Being a therapist is a weird, weird gig. We step into our offices and gather ourselves to gently enter into the most sacred, private, and intimate parts of people’s worlds. We sit with them in some of their heaviest moments. We cheer them on as they set boundaries or have hard conversations, and celebrate with them when they meet goals or take challenging steps. We grieve with them, share their burdens, and rage with them against injustices.
The nature of our relationship is close and intimate, yet professional and extremely boundaried. I know about their people, their habits, their fears, their hopes. Yet they do not, and arguably should not, know mine.
Yet, while our relationship is not reciprocal, I am not distant, apart, or other, in the way some might assume. In that chair, I am very real. They don’t hold my burdens, or know my stories, yet they’ve heard my heart and seen my tears. They are not my friends, yet I care for them more deeply than they likely imagine. They will never share a meal with me, yet we will often share profoundly transformative moments together.
And then, at the end of the day, their secrets, tears, hopes, achievements, triumphs and griefs will get tucked safely away in the recesses of confidentiality. I will go home and gather with my incredible people, with my own messy feelings, private hopes, lingering frustrations, and at times, victorious accomplishments. On those evenings, while I will be utterly spent, I will also be so very grateful that this is the weird and wonderful work God has given me to do.