Lately, I’ve been thinking—how much of “ourselves” do clients actually want to see? As therapists, we are trained to be present, empathetic, and professional, but we are also human. Where is the line between authenticity and ethical restraint?
A Balancing Act
A client comes in with a history of extensive childhood trauma. Her primary goal for therapy is to just have someone hear her story. She’s written a memoir-like document detailing her experiences, and today, she reads an especially painful passage. My face remains placid. I nod, listen, and concentrate, but I don’t give a large reaction. She stops, staring at me.
“Anything? Can I get a reaction from you at all?”
Another scenario:
A long-term client—five years, over 60 sessions—knows bits and pieces of my life. She knows I have three kids, knows my husband’s name, knows that my colleague is also one of my best friends. I know far more about her life, of course, but I have shared more than I probably should have. Yet after this many sessions, does some level of personability naturally come with the territory?
And then, another:
A client discusses getting a hysterectomy after self-diagnosing PMDD. I have thoughts—maybe she could balance her hormones, change her diet, try something before making this decision—but she has already made up her mind. In that session, I hold back. I do not offer my opinion. I support her decision and keep my expression neutral, yet concerned.
As therapists, we hear it all. I often joke that I will tell my kids when they’re older, “You cannot shock me.” Years of practice have trained me to regulate my speech, monitor my facial expressions, and filter my responses. In my personal life, however, I am opinionated. I love deep discussions, different perspectives, and hard conversations. I believe in taking action, making radical changes, and pushing through discomfort. And yet, in both my personal and professional life, I am always learning when to speak, when to pull back, and when to remain uninvolved.
Why We Hold Back
In therapy school, we are taught about professional boundaries, confidentiality, and “do no harm.” We are taught that large reactions to client’s trauma history can end up re-traumatizing a client, or making the trauma memory worse. These principles create an environment where clients feel safe—where they trust they will receive an unbiased perspective, free from judgment or personal agenda. Clients do not come to therapy for friendship. They come for clarity, for space, for a guide. They trust that their therapist has their own self-care routine, so they don’t need to worry about protecting us.
They are willing to pay for this relationship, and it is worth it.
Some, however, question this approach. In Bad Therapy, Abigail Shrier critiques the mental health field for failing to advertise its “warning labels”—arguing that therapy is not always the neutral, risk-free space it claims to be. And she’s not wrong. As therapists, the responsibility we bear in someone’s life is enormous. At times, it can feel overwhelming—like a burden too heavy to carry. But then, I remember “the arena.”
The Arena
It is April 23, 1910. President Theodore Roosevelt stands before an audience at the Sorbonne in Paris, delivering what would become one of his most famous speeches, Citizenship in a Republic. One passage, now widely known as The Man in the Arena, stands out:
“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly…”
When I am in session, I am in the arena. I show up, no matter what is happening in my own life, and I refocus on my clients’ needs. I listen, I notice shifts in body language, I track the subtle hesitations in speech. My mind scans through interventions and research, balancing science with instinct, knowledge with presence.
Holding back, staying neutral, filtering my words—these are not signs of detachment. They are the marks of being in the arena. Of doing the work, of daring greatly, of showing up fully—not as a filtered version of myself, but as a therapist who is present, thoughtful, and engaged.
Because restraint is not absence. Giving space is not disengagement. Even silence is deliberate. The work of therapy is not about inserting myself into my clients’ stories—it’s about making room for them to step more fully into their own.
And yet, I am still human. I do not always have the perfect intervention, the right words, or the best insight in every moment. I second-guess myself. I replay sessions in my head, wondering if I could have said something differently, asked a better question, or held space in a way that made more room. But even in those moments of uncertainty, I am still in the arena. Showing up, striving, doing my best—not flawlessly, but fully.
But I also know this: I am not for everyone. And that is okay. Some clients may want a therapist who reacts more, discloses more, or has a different approach entirely. I have lost clients no doubt because of my reactions, phrasing of questions, or just overall impression. Some may feel challenged by my style, while others feel understood. That is the nature of this work—fit matters. I am not here to be all things to all people. I am here to be fully present with those who find value in what I bring.
So I do not change to fit the client in front of me, nor do I adapt just to make someone more comfortable. Instead, I hold try to be reliable and consistent in how I practice, offering what I genuinely believe to be helpful. I meet people where they are, but I do not become what they want me to be. Because therapy is not about perfect alignment—it’s about the right fit. And when it is the right fit, real work can happen.
And all I ask is that you show up fully, too. If I am allowed to be myself in this space, then you are, too. No need to filter, perform, or to say what you think I want to hear. Therapy only works when we both are willing to step into the arena. That is where the real change happens. That is where the work begins.
Thanks for listening, I’ll see you in the arena
All client stories have been changed, amalgamated, or de-identified in order to protect privacy.
Mountain Mindset Counseling 