My nervous system had learned to disappear to be useful. I was doing this everywhere — but I was most legible to myself as a therapist, because there it had a name. It was called service.

I became a therapist and I brought that entire system with me, dressed in clinical language. My holy struggle was to sacrifice everything I had for my clients to get what they needed. I wanted the way I showed up to be perfect for them.

When I expect a client to trust me, I’m subtly asking them to override their own pacing, instincts, and history in order to meet my timeline for their healing. For many people, especially those with trauma, that request isn’t neutral.

What if I told you that everything you have been through has made you resilient?
What if I shared my amazement as I watched you grieve and continue living at the same time?

Real authority—clinical, spiritual, relational—does not need answers to survive. It can hold uncertainty. It can sit with “I don’t know.” It can be questioned without collapsing.

Without fail, every time I rush to the good part, the therapy gets wonky. I stop trusting the process and the imposter syndrome creeps in.

After years of solo practice with Videri Counseling, I’ve realized the next stage of my work needs to be more collaborative, more sustainable, and more human.

When something a client says hits close to home, what do we do? This piece explores how therapists can stay present, embodied, and human in the room.

I used to think my job as a therapist was to have answers. Lately, I’m learning something different: healing happens when I stop trying to solve and start being with.