I’ve been learning an important distinction lately.
In the past, I’ve been an emotional juice junkie. I cringe now to remember how, early in my training, I and my fellow coaches/counselors considered it a mark of our effectiveness if a client cried. We’d even high-five each other in the cafeteria after a particularly weepy session.
And, to be honest, clients (and friends) are pretty open about crying in front of me, and it doesn’t make me uncomfortable. I’m heartened when I see it, because I think that in general we (especially men) don’t cry nearly enough, and it is critical for the healing process.
But I remember talking to a trusted mentor about it once, and she asked, “This thirst for the juice, the tears—is that primarily about your client or about you?” Ouch.
Now I’m more moderate with it. I take care to ensure that any strong emotion is an organic part of the client’s process, and not just a response I’m encouraging as proof of my skill.
Recently, I was reading a lovely book, Tales of a Wounded Healer, by a gifted therapist named Mariah Fenton Gladis. It was recommended to me by a dear friend (and *my* former therapist) who used it to create a profound, even soul-shifting intervention for me.
Gladis stresses the importance of crying “into your own embrace.” As she puts it, “There are many people who cry and wail and never heal, because they are crying into a vacuum, they cry alone rather than ‘with themselves.’ There is no inner voice to respond and comfort them . . . . It is important for anyone who is facing deep pain to learn how to respond immediately to him or herself with understanding, compassion, and an embrace” (Chapter 7). She even recommends physically hugging yourself.
That passage struck me, because I had a client who was moving some serious emotional energy, but didn’t seem to be getting better. The crying was like a pressure release valve—which absolutely does have some value—but it wasn’t healing the core wound.
As I considered Mariah’s words, it seemed that my client most definitely was not crying into their own embrace. Rather, it was more like they were standing to the side with their arms crossed, eyes rolling, judging the bejeezus out of themselves.
I checked, and they confirmed the judgement I suspected: pathetic, weak, ridiculous. So, we’re working on softening that now, opening the door to them being their own best ally, rather than their worst critic.
To be seen and accepted by another person we trust, even (and especially) at our lowest, can be life-changing. So it’s useful if we can enlist ourselves into that dynamic, if we can hold ourselves tenderly in our own pain.
Lately I’ve been doing it for myself multiple times a day at random intervals—whether or not I’m experiencing difficult feelings. Say, when I’m out for a walk or in a crowded room, I’ll mentally slip an arm around my own shoulder and offer myself some sincere unconditional positive regard: “Hey, friend. You’re all right.” The difference I feel is palpable.
More significantly, I’ve been making it a point to hold myself in my own embrace when I "screw up." For instance, after inadvertently cutting someone off in traffic, when it was totally my fault. To be honest, it felt uncomfortable at first.
But then I asked, What's the fear about offering love to myself in a moment like that? That I’ll stop caring about being a good driver if I don’t beat myself up? That I won't pay attention next time? Actually, I think the reverse is probably true: I’ll be less tense and have more of my resources available for responding.
Or maybe your thought bubble looks like this, as mine did for a second: If I hold myself in my own embrace when I screw up, then wouldn’t I have to do that for other people, too?
Huh. How about that?
