If you've ever been to therapy, you know how beneficial it can be—at least in many cases—to have someone hold space for you when you're struggling. By "holding space," I mean having someone who actively listens, challenges your automatic thoughts, explores your history and personality traits, and helps you better understand why you are the way that you are.
Hopefully, you've had the experience of feeling like you can talk about yourself without guilt or wondering whether someone truly cares. After all, this is a service that you—or your insurance company—are paying for. I know that not all therapists or therapeutic relationships are the same, and I've heard plenty of stories about negative experiences people continue to carry with them long after therapy has ended.
As a therapist, I believe one of the most important skills we can have is the ability to connect with another human being. Therapy offers an opportunity to experience trust, build a healthy relationship, and explore what it's like to have someone genuinely invested in your well-being—someone who can help guide you when you feel lost. Of course, therapists use a variety of clinical approaches, such as Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing (EMDR), Dialectical Behavior Therapy, Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT) and somatic therapy, among many others. As an eclectic therapist, I rely heavily on the relationship I build with each individual client. That relationship helps guide which techniques and modalities may be most useful in helping them reach their goals or, at the very least, reduce the symptoms that are causing distress.
But have you ever wondered what your therapist is like outside of the therapy room?
It's not uncommon for clients to be curious about their therapist's life. You might wonder whether they're married, have children, where they live, or what they do in their spare time. Many people also wonder whether their therapist likes them. "Do they think I'm funny? Do they enjoy working with me?"
These thoughts and curiosities are completely normal. As humans, we are wired for connection. When we enter a trusting therapeutic relationship, we can experience a level of closeness and vulnerability that may be unlike anything we've experienced before. What many people don't think about, however, is that therapists are no different from anyone else. We are human. We have messy lives. We don't always take our own advice. We experience divorce, grief, financial stress, relationship struggles, health concerns, and periods of self-doubt. We have mental health needs, too.
And just like everyone else, therapists need connection.
We may often think, "I love working with this client," or genuinely admire your resilience, humor, insight, or growth. But we cannot rely on our clients to fulfill our own emotional needs. The therapeutic relationship exists for your benefit, not ours.
Despite spending our days surrounded by people and engaging in meaningful conversations for hours at a time, therapists can still feel incredibly isolated. We can feel alone in our experiences. We celebrate your successes and feel sadness alongside your pain. And those emotions do not simply disappear when the session ends. Because of confidentiality, we cannot share many of these moments with our spouses, loved ones, or friends. We carry your stories, your fears, your hopes, your secrets, your traumatic experiences, and your victories. We hold them carefully and protect them. And most of us are honored to do so. After all, many therapists entered this profession because we genuinely want to help people.
For me, therapy has been one of the most transformative experiences of my life. Going to therapy has helped me become the best version of myself, both inside and outside of the therapy room. Throughout my adolescence and adulthood, I have relied on therapists, and I cannot overstate how beneficial that has been for me.
Even the therapists who weren't the right fit—the ones who I felt didn't fully understand me or weren't really listening to what I was trying to say—taught me something valuable. Those experiences helped shape my understanding of what it feels like to be seen, heard, and supported, and what it feels like when those needs go unmet. As a therapist, those experiences continue to influence how I show up for my clients. They guide the way I listen, the way I communicate empathy, and the way I strive to demonstrate that I am truly with them in their struggles. They remind me of the importance of helping clients feel understood, respected, and supported, and of making it clear that I am on their team.
But helping others does not make us immune to loneliness, burnout, compassion fatigue, or the need for support ourselves. Therapists need trusted friends, healthy relationships, consultation groups, supervisors, mentors, and often their own therapists. We need places where we can process our experiences, receive guidance, and be cared for in the same way we strive to care for others.
The reality is that therapists are not superhuman. We are people first. And the healthier, more supported, and more connected we are, the better equipped we are to show up for the people who trust us with their stories.
Nora