Being the imperfect practitioner...

Following my previous post about grieving for my Dad, I realised that I had taken time out because I didn't feel I could be the 'perfect' therapist whilst I was grieving, but it dawned on me that perhaps my experience was helping me to become a better therapist. A therapist does not become useful by living a 'perfect life', and, often, the opposite is closer to the truth.

Training matters. Ethics matter. Supervision matters. A sound grasp of theory, risk, attachment, trauma, grief, anxiety, and human development matters. No amount of “life experience” can replace the hard work of learning how to practise safely.

Yet therapy is not delivered by a textbook. It is delivered by a person sitting with another person in pain, confusion, shame, anger, numbness, or fear. That is where real world experience has value. It gives a therapist texture, humility, patience, and a more generous view of what it means to be human.

The imperfect practitioner, the one who has lived a little, failed a little, loved, lost, misjudged, repaired, started again, and met their own limits, can bring something deeply useful into the room. Not as advice. Not as performance. Not as “I know exactly how you feel.” But as grounded presence.