“I’m not sure I get to ask you this, but …” a client begins. I stiffen up a bit, wondering where this is going. “What are you going to do if things get bad?”
This question has come up lately in reference to the numerous executive orders issued by the current administration that especially target my trans and immigrant clients. They are concerned for themselves, but they are also concerned for me as someone openly out as a nonbinary person of color. In that small moment, there is a shift from seeing me as a practitioner to seeing me as another vulnerable someone in the world.
I take a pause. My body sinks back into my chair, touched by the care in their question. At the same time, I still have my clinical hat on: What is the pattern coming up here?
A client might be seeking my opinion because they are scared and want someone who they view as an authority to reassure them and give them direction. Or they might want to join with me side by side to close the distance that can sometimes be felt in a therapeutic relationship — it’s a strange one where we build so much intimacy yet, in order to center the client, they get to know relatively little about me.
I am careful with what I choose to self-disclose. Sometimes bringing in one’s personal life can land as advice or a judgment, whether or not the therapist intends it that way. It might feel well-intentioned for a therapist to share how they solved their own marriage conflict or that a particular health regimen improved their mental health, yet that may not honor the unique circumstances of the client. As my previous supervisor put it, you want to “stick close to the text” of the client’s experience.
I do not need to know details about my therapist’s romantic life, for example, for us to effectively work on mine. Yet there are some things I have no choice but to share.
My identities are visible on my body and in my online presence, which informs how clients relate to me before I say a word. Often people seek me out because of our aligned identities and lived experiences. And still, that doesn’t make me an expert on what any particular client should do.
When I consider sharing my own plans, I need to consider my client’s own wisdom and circumstances. For example, in today’s political circumstances, there are trans people who are already at more risk than me of having their passports and other identification documents altered or taken away. Would my sharing, even unintentionally, dismiss a client’s fear or imply they should have a different response? How can we validate the emotion even if we approach things differently? What are the boundaries necessary to build safety and trust, and where can we soften the edges?
“I’m going to answer, but I’m taking my therapist hat off,” I say, making a dorky pantomime of whipping off a cap.
I tell my clients about how I find purpose in acting as a resource for our community and that I want to continue to be open about who I am and available for as long as I can. I talk about how doing therapy does not feel like enough and I’m seeking out other opportunities to volunteer and support collective action.
I hold space for the fact that no effort might feel like “enough.” We can share in grief and rage and fear, so that we can live full lives even in uncertain circumstances.
“How does that land with you?” I ask, taking the temperature.
They thank me for sharing and say, “I’m still really scared.”
The way I was trained, self-disclosure is seen as a potent kind of intervention. A little goes a long way. We stay with their fear for a couple of minutes, talking about how making plans is itself a type of reassurance because fear is hard to feel.
I momentarily wish that I could take away the feeling, but that was never the point. Instead, my sharing allowed for the client to reflect on the function of their desire to plan and to work on building tolerance for uncertainty — a skill we will all need more of in the coming months and years. In that brief moment, I got to feel closer to them because I stepped more fully into view.