Vulnerability and Trust Can Be the Hardest Work We’ll Ever Do

My therapist recently had the audacity to applaud my progress, reminding me that I’m “the one doing all the work.” A part of me internally screamed about how much I hated it when she said that. For the record, it was only the second time she said it, but it irritated me both times. Falling back on old habits, I immediately shoved my feelings into the pit of my stomach and continued the session, ending it on a peaceful note. I completed the end-of-session evaluation with my usual appraisal that she’s a good fit, I felt heard, and all that good stuff. All of those things were still true, but…her comment marinated in my mind, and the next day, I admitted that a part of me was livid with her.

At 42 years old, I am still unable to hear some words for what they actually are.

Didn’t she realize the words “you’re the one doing all the work” still translate to a chorus that has played in my head for over forty years? All I heard in those words was: “It’s all on you, you’re all you have, and you’re on your own.” At 42 years old, I am still unable to hear some words for what they actually are. I don’t know the language of compassion; I’m still learning it. Also, within the context of therapy, I feel truly seen and heard in a way I had not previously, so I felt shattered by the thought of my trusted therapist not seeing the whole picture. In diminishing her role in my healing journey and removing herself from the equation of my progress, I felt that she neglected to recognize what is the hardest, but most rewarding part of “the work” for me. The most exciting arena of my growth has been my swelling trust in my therapist and, by extension, people in general. Over the course of the past year, with patience, skill, and quiet strength, she earned my trust with consistent support and reassurance. If you’re reading this from a place of trauma, you know that trusting anyone, especially in a short period of time, is no small feat.

But…my therapist had performed the almost impossible…she got “in.” I trusted her because her actions matched her words, she actively listened to me in a way no one ever had, and she said things I didn’t even know I needed to hear. This gentle, but steady surgeon of the mind, soul, and spirit had opened my heart to a world of possibilities I long resisted. She had again and again proven she wouldn’t let me down; a part of me thus knew her affirmation about me “doing all the work” was a message grounded in goodness. That part of me knew she intended her comment as genuine recognition of my investment and progress in my healing journey. Another part of me that lay trapped in the horrors of the past, however, felt betrayed…and alone.

I countered my self-sabotaging urges by scheduling sessions for the next two months.

I poured all of this into a letter addressed to my therapist. Knowing I ran a risk of backing out of counseling, at the start of my appointment, I countered my self-sabotaging urges by scheduling sessions for the next two months. I then shakily confided that I was surprised to discover that a part of me was angry with something she said in our last session. I admitted that I was terrified of not reading what I had written because I feared I’d do what I always do with my pushed-down feelings. I would ignore the pesky feelings until they pushed me out the door or I erupted in a random explosion over “nothing.” I didn’t want to do that. There was too much on the line. I had just invested eleven months making headway with the dozenth and longest-term therapist of my life.

Finally making major progress, I’d gotten a taste of the possibilities beyond the claustrophobic walls of the CPTSD prison that had held me hostage for decades. I really didn’t want to go back. I wanted help removing the shackles that still bound me. I needed my therapist to know that I wasn’t ready to take full ownership of my journey. I had to tell her these things so that I wouldn’t run away. At the same time, I was terrified of what she would do with the raw, wounded feelings I was about to unleash. She had always shown me nothing but kindness, wisdom, and good intentions, but she was competing with decades of mental devastation and emotional deprivation. Drawing upon the lessons of my childhood, though decades into adulthood, I still connect any disclosure of my most vulnerable feelings with negative consequences. Feeling like my heart was about to explode, I entered that session anticipating retribution, defensiveness hurled at me like shrapnel, or perhaps worst of all, the invisible experience of being gaslit and shut down.

I Poured My Heart Out and She Didn’t Use it Against Me

Used to my written reflections, my therapist approached my confession with tender curiosity and invited me to share what I had written. I poured my heart out, at first nervously, and eventually dipping in and out of sadness, anger, and gratitude. As I read, so many parts of myself warned me of the dangers of vulnerability. If I admitted that I needed her in any way, all hell would surely break loose. At worst, she would abandon me on the spot, immediately severing my connection to hope and cementing my perspective of the world as an inhospitable place brimming with people who don’t care. At best, she would stockpile my vulnerability and use it against me later. Because that’s what people do when we ask for help and express feelings, right?

I sat in disbelief when she instead thanked me for sharing, acknowledged what I had said as a moment of growth, reassured me that we were “still good,” and apologized for her role in my hurt feelings. She even asked if there was anything else I wanted to share. Tears fell down my face, unneeded defenses frozen in my throat; I could barely utter the words “thank you.” I sat paralyzed in a state of stunned silence, unsure of what to do with all this compassion being gently hurled my way. For the next half hour, we talked through my fears and reservations, though she did more talking than I usually leave room for, because the shock stole the words from my mouth. She eased my concerns with assurances that it was a team effort and she “wasn’t going anywhere.” The most wounded parts of myself struggled to believe the impossible, but gradually loosened their grip and allowed me to accept her words for what they were. I searched for my ever-present guilt, her hidden agenda, and confirmation that my feelings don’t matter. Instead, I found relief and self-compassion.

I’m Learning the Language of Compassion

That night, I anticipated a ruthless bout of insomnia followed by a painful “emotional hangover.” To my astonishment, neither happened. Instead, I felt lighter, a stronger sense of hope, and more connected to the world. Within the safe space of a trusting relationship, which may be the first healthy relationship of our lives, we have the opportunity to learn and practice all the things that don’t come easily. Though it may not seem like our native tongue, we do have the capacity to learn the language of compassion…and yes, that includes compassion directed at ourselves. I’m not even close to fluent, but I am awestruck by the beauty of this language. In my forties, I’m learning it one word at a time, and am increasingly optimistic that eventually, maybe even soon, I will feel freer to speak this language “in the wild.” As I walk this mile of my healing pilgrimage, I’m learning that connection, compassion, curiosity, and hope bring light to what has, at times, been a very dark life. When we feel safe enough to lean into our feelings with curiosity instead of rejection, we learn to identify and address our emotions, share our hearts, and receive the gifts of compassion and guidance from others. We learn to take greater risks in the way we open up to others and the world around us. In that risk, we finally begin to reap the rewards that we so deserve.

Photo by Aziz Acharki on Unsplash

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Heather Jurvelin

Finally feeling truly alive for the first time in my life, I am writing from a place of gradual healing with an eye to the future and a hope of connecting with others on similar paths. Forced to withhold a tsunami of emotions deemed irrelevant under the roof of my childhood “home,” the blank white pages of my notebooks invited my raw reflections without judgment. Writing allowed me to free the burdens of my soul, but at some point, I muzzled myself. My pen lay dormant for years until, at 41 years old, I experienced a traumatic flashback during an everyday activity that shook me to the core. Five days later, I started writing about the things I had long withheld. I couldn’t stop. Written words have once again become my refuge. I now recognize that these words, resurrected from the ashes of my pain, may have the power to help others. Above all, I want to magnify and share the messages that I have most treasured on my journey: we are not alone and we don’t ever have to go back. This is where we live now and the future is ours.