My first class of my first day of graduate school, I walked into class, but it wasn't a usual classroom. Rather than desks and chairs the room was filled with large overstuffed pillows. Instead of bright overhead fluorescent lights the room had softly lit round lights hanging from the ceiling. We were told to sit quietly and relax until the class was set to begin, at which point the professor said, "Welcome. I have no idea what's going to happen today". We soon learned that that would be a truth throughout our future careers as clinicians. As a therapist, I sit alone with someone I don't know for an entire hour, never knowing what they'll say next, while often they don't know what they're about to say either, under the assumption that as the professional I'm in charge, with the experience and skill to fix any personal problem. It's terrifying. In that classroom I felt so much uncertainty and and discomfort, but in a space that was designed to provide as much support and comfort as possible. Recreating a space of support and comfort to make managing the feelings of discomfort and uncertainty as "less bad" as possible is something I've strived for. It's still terrifying at times for me if I let myself think about it too much, but I know that as hard as it might be for me, it's a million times harder for you. And I have so much respect for your willingness to accept that, but show up anyway.
Something else taught in that first class was that as therapists we'd be a key figure in someone's life during a time of turmoil. Eventually the thing that brought the person to counseling would resolve, the therapeutic relationship would end, and the person would move forward on their own using the tools and understanding we established together. As time goes on the impact of the therapist would fade, leaving the client to only remember the work they did themself to get through that hard time. This idea sold me. I could get to know someone incredibly well, but ultimately stay invisible. I held onto this closely, and learned to establish very clear boundaries, where I resisted ever talking about myself. I'm there for the clients, to listen and support them, never having to experience the slightest amount of vulnerability. Questions like, "Have you ever faced this?" or "what would you do?" were met with, "We're not here to talk about me.". This spoke to my introverted extrovert soul. I could be in the middle of things without having any of the spotlight on me.
This clear boundary worked consistently for over a decade. But now there's been a shift. More frequently, people are unsatisfied with my deflective answers about anything personal. I'm learning that though the common expectation in therapy is to have a space to talk openly about anything and to be heard and supported, there's a new added component of wanting to feel a connection. Maybe it's a response to the quarantining and shut downs during COVID? Feeling lonely while being surrounded by people has become a common experience. People don't want a relationship with me anymore in which they talk, I ask questions, they answer, I share observations and offer suggestions, and they respond. People want those things, but in a relationship that feels more peer-to-peer rather than patient-to-professional. And with this, my throwaway generic answers about my weekend aren't cutting it like they used to.
So here we are, another new level of discomfort unlocked. And just as I always talk about the importance of flexibility, awareness, and adaptation, I guess I have to do the same. So this is me, adapting.
In looking for a picture for this post, there are evidently zero pictures of me that are without sunglasses or in running clothes. Which makes sense because I spend a lot of time outdoors. The best I could find is this one, riding a bike in Chattanooga. And interestingly, I hate bike riding. I thought this rental was an e-bike. I love sunshine, high heat indexes, and thunderstorms. Choosing between Florida's Gulf and Atlantic beaches is nearly impossible. My heart belongs to the Florida Gators, though the more time I spend in Tampa the more I become drawn to the South Florida Bulls. I don't actually know anything about sports but know every cheer. I learned how to spell buccaneer from going to Bucs games. I am a runner and love encouraging runners, and try my hardest to not talk too much about it to nonrunners. I can't golf, but love encouraging people to golf for the many mental health benefits. I've played violin my whole life and practice just enough to play in a local orchestra. I love live music and will see any band live: in 2024 so far I've seen Olivia Rodrigo, Missy Elliott, Limp Bizkit, Rod Wave, and Twenty One Pilots....my taste is all over the place. I don't sing well or dance well and can't remember correct lyrics, though that doesn't stop me from being everyone's favorite concert buddy. My family and I are working on visiting every US National Park....we've visited 12/63...a long way to go! Sleeping is one of my strengths, and I am well aware that it's a privilege to sleep well. As much as I love rest I will never say no to adventure. The craving has led to some questionable choices, but I believe in the magic of fun and making the most of every moment.
As I continue learning, as a human and as a therapist, I will keep striving to adapt and evolve. I will get more comfortable with letting you see me as me, but know that I will always hold clinical ethics above all else. Namely, the ethical principles of maleficence and beneficence: not only will I aim to do no harm, I will also only do what is in your best interest.
Thanks, as always, for letting me be on this journey with you, and for being on my journey with me.
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