Becoming a Therapist.
My journey toward becoming a therapist began in elementary school. My uncle casually asked what career I’d pursue, and I shared a desire to become a teacher. He inquired further, and I explained that I hoped to guide children in their seeking and turmoil. He paused and reflected that maybe I didn’t want to be a teacher afterall - maybe I wanted to be a psychologist. That reflection resonated with chords I couldn’t yet describe, and I’ve been chasing that harmony for decades.
But then of course the chords became more complex, less melodic. I became the Perfectionist who only understood her worth in the key of A. “You’re a Jew, so you have to be smarter” (it rhymes in Russian). An ever-striving, ever-earning constellation lit up the sky and pounded in my ears. Or perhaps the music didn’t change at all, but I awoke to the dissonance around me and inherently inside me. Afterall, my people’s academic performance and hypervigilance kept us safe, making its way into songs and stereotypes. The Wandering Jew with his enlarged nose in a book. The Outcast, ever seeking, ever striving. His rhythmic steps were the foundation of my existence. Proving my worth gave me a sense of control, and The Perfectionistic Outcast became my protector.
His voice rang steadily in my ears, “play by the rules and win to survive”. I couldn’t risk failure. So I didn’t apply to the shiny schools and didn’t dare look at the clinical programs. I became a developmentalist. I provided psychoeducation - guidance, not therapy. The beat droned on; The Perfectionistic Outcast grew content with my first-rate achievements in my second-choice career.
But every once in a while rhythm and stability gave way to playfulness and harmony. I pursued management training where I learned active listening and motivational interviewing. Sometimes psychoeducation gave way to empathetic witnessing and validating. In my personal sphere, I stopped wandering. I found that elusive resonance with other Outcasts, and I built a community. They didn’t need me to prove my worth or perform excellence. The resonance grew louder when we struggled together. I gave my protector room to play, creating space and time for whimsy. He’s still there, keeping the rhythm, but he’s integrated - feeling seen and held on the isle of misfit toys.
There’s room on the isle for others, so sometimes I share our song, listening for that resonance. The wounded healer in me wants to hold space for others in this community. Maybe our song will strike a chord for someone else. So I keep sharing my journey, not in session, but out there in cyberspace.
I keep exploring that liminal space between us - within us - about us. If intergenerational trauma can be transmitted, and pheromones can be experienced, then there’s clearly more to experience than our five senses. How else do we impact the relational field? What can my belief in our connectedness offer in session? How does my understanding of the aching child inside you, shape your experience of me? There’s so much we don’t know, but can absolutely feel. I once told my therapist that we have educated out intuition and schooled in education. Now she’s using that quote in a paper, out there in that thing we call the professional “field”. So perhaps becoming a therapist is actually less about coming into something new, and more about returning to something old. And the therapist I’m becoming leans into feeling, into experiencing, into using our bodies to ground our thoughts. I’m feeling the resonance in mirrored expressions, an empathetic ache, and shared laughter. I’m adding notes to the chorus of community.
