This morning, many people woke up grappling with disappointment and fear about the US election results. As a therapist, I often get a unique window into the lives of people navigating such moments—different worlds, different viewpoints, all wrestling with the uncertainties of life.
Therapy approaches vary. Some therapists choose to remain a blank canvas, allowing clients to project freely without external influence. There’s tremendous merit in that approach. But it’s not mine.
I take a relational approach—or as I like to call it, “being a human being.” This means my clients see more of who I am. I’m comfortable with that. For some, this openness makes it easier to share their own full selves—their fears, messiness, and vulnerabilities. For others, it could feel constraining, and I remain mindful of that possibility. It’s vital to create a space where disagreement and discord are not just accepted but welcomed. Therapy thrives on honesty, even when it’s uncomfortable.
Working through seismic world events as a therapist is, in many ways, a privilege. I’ve been in this role during elections, catastrophes, tragedies, and, most profoundly, the pandemic. For many clients, therapy became a lifeline during those isolated and uncertain times.
Connection is essential. The simple act of saying, “I’m scared. I don’t know what’s going to happen,” and being met with understanding—not a rushed reassurance like “It’ll all be fine!”—can be transformative. One of the most important lessons I learned in my training was this: reassurance doesn’t actually reassure.
Therapists are human beings, too. We’re not immune to world events or personal struggles. During the pandemic, my father was diagnosed with lung cancer on top of a pre-existing condition. I was terrified. I remember hearing Boris Johnson say, “We are going to lose a great many people before their time.” That moment is seared into my memory.
I panicked. I sought support. And I carried on.
The tools I leaned on to manage my own fears became resources I shared with my clients. And the connection I found through supporting them also supported me.
In the end, my worst fears didn’t come true. We had almost three more years with my dad before he passed away. His illness was a catalyst for profound change—I moved closer to him, spent precious time together, and was with him when he died. That, to me, was a gift.
Distressing times often spur us into action. They force us to confront what matters and make changes we might otherwise postpone.
I can’t predict what happens next. And I know that empty reassurances won’t fix the uncertainty. But I do believe in the power of community, connection, and the courage to express our vulnerabilities to people we trust.
These, I think, are the building blocks of resilience—even in the most challenging times.