When someone comes to therapy for the first time, there is one question that kicks off the session: “Why are you here?” or “What brought you here?”
Everyone comes with a belief, a theory or a reason they attribute to their suffering. We hear it expressed in all sorts of ways:
“I’m here because I suffer from panic attacks.”
“I’m feeling anxious.”
“I want to work on my self-esteem.”
“I’ve lost my sense of purpose; I do everything half-heartedly.”
We’ve called this presentation “reason for the enquiry”: the first impression the patient makes, the initial point of contact from which we will set out together to undertake therapeutic work. However, these isolated phrases, on their own, do not tell us much. For what constitutes anxiety for one person is far removed from what it means to another. What one person experiences during a ‘panic attack’ will differ radically from what another person goes through.
The art of ‘not understanding’
To understand the unique significance hidden behind these labels, symptoms or diagnostic categories, as therapists we do something that seems counterintuitive: we ask.
“What does that panic mean to you?”, “What do you mean by anxiety?”, “In what circumstances does that listlessness arise?”
Unlike the term ‘empathy’—so popular and much sought-after these days—a therapist is there, first and foremost, not to understand. It is a matter of stepping outside common sense so that what is unique and different can emerge. Only by questioning the dictionary definition can we begin to work with that unique, unrepeatable symptom, unlike any other.
Algorithms vs. craftsmanship
This is what sets our analytical and artisanal work apart from the automated processing carried out by artificial intelligence. Whilst its usefulness in other sectors is undeniable, as a machine capable of immediate understanding and instant responses, AI quickly reduces every question to a pre-configured, statistical and probability-based interpretation.
When someone says to an AI: “I feel lonely,” The machine responds with a synthesis of millions of texts on loneliness, offering a statistical consolation.
Nowadays, consulting an AI has become an instant temptation. More and more people are turning to algorithms to find answers: “Interpret this dream for me!”, “What should I do if I’m having a panic attack?”, “How long does it take to get over a break-up?”, “How can I manage my anxiety?” People even engage in lengthy conversations in which they confide their deepest wounds to chatbots and conversational algorithms “that teach coping strategies and offer emotional support”.
But AI, by design, is a sealing machine It is an algorithm trained to avoid the void and provide a predictive response; therefore, it leaves no room for not knowing, for the unknown or for doubt. AI does not hear the silence between words nor perceive the tone of distress, but it specialises in plugging the gap of not knowing. The relief may feel real, but it is the relief of anaesthesia: it covers up the distress with a sense of meaning, but does not address the cause.
The dignity of the question
Therapy, on the other hand, seeks to create an empty space so that the patient themselves can find their own answers. Analysis seeks to restore the subject’s own voice. This approach of encouraging questions, rather than demanding immediate answers, requires two elements that our era seeks to suppress: time and effort.
We live in an age of ‘promised efficiency’: achieving more in less time. A logic that serves the market and businesses well, but falls short when it comes to addressing human suffering.
Standing up for a break
As therapists, we defend the dignity of suffering tooth and nail. We give pain the space it needs to be processed. Far from trying to suppress or stifle this distress, we want first and foremost to listen to it.
We understand that there are no set formulas, standardised methods or ‘tips’ that can replace the creativity, resilience and personal growth of each individual. In contrast to the machine’s automatic response, we are committed to words that heal.
