I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what we, as therapists, choose to show in the room and what we’ve been trained to hide.
The neutrality. The nodding and listening. The holding back. We reflect, we ask the right questions, we stay steady. And we’re taught, often with the best of intentions, that therapy isn’t about us it’s about the client. Our role is to contain, to hold, to stay out of the way.
But I’ve started wondering… what do we lose in that process?
What’s the impact of showing only our neutrality, only our composure, only the version of ourselves that seems like we’ve got it all together?
Are we unintentionally saying, “You’re the messy one here. I’m not. I’m the one who knows, the one who stays grounded, the one who has it all figured out.”?
And are we, without meaning to, creating a space that feels safe but not quite real?
Because the truth is, I’ve had moments in therapy where I’ve paused. Not because I didn’t know what to say, but because I felt something. Something real. Something human.
And there have been times where I’ve chosen to self-disclose. Not in a big dramatic way. Just gently, with care. Not to make it about me, but to meet the moment with honesty. To acknowledge what was actually alive in the room.
Some of the most meaningful moments I’ve shared with clients haven’t come from a tool or a technique. They’ve come from simply being present and real. From two people sitting together and letting it be human.
That’s not what training taught me to do.
But it’s what the work has taught me. Over time, through relationships, by being on both sides of the therapy room.
Clients don’t need perfect therapists.
They need someone who can sit with them through the mess, because they’re not afraid of their own.
They need to feel not just be told that they’re not broken for feeling deeply. That “too much” doesn’t make them too much. That their shame won’t be met with silence or analysis, but with something recognisable – a human.
And I guess I’ve just been sitting with how we, as therapists, communicate that. Not in what we say, but in how we show up. How much of ourselves we let into the room.
Not all of us. Not unfiltered. Not boundaryless. But still us.
I don’t have a tidy conclusion. I’m still working it out, to be honest. But I do keep coming back to this question, especially lately:
What part of you, the therapist-you, still stays hidden in the room?
And what might shift for you, for the client, for the work if just a little more of that person was allowed in?
Something I’m thinking about.
Maybe something you are, too.
