I want to tell you about how and why I do what I do, but it's one of those things that hides from words. I know that whatever I put down here won't measure up. It's my hope that you will be able to bring it to life in a way that my words cannot.
Most people find me gentle, and caring and open — probably about what you would, and perhaps should, expect from a therapist. I can also be sarcastic, and even irreverent at times. I'm not everyone's cup of tea, but who is? I do bring all of me into the room when I work, and most people seem to like that. The feedback I get is that this is what makes my style of therapy work.
I don't have a "professional persona" that I put on when a client walks into the room. To be clear, I am professional. I have a very high level of personal and professional integrity that protects both me and my clients. I also tend towards colorful language, and I may kick my shoes off and curl up in my chair while we are working. I don't own a tie.
I cannot expect you to be real with me if I am pretending to be someone I am not. So, you get all of me.
It's an honor for me to hear people's stories, to learn about where they've been, how they got to this place, what's working for them, and what's not. The stories don't tumble out in our first session — it takes time, they need to trust the space that we create together. It's always on your time frame, and it usually doesn't take long.
Good therapy isn't just about listening to secrets, although I do believe there is great value in just that simple, yet impossibly brave act of giving voice to the unspeakable. Good therapy is about being able to speak directly to whoever is showing up to tell that story.
Sometimes they just need to hear that I believe them, that it wasn't their fault. Sometimes they need to see that I can hear about something they did that was hurtful or harmful, and that I'm still here with them. I'm not disgusted, I'm not angry, I'm not scared. I'm just here, holding that, and I still see all of them — the good, the bad, and everything in between.
It's not the sharing that we fear, it's the reaction.
It's the fear of rejection. Fear that we will see them the way they too often see themselves. Fear that the worst of what they think of themselves is true.
Sometimes, in the space between the roaring in their ears when they share something scary, and the silence of the space between us that can hold it, something shifts. Just a little wedge of light that whispers: maybe you are not just this thing that happened. It does not need to define you. It is a part of a whole. It's okay to let it be there — you are not alone with it.