In session yesterday, T was saying that the better part of her learning to be a psychotherapist came from her own therapy. And, at this, she put a hand to her chest and patted it – a gentle acknowledgement of her own work, of her student heart.
I need to be the patient/client/student of a Heart T. My parents were both smart. Growing up, I longed for heart. I am sure that when I was small I had a broken heart. The brokenness of not being loved - not enough, not in the Little Me way I needed so much.
For a long time I have felt my pain in my chest - hot, pressing, and the only way I could describe it was to say that my heart hurt. I would press my hands against my chest to contain the feelings. It always seemed to be burning and I was certain that if a T were to put her hand on my chest, she too would feel the heat.
Perhaps this is why, for the first two months of seeing newT, I cried during every session. T’s heart was talking with mine. My heart is grateful to have a Heart T. Perhaps this is the beginning of the end of my journey. Perhaps when my heart is healed, I will be too.
If you talk to a man in a language he understands, that goes to his head. If you talk to him in his language, that goes to his heart. - Nelson Mandela
Listen with your heart -
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