When We Are Seen

This summer has brought a lot of transition for my practice, which makes sense when you're a therapist who primarily works with clients experiencing life transitions. Every change in season means simultaneous hellos and goodbyes. Right about now, nearing the end of summer, I begin to feel the impact of so much movement. Even after years of this being a reality of my work, I still find myself feeling daunted by the ebb and flow. And yet, it also brings a lot of meaning to the time I have with each client. There's often a beginning, middle, and end. It's sacred to witness the arc each story takes.

This seasonal shift, has caused me to reflect on one of the most compelling aspects of psychotherapy that fascinated and formed my own therapy journey beginning at age eighteen - the opportunity to be seen. There are few spaces in life that offer such visibility, such transparency. And of course, this is why psychotherapy is so terrifying. It's a space that beckons rawness. It invites the client to enter a domain in which vulnerability is the only path forward. The work of psychotherapy is aiming to come unhindered, to enter the spring and float down the river, so to speak, without resisting the current. This is tremendously hard. Most settings outside of the therapy room encourage self-preservation. We are taught from an early age that an armoring of the self is necessary for survival. And so, I find it deeply provocative for this tender space to exist. The client and therapist embark on a unique journey, seeing what maybe could not be seen elsewhere.

I recall my entry into therapy. It was mandated and I was reluctant. I had no desire to sit across from a stranger and recite my problems. At eighteen, pre pro-therapy culture, it felt utterly embarrassing. But in order to complete a gap year program I was attending at the time, I had to recover from an eating disorder that had gone untreated for too long. So there I was twice a week in outpatient therapy, sitting on a lumpy gray couch across from a woman named Kathy.

Our first sessions felt odd to me. I wasn't sure how to feel about the barrage of questions or her inquisitive eyes that seemed to scan my face for information. At the same time, I was enticed by this opportunity to be heard, studied, and seen. It was unlike anything I'd experienced before. I was fascinated that this middle-aged woman seemed to think I had interesting things to say. It was as if she detected there was something important to uncover, something transformative. Though still apprehensive at times, the more we met, the more I realized she was right. Eventually, months into our work together, her steady and generous gaze guided me to a place of greater insight and healing. And though there was much more to process and overcome after this initial entry into therapy, I am so grateful for what was born from that sacred space. I learned how to be seen and how to be listened to.

Over the years as I've completed work with clients and we've reflected on their experience in psychotherapy, a repeating theme has emerged. The vulnerable weekly space of psychotherapy became an essential container. It functioned as a storehouse for things they needed to more closely sift through, concretely separate from their psyches, and perhaps eventually let go of. Clients have noted that in pursuing the space to sit (sometimes stretch and recline) and be seen, they have gained clarity. They conclude their journey with a greater capacity; more room to be in the present, more energy to take a next step. When we enter into therapy, we see afresh, we're encouraged to grapple with uncertainty, practice curiosity and develop new meaning.

Irvin Yalom, talented therapist and writer, notes that at the very heart of psychotherapy is "a caring and deeply human meeting between two people" (1989). He describes the exchange between therapist and client as an encounter that has the opportunity to transform both participants. This is the subtle magic of the work, humans reflecting each other's humanity. And with time, client succumbing to the profound belief that it is better to be seen than not seen, known than not known, and better to venture than t0 remain ashore. With gratitude and an ongoing awe for the process of psychotherapy, I'm slowly shifting into the fall. It's a good season to choose to be seen.

With Warmth, Erin

Yalom, I. D. (1989). Love's executioner: And other tales of psychotherapy. Basic Books