Why Your Therapist’s Humanity Matters

We often imagine that the “good” therapy session is the one where everything goes smoothly — where the therapist listens calmly, offers insight, and leaves us feeling lighter and more understood.

But what if some of the most transformative moments in therapy are the ones that feel the hardest? The ones where tension rises, feelings get hurt, or the relationship itself seems to teeter on the edge?

We often expect therapy to feel smooth and calm, but the most meaningful moments may be the ones when we are caught in the storm.

Rupture as the Real Work

In depth-oriented therapy, these difficult moments aren’t accidents — they are part of the process. When a patient pushes back, becomes defensive, or even accuses the therapist of being harmful, something crucial is happening. The past is arriving in the room.

At that point, the therapist is no longer just an observer or commentator. They have been drawn into a reenactment of a core dilemma — often one that has shaped the patient’s relationships for years. And yes, the therapist might feel activated, even wounded. But this is not necessarily failure. It is often the beginning of real change.

The Therapist’s Wound as Instrument

From a relational psychodynamic perspective, the therapist’s humanity isn’t a liability — it’s a tool. Our imperfections, our reactivity, even our occasional missteps, become part of the treatment.

Rather than striving to stay perfectly neutral or “above it all,” we allow ourselves to be affected. And when the storm clears, we return to the moment together. We name what happened. We own our part. We make meaning of it.

Woundedness opens the possibility of repair if it is borne rather than hidden.

Repair as Transformation

This process — called rupture and repair — is not just an intellectual exercise. It provides the patient with a felt experience that conflict does not have to end in abandonment or withdrawal.

Instead, the patient discovers that it is possible to survive tension, to stay connected, and to emerge from the other side with the relationship intact — sometimes even stronger than before.

For the Patient, and for the Therapist

This is good news not only for the patient, but also for the therapist. It frees us from the straitjacket of perfectionism and the impossible demand to serve as a “blank screen.” Our humanness is not something to conceal — it is something to bring into the room, in service of the work.

When we, as therapists, dare to participate fully — to risk missteps and then repair them — we offer patients more than explanations. We offer them an experience of relationship that can reshape their inner world. And in turn, we are spared the burden of punitive perfectionism. Our own imperfections become indispensable, even redemptive.

The Heart of My Work

At Descend-to-Ascend, I believe that the moments when the work feels hardest often hold the most potential for transformation. We don’t sidestep those moments — we descend into them together, trusting that what emerges on the other side is not just relief, but renewed connection, strength, and freedom.