When I first stepped into the profession (probably identity too) of a psychotherapist, I had so many what-ifs in my gut. What if I’m not wise enough to hold this space? What if my own life doesn’t measure up? What if I push too hard—or not at all? What if they straight-up hate me? (Well, I’m sure a few did?) Or worse, what if they’re sitting there, thinking, Ugh, lame. I’m so firing her.
There I was, face-to-face with clients who were just stuck there - someone unemployed, talking with me for nearly a year, too scared to send out a single resume. Or someone caught in an abusive relationship, circling back to “but they still love me,” even as their partner hurt their children and left without any remorse. Or the client who’d grown jaded about the world but had zero interest in peeking inside their own heart.
At first, I slipped into this nurturing, and so-called “radical accepting” mommy mode. “It’s okay, take your time, I am here.” I’d say.
Big Mistake.
For some, my office turned into a cozy little coffee shop—a place to vent, sip their emotional latte, and keep their life exactly, painfully the same. (Okay, think about it, it’s actually a lot of work to maintain the same.) Or worse, for some, I became their new substance, something they held onto instead of facing their demons head-on.
Two years in, something shifted inside me. Through the grind of life and work, I’ve found my footing, a quiet confidence in my own path, in my bones. I realized my work could—and should—encourage real change—the kind that rewrites how someone lives, loves, and shows up in the world, and most importantly, for themselves — because at the end of the day, we all know deeply in our psyche who we are. And we can’t cheat self-honesty.
It’s about how much you actually like yourself when nobody is watching.
Sometimes, that change takes a push. Not cruel, but real, and sometimes extremely painful.
Along with my new supervisor’s philosophy, I’ve started setting boundaries that felt like me—gentle but unapologetic. For example, especially with substance use disorder (SUD) patients, if they have been circling the same story for six, eight sessions, still not ready to move, I lean in and say, “Hey, if you’re okay with drinking yourself into the ER every week, I’m fine too. It’s your life, your call. But I’d like to pause here, please come back when you are ready to change.”
Change isn’t a straight line—it’s messy, it loops, it frustrates. But the drive to make a change? That’s gotta come from you. (And this applies to every damn relationship in our life.) Because how can I live for you?
Mommy-like therapy? It’s like living in Groundhog Day with a lot of trauma. When I play “mom,” I risk stealing the wheel from the client’s own story. We can’t find freedom without self agency.
And yet, in that messy, beautiful space—between the stumbles, the crashes, and the choices—there’s something sacred. It’s that flicker of possibility that one day, maybe not today, but one day, you’ll look back and see how far you’ve come. Not because I fixed you (I can’t. ) But because you found the courage to rewrite your own damn story.
That’s the core of this work: it’s not about saving you. It’s about walking beside you, just long enough for you to realize you’ve been holding the map all along.