all the things we strive for in our stance as professionals—we also, at some level, will feel love. And I find that this makes me, on good days, look at the world and myself more gently, with more forgiveness. This is a lesson I want to learn, again and again—more so now, in a world that seems increasingly focused on hate and division.

Speaking about a therapist’s experience of love creates a lot of anxiety—I am a little anxious trying to write about it, knowing as I do the chorus of objections and concerns that arise about boundary violations or crossings if the love we experience is not managed safely or professionally. I have seen from the front row how love in a therapy relationship can be abused—I have clients who have had sex with prior therapists, been subject to other sorts of boundary crossings (too much information about the therapist’s personal life, coffee at Starbucks, stock tips, or non-standard payment arrangements to name a few), or have been bullied into behavioral changes that support the therapist’s ego and self-esteem rather than the client’s goals—and I am well aware the effects of even the smallest of these boundary violations are devastating to clients. Because love is such a charged and complicated word, I do not use it with clients, but not saying it does not mean I don’t feel it or have the need to make sense of the experience of it clinically, personally, and spiritually. And I believe that the non-possessive, boundaried intimacy of therapy relationships has taught me much about love, and I am a better human for practicing loving others in this way.

Mindfulness and Self-Awareness

For most of us, the most comfortable and familiar way to think about love or any other emotional experience centered on the dynamic relationship between therapist and client is as a transference/countertransference phenomenon. That involves a certain exercise in mindfulness, a capacity to be open and aware of one’s own experience and to think about and feel how that experience is a communication from and about the client—often a disowned or unmet need—and consider how to use that information in a healing, compassionate way. It is also an exercise in self-awareness, because our slates are not blank, and we have our own unruly psyches to manage. The experience of love (or hate, or any other emotion), however it is manifested, becomes an opportunity to feel without acting, to explore different narrative possibilities and feel them out for their truth and consistency or self-delusion and wishfulness, just to name a few possibilities. There is no real way to be fully engaged without feeling, but as therapists we learn to watch the feeling as we feel it. This capacity for mindful self-awareness is perhaps the Rosetta Stone of positive emotional functioning, the skill we try to teach our clients in every session, and the skill that determines our success in helping them heal. It has also, of course, made me happier and more effective in all my relationships.

Accepting Failure and Protecting Resilience

It is unpleasant to fail, and I don’t enjoy it, but my work as a therapist has given me a ton of practice, and I have learned to accept failures more gracefully, with less unproductive self-criticism and more and more balanced self-examination. I have gotten it wrong more times and in more ways than I can possibly count. Every day, every session. Today, eager to make my own point, I dragged a client who was really hurting onto a small tangent because of a thought that was interesting to me, but not at all his direction or focus. I stumbled back to really listening to him, but the diversion created a small but avoidable need for repair and re-attunement. And that was a good session, on a good day! “But constant practice helps me to keep my balance, not get overly focused on mistakes, and move on to attend to things that are really important.”

Often as therapists we focus on issues of burnout or secondary trauma, and certainly these issues are real, especially in settings where therapists have limited control or access to support. I am inclined to believe that much of the possible psychic damage is not about the actual work we do, but the environment we do it in. If we see too many patients, fail to maintain reasonable boundaries, do not have adequate opportunities for supervision or consultation, try to meet unreasonable expectations or fail to care for ourselves psychologically outside of sessions, we will suffer in our work—both in our ability to do it well and in our own psyches. Without these boundaries, we cannot foster and protect our own resilience. But in the presence of control and support, we sometimes forget to emphasize in much of our dialogue about life as a psychotherapist how very fortunate we are as therapists to be able to engage in work that is entirely about finding meaning and healing through relationship.

In Conclusion

I also feel a little bit of guilt about my good fortune. I am spoiled. People are hurt at all levels of society, but I am not in the trenches, and I deal less than many with the horribly complicating factors of socioeconomic stress. And those other huge structural issues—such as racism, sexism, and homophobia—are somewhat blunted for my largely educated and economically stable clients. I have a group practice with colleagues I love and respect, and whose intellectual and clinical growth has interwoven with mine for over almost 20 years. “It would be churlish not to be grateful for such fertile soil in which to grow.”

We are all aware of the downsides of our vocation: the pay is not great; although we have a lot of freedom, those of us in private practice do not have the practical benefits many professionals take for granted, such as sick or vacation days, or health insurance that is less than astronomical; we tend to be made fun of in the popular culture; we have limited job security; the importance of our work is undervalued, misunderstood, or misrepresented by many; if you do the work well, you will be no stranger to self-doubt and uncertainty; you have to metabolize a lot of ugly stuff; and new acquaintances tend to become uneasy when you tell them what you do, just to name a few. But the world is not rich with opportunities to make a living in ways that feel intellectually and morally coherent and also promote emotional health and growth. It is a life of service in many respects, but also a life of service to the self, an opportunity to try to do good and to try to be good. That is a lot to be grateful for. 

Finding Playfulness in the Seriousness

I have recently seen videos of social experiments that encouraged adults to find time to play. In one such video, a hopscotch board was drawn on a city street and over the course of the next ten hours of the 1,058 people who walked by, only 129 stopped, if but momentarily, to engage in the playful distraction.

In another video, a man and his friends set up a large ball pit in an urban space to see if adults would take a moment for themselves. He asked people walking by if they were too busy to have fun. Immediate responses focused on the need to return to work – all work, no play. However, several people decided to seize the moment to dive in. A man wearing a perfectly pressed suit threw his briefcase into the pit moments before jumping in. The joy that exuded from those playful moments was priceless.

I am a play therapist, so am fortunate to play for a living. Through play therapy, children can externalize, process, master their struggles and tame inner demons through a variety of expressive mediums. Sessions transform from battles to caring for babies, playing sports, building worlds in the sand, making and eating full course meals, watching puppet shows, drawing, painting, blowing bubbles, and much more. With play, the possibilities are only limited by one’s imagination. It is truly a privilege to see the healing power of play first hand and to make time to experience play myself.

I would guess a vast majority of adults believe that play is primarily reserved for children. Life is stressful and there are a plethora of serious tasks and obligations that we must save our energy for instead of goofing off and spending time playing. Many of us are inundated with a full caseload, meetings, case management, consultation groups or supervision, continuing education, family obligations, and other side projects. We simply do not have time to stop and play hopscotch or jump in the ball pit. It does not mean that we do not want to; there is just not enough time in the day.

Being a psychotherapist is an immensely rewarding, and at times challenging and emotionally draining job. Being a container for so many hurting humans takes its toll on mind and body. We need self-care more than we allow for ourselves. We need to remember that we cannot give so much to so many and very little to ourselves. We must be gentle with ourselves and find time to rest, relax, and replenish.

When was the last time you allowed yourself to be completely immersed in your imagination and fully experience that moment? How can you make more time for playful self-care? When an obligation needs to be removed from our schedules, why is self-care is often the first to go? Because we convince ourselves that we cannot possibly sacrifice anything else on our schedule. As the Zen proverb states, “You should sit in meditation for twenty minutes every day – unless you’re too busy. Then you should sit for an hour.” This gentle self-care reminder is applicable to time spent playing as well. Foster more moments of joy, laughter, happiness and the liberation play can bring in your lives. The next time we contemplate if we have time in our day to playfully tend to our minds and bodies because we are too jam-packed, we must remind ourselves that these are the moments that we need these experiences the most.
 

On Holding Your Tongue

We therapists have all been guilty of this one: holding forth when we should really be letting our client have the floor. I recall many cringe-worthy moments as a nervous new therapist, going as far as talking to my clients about the theory behind what they were experiencing, convinced they would be as fascinated by this as I was. Fortunately, I was empathic enough to pick up on their blank stares and restrain myself.

I am currently in the process of doing a qualitative study on the common factors in working with dreams. This is relevant because of what I’m finding in the data around dream interpretation. In short, don’t do it! What modern dreamwork methods suggest is that even if you have a jaw-droppingly brilliant sense of what your client’s dream is about… don't, especially if you have something amazing to say, the best thing to do is keep it to yourself!

Why hold back? There are a few good reasons. First, because we may not actually be right. Dreams are multi-faceted and only the dreamer really knows what they are about. My wonderful interpretation may fit the images tidily and still not have any relationship to the client’s dream. Also, I’ve found that if my take on the dream is not a fit, my less assertive clients will do their best to see my point of view and contort their dream into the Procrustean bed I’ve made for them.

Another reason to hold back my brilliance? This is the main reason: because if I don’t, I rob the client of their own thrill of discovery, the excitement that comes when they unlock the meaning of the dream for themselves. Not only will the client’s interpretation be better-timed because the realization comes when they are clearly ready to have it, but also, the insight or experiential shifts made in the process will stick because they are the dreamer’s own and there is strong emotion attached to their discovery.

Despite what I just wrote, on occasion, if I feel I really must offer my pearls of wisdom about a dream, I have learned to do so tentatively, and back off immediately if I get that telltale blank stare. I may be right, and the timing may be wrong. Or I may be way off base. Either way, the best interpretation is the one that comes from the client. After all, I don’t want them to walk away from therapy thinking, “Wow my therapist is so smart, how can I manage without her?” Rather better is when they walk away with a sense of mastery and confidence about their own ability to read into their dreams and their life.

That said, good dreamwork like good therapy, should be highly collaborative. We all tend to have huge blind spots around the images that come in our dreams; so playful and respectful curiosity can help guide the dreamer to find their way through the complexity of their dream world. You can also use a device from the dream interview method that suggests you play really dumb and ask the dreamer to explain their dream images as if you are from another planet. The words they use for me-from-Mars often give a sense of how the image may be a metaphor for something in their life-and what they say is never predictable. If they dream about a dog and I say, “I’m from Mars, what’s a dog?” the answers could range wildly: from a dangerous beast with big teeth to my best and most loyal friend.

In the common factors research into dreamwork, of the 14 dreamwork methods I analysed, only psychoanalysis still advocates for interpretation by the dreamworker. All the rest advise strictly against it and suggest instead to encourage the dreamer to engage with their dream experientially and allow the dreamer’s sense of what the dream means to emerge. When I’ve had the self-discipline to do that, so often I have been amazed by the creativity and insight from my clients, and the unexpected places they went with their dream images, that I’m glad I held my tongue.