Confession Of A Therapist Who Disturbed The Family Script

Recently, on one of the psychotherapy forums I’m part of, someone wrote that they were going on holiday soon and were thinking of not telling anyone there that they were a therapist. At first, I found this surprising. But then I began to understand what she meant.

Each time I mention that I’m a therapist, something happens. People respond in very particular ways. Some become guarded, while others open up far beyond what feels comfortable. The line between ordinary conversation and something more intimate begins to blur, and I have to draw it back with words like, “I’m not your therapist.”

I think it’s to do with what this profession symbolises in the collective imagination. Therapy carries associations of healing — and perhaps of moral or emotional authority. The therapist becomes, consciously or not, a kind of psychological messenger. I see it in my work with clients who hold on to my words with the hope that one of them might bring a moment of transformation. I see it in myself, too, when I sit with my own therapist — how I listen carefully, projecting meaning into their words depending on where I am internally. In our language, we call this transference.

But in my personal life, the same mechanism seems to awaken spontaneously. Saying “I’m a therapist” can trigger a whole range of reactions: “Are you reading my mind now?” or “Please, don’t therapise me!” Sometimes there’s admiration; sometimes suspicion; sometimes a nervous joke. Being a therapist seems to stir something in others — something that belongs to the shadow, to use Jung’s word for the unacknowledged parts of ourselves. Even outside the consulting room, that dynamic of projection is at play.

When I began my training, I noticed how my new identity also shifted things within my family. I seemed to take the place of the healer, and all kinds of unspoken emotions began to find their way toward me. At times, It felt as though the family’s shadows had resurfaced to be processed — and that I was somehow equipped to receive them. Frankly, I wasn’t. Quite the contrary. It was difficult even to begin explaining what I thought was happening. There was chaos and turbulence — until, eventually, there wasn’t.

Becoming a therapist meant deconstructing the loyalties that had once kept our family system in balance — and balance resists change. It was as if, by choosing this profession, I had stepped out of the family script. I began to say, “This no longer fits me,” “I can’t keep playing this role.” The system reacted.

It reminded me of a theatre play: all the characters are performing their parts, and suddenly one of them changes their lines. The story falters. For a while, there is confusion and even anger towards the character who disrupted the plot.

This, I believe, is what happens when anyone begins therapy. A person creates a new culture for themselves — a new emotional language that others in the system may not yet understand. The challenge is whether those around them can learn that new language too or at least tolerate its presence. Sometimes they can; sometimes they can’t, and relationships need to rest or reshape until a new equilibrium appears.

I think of that colleague on the forum who didn’t want to tell anyone she was a therapist.
Perhaps she sensed this — that stepping into the role of therapist or client changes the play for everyone.

The only question that remains is whether we can stay on stage with love, even when the story changes.