Tag Archives: therapy

Unlocking the Power of Dreams in Therapy

“This whole creation is essentially subjective, and the dream is the theater where the dreamer is at once: scene, actor, prompter, stage manager, author, audience, and critic.”
— Carl Jung (General Aspects of Dream Psychology (Collected Works, Vol. 8, para. 505))

Beyond Behavior: Why Dreams Matter More Than Compliance

The field of clinical mental health counseling overly privileges observable behavior as the golden standard, largely because it can be assessed through our five senses. Yet we ignore how subjective even behavior is: What I view as “appropriate,” another may find unacceptable. We can offer a general spectrum for functional behavior, but at the end of the day, behavioral analysis often turns into something few are brave enough to call by its real name: manipulation.

We manipulate children, adolescents, and adults to adhere to behaviors that we deem acceptable. By “we,” I mean clinicians en masse, armed with interventions that make people more palatable to the world, but not nearly more whole. This is especially visible in the rise of ABA (Applied Behavior Analysis) services for individuals with autism. ABA does not aim to deeply understand; it chisels away at the individual’s uniqueness so they might fit into a narrow mold crafted by society. It may help some who are overwhelmed by severe symptoms, but for many others on the spectrum, we could and should be asking better questions.

Now, what gets missed when we only look at the surface? Well, everything. A person’s dreams, defenses, distortions, complexes, archetypes…none of it is visible in behavioral checklists. And yet, those are the things that contain the essence of who we are. Dream analysis is one such approach that actually honors this depth, and it is the primary focus of this essay.

The Symbolic Language of the Soul

What are dreams? This question echoes endlessly through the halls of academia. Some settle on the view that dreams are meaningless…mere flickers of random neurons. But others, including myself, argue that dreams are not only meaningful, they are essential.

Dreams are the language of the unconscious soul. They do not speak in bullet points or diagnoses. They speak in images, metaphors, distortions, and riddles; they speak in symbols: a language that most modern clinicians have tragically, long forgotten (and have little interest in learning) how to read.

Contrary to common belief, dreams do not simply reflect external events. The psyche is far more clever and complex for that kind of spoon-fed narrative. It weaves what we have witnessed into tapestries of meaning that reveal the truth of our inner lives. A monster in a dream is not just a scary image, it may just be the shadow self: the rejected and disowned part of our psyche we’ve exiled to protect our conscious ego. Dreams force us to confront what we have avoided. They demand our attention….or else, we forget under the guise of “I don’t dream.” Unless we heed to the call, the call becomes muted.

To reclaim symbol interpretation (as a clinician, and as a human) requires that we first do the work ourselves. If we dare claim to help others, we must help ourselves first. Dream journaling and analysis are perhaps the most powerful tools we have for integration. It is how we make the unconscious conscious. It is how we reclaim what we have buried. Moreover, it acts as a fundamental benchmark in examining our own and our clients’ progress along their path to individuation.

Personal Dream Example: The Devil Behind the Clock

Here is a personal anecdote to my time utilizing dream analysis: When I was four years old, I had a recurring dream.

I was at my aunt’s house: a place that, in waking life, felt safe and loving. In the dream, however, something was wrong. I was sitting on the couch in the living room while my mom and aunt talked in the dining room. A large grandfather clock stood nearby. And behind it… was the Devil.

The depiction was exactly as I had seen him in a Christian movie growing up: red skin, horns, sinister. I cried, pointed, and ran to my mother. She didn’t even turn around. She waved me off with intense irritation. My aunt barely looked up. I was desperate, in agony, as this evil figure crept toward me. But I was dismissed and being overtaken.

Jungian Interpretation:

This dream, like many from early life, was not random. The devil behind the clock was not simply “evil” in the religious sense, it symbolized the forbidden, the repressed, and the terrifying unknown. In the context of a rigid, hyper-religious upbringing, he embodied not only projected fears around the body and sexuality, but also the unspeakable trauma that was taking root in my psyche.

The two women – figures who were sources of comfort and safety in waking life – were not villains in the dream. Rather, they represented a feminine energy that was emotionally unavailable, disconnected, and fragmented. Their dismissal in the dream was symbolic of a larger absence: the absence of grounded, attuned feminine containment. They did not betray me in waking life, but their dream counterparts portrayed what my psyche felt in that moment of crisis: alone, unseen, and forced to face the shadow without an emotional mirror.

This was the beginning of my inner rejection of the feminine. Not out of hatred, but as a survival mechanism. My mother (herself animus-possessed) modeled a way of being where logic, control, and emotional suppression were used to navigate life. Her feelings were powerful but unspoken, guiding her from beneath the surface. And so, I followed suit.

The dream encoded the psychic conditions that formed the early architecture of my inner world:

  • The growing dominance of my internal masculine (animus) as a protector and suppressor
  • The repression of my intuitive, feeling-based feminine qualities
  • The emergence of a mother complex shaped not just by relational dynamics, but by the archetypal distortion of what the feminine had come to represent for me: danger, denial, disconnection

This dream revealed the symbolic moment when the feminine was unconsciously exiled within me, and not out of blame, but out of necessity. It marked the beginning of fragmentation… and, much later in life, the very clue that would lead me back toward integration.

Reality Is Subjective: The Limits of Perception

There is such a thing as objective reality, however, no human can experience it. Everything we perceive is filtered through layers of lived experience, cultural imprinting, trauma, emotional valence, ego defenses, and complex structures buried deep within our unconscious. This is why even people raised in the same household often have drastically different interpretations of their past. We each wear unique perceptual lenses and no two alike. What we call “normal” or “abnormal” becomes a judgment passed through a very narrow filter. And so, if we hope to help others, we must first admit that we cannot see clearly. We must own our subjectivity. Only then can we begin to understand the symbolic logic of another’s psyche.

Dreams as the Roadmap to the Client’s Inner Cosmos

If each person carries a private myth; in other words, one’s unconscious is a rich, symbolic architecture and it is no longer helpful to impose a generic model of healing upon the individuals we work with. Instead, we must become curious. We must become guides of dreams. As a clinician, I do not “decode” a client’s psyche like a puzzle. I ask questions. I help hold the lantern while they descend into their inner world. The dream leads the way.

Clinical Dream Example: The Assault Nightmare

A male client once came to me terrified of his dreams. Night after night, he relived scenes of sexual assault, but in these dreams, he was not the victim. He was the perpetrator.

This detail tormented him. In waking life, he had been assaulted as an adolescent. The trauma left him paralyzed with shame, plagued by a profound inferiority complex and a deeply wounded mother complex. Sleep offered no refuge. Instead, it cast him in the role of the very force that had once violated him.

Understandably, he feared what these dreams said about him. But as our work deepened, and we dared to interpret the dream symbolically rather than literally, something far more human, and far more tragic, emerged.

Jungian Interpretation (Male Psyche, Symbolic Violence, and Trauma Integration):

The dreams were not about desire or cruelty. They were a dramatization of an internal psychic war. His unconscious had cast him in the role of the perpetrator; not to shame him, but to illuminate the depth of his fragmentation. What had been done to him was so shattering, so annihilating, that the only way his psyche could begin to metabolize it was to invert the trauma: putting him in imagined control of the very violence that once rendered him powerless.

In Jungian terms, these dreams symbolized the domination of this client’s psyche’s internal masculine function (rigid, disconnected, and tryrannical) over the anima, the inner feminine principle that governs intuition, emotion, and relational depth, because there was an incongruence between the dualities within him. After his assault, his psyche could not afford softness, so, it adapted. The anima was not safe to express, so she was buried. And in his dreams, she reemerged not as a figure of beauty or connection, but as the one being symbolically violated. This was not a literal drama. It was a psychic mirror reflecting how thoroughly his own inner feminine had been suppressed in order to survive.

These dreams were not signs of pathology. They were signs of readiness. The unconscious had begun to reveal, through dark imagery, the deeper truth: that what had been lost could now be reclaimed. The symbolic violence pointed not to moral failing, but to the soul’s attempt at re-integration.

What appears as horror in the dream world is often, in truth, the first flicker of psychic rebirth.

A Reaffirmed Commitment to the Depths

I have been working with dreams for many years through a Jungian lens, and over time, my appreciation for their psychological necessity has only deepened. Dreams are not just curiosities or byproducts of sleep. Over the decades, I have come to learn that they are essential dispatches from the unconscious. And interpreting them is not a technique to be memorized, but a far more sacred practice, one that requires presence, humility, and depth.

Dream analysis, especially when working with another person’s dream, demands a level of emotional insight and attunement that many clinicians are simply not trained to wield. One must not only understand symbols intellectually but feel into them empathically and tune into the psyche of another without overlaying it with one’s own projections. There is a great deal of intuition involved, as well as a kind of inner spaciousness: a willingness to listen to what is unsaid, to notice what appears behind the veil of the image…to look far beyond the mere surface.

This is not easy for everyone…far from it in fact. Those with a Sensing-dominant personality type, for example, are often more attuned to what can be observed through the five senses. Their cognition is rooted in concrete reality. And while this has tremendous value, it can make dreamwork more difficult because the dream speaks from beyond the veil. It emerges from the invisible layers of the unconscious and from the mythic architecture we carry within. It requires us to see in the dark, and to trust that what we cannot touch may still be real.

Closing Thoughts: Why Dream Analysis Should Not Be Optional

We are not blank slates. We are stories: myths, images, and memories tangled in archetypes that stretch back to the beginning of time. To understand someone (and I mean truly understand them) we must move beyond behavior, beyond diagnoses, and beyond surface language. We must comprehend the narrative folding that resides within. Thus, we must go inward.

In closing, dreams are not an accessory to therapy. They are the deepest expression of the Self calling out to be known. They are how the unconscious speaks when the ego is silent. And they offer what behavior never can: truth – truth that is symbolic, personal, and transformative.

What are your dreams asking you to witness?

“Every symbol in your dream has a special, individual connotation that belongs to you alone, just as the dream is ultimately yours alone. Even when a symbol has a collective or universal meaning, it still has a personal coloration for you and can be fully explained only from within you.”
― Robert A. Johnson (Inner Work: Using Dreams and Active Imagination for Personal Growth)

The Alchemy of Love: Transformation Through Connection

“The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed.”
— Carl G. Jung (Modern Man in Search of a Soul)

The Mirror of Love

Love has undone me more than anything else in life. And I say that not with bitterness, but with reverence, for it has also revealed truths I could never have touched otherwise. Truths about who I am, who I imagined I was, and who I pretended others could be.

This piece is a kind of self-study. Not a memoir, not a clinical breakdown, but rather, a weaving of both. I want to speak to those who have felt love as something mythic, disorienting, impossible to replicate. Those who have touched the sublime and then have been left holding only the echo thereof. Because I too have known that kind of love: the kind that alters your chemistry and warps your sense of time. The kind that feels like a meeting not of people, but of archetypes.

The kind of love that this essay will address is not the kind based merely off lust, but rather, of the soul meeting itself through another.

Love as the Search for Wholeness

In the remarkable work of The Eden Project: In Search of the Magical Other, James Hollis writes that “…we are not loved; we are only loved as the other perceives us to be.” He argues that most romantic connections begin not with true seeing, but with projection: the unconscious casting of our inner yearnings and unmet needs onto another… who is often doing the same in return.

When I first read Hollis, I was reeling from a relationship that defied explanation. I had found my match. Not only in compatibility (which was strikingly real), but also in psychic intensity. What undid us was not necessarily a lack of alignment in the external world, but the gravitational pull of our inner worlds colliding. The very parts of us that recognized each other most deeply were also the parts most shaped by fear, longing, and unfinished psychological business: a puer aeternus to my puella aeterna. Two archetypal children trapped in adult bodies, trying to love each other while still longing for escape; terrified by the paradox that enwrapped us from within.

He was Sir James Matthew Barrie’s Peter Pan: elusive, enchanting, untouchable. I was the Grimm Brother’s Raven: circling, waiting, aching to be seen and caught — but only by someone who could still let me fly.

The Myth We Lived: A Love Too Archetypal to Hold

We had what movies attempt to demonstrate: an unspoken, psychic link that needs no explanation. Could feel each other across distance. Knew when the other was hurting. We dreamt of each other and collapsed into each other’s arms as if we had known one another long before we met. Yet… we ran. Detachment and anxiousness enveloped our existences when together.

We were not two fully individuated people choosing one another, we were, instead, two complex systems colliding. Our wounds fell in love. Our shadows dated. And our childhood fears ran the show. While the love was all too real, it was also deeply unlivable.

“We come to love not by finding a perfect person, but by learning to see an imperfect person perfectly.”
— Sam Keen (To Love and Be Loved)

The Aftermath: The Art of Longing

I am still living in the aftermath of this time that happened years ago. Not because I have not moved forward in life, for I have: I am married. I am a mother. I am completing graduate school, training to help others navigate their inner worlds. But a part of me… is still there. In that suspended space where something wild and beautiful was once almost real.

This is where I believe art begins. In the sacred wound. In the longing that cannot be resolved but must be transformed. Hollis further wrote that most people never truly grieve their projections. They simply suppress them, numbing out the loss of a love that was never sustainable, but was still real in what it revealed. While I have tried my damnedest to suppress, I find the shadow merely grows, overtaking me in the most inopportune times. Thus, I am here, bearing my soul as a means to feel… because the only way out is through and my art lives in my writing.

There is a song entitled Embrace by ALIGN, every time I hear it, it stirs something inside of me. In it, there is a voice clip layered beneath the ambient textures, a quiet, intimate conversation between two people. While I have never been able to track down its origin, I have listened to it so many times now that I hear it through my own internal translation. Whatever the original words were, they’ve become something else for me, something deeply personal that rattles me to my core.

The emotion in that brief, unplaceable exchange evokes exactly where I find myself: suspended between the call to evolve and the ache to return. It captures the struggle of letting go of something that felt so ecstatic, so perfect, that part of me still clings to the illusion that it might return. That reflection I once saw in the eyes of another still lives inside me. Not just as memory, but as longing. And perhaps, part of me doesn’t want to let go, because to do so would be to release not just him, but the version of me that felt most known.

In classical mythology, the muse was the feminine spirit who inspired men to create, to speak beauty into form. But my muse was not a woman, it was a masculine soul who ignited the same trembling force within me. A fire that demanded I transcribe it. And like many artists before me, I find myself haunted by the figure who awakened my art: Dante’s Beatrice Portinari, Rilke’s Lou Andreas-Salomé, Picasso’s Dora Maar, Leonard Cohen’s Suzanne Verdal. Throughout time, muses have embodied longing; not just for the person themselves, but for the part of the self the “other” awoke.

Thus, I feel both summoned toward evolution and trapped in nostalgia. Longing for the psychic recognition of myself through another. That is the root of it. Not just love lost — but of reflection interrupted.

Clinical Reflections: Projection, Alchemy, and the Psyche

Clinically, what I experienced fits the very pattern Hollis describes: two individuals encounter one another not just as people, but as symbols. Representations of inner psychic ideals. In us, the projections matched:

  • I saw in him the freedom, intensity, fearlessness, and sacred detachment I longed to embody, but also deeply feared.
  • He saw in me grounding, mystery, and devotion…but also the threat of entrapment.

In Jungian terms, we were animus and anima (personifications of the unconscious masculine and feminine), acting out a drama far older than either of us. The tragedy was not that we failed to love each other, but that we did not yet know how to hold the tension between what we represented: autonomy and intimacy, flight and commitment, spirit and form.

Carl Jung’s Mysterium Coniunctionis explores this very phenomenon: the alchemical union of opposites within the psyche. Until that sacred inner union takes place, we often chase its reflection in another, believing we have found our missing half. But what has really been found — often to our detriment — is not a wholly perfect person that will complete us, but instead a mirror of our own unfinished work.

In this way, what we shared was not fate in a romantic sense, but in a psychological one. My unconscious sought integration through him. And while this relationship did not last, it was not a failure. It was an alchemical fire. It illuminated the parts of myself (and even himself) that were (and are) still unformed, still unclaimed. While it burned too hot to last, it revealed something eternal.

For Those of Us Still Yearning

If you are reading this in the ache of aftermath, or in the quiet ache for a love that does not quite belong to this world — or perhaps both — I see you. And I am speaking to myself just as much as I am speaking to you.

I will not offer false hope or cheap advice…for this kind of liminal space is deeply complex and nuanced. Speaking about this subject at a surface level would go against everything I hold sacred in my work, both as a clinician and as a soul in process. However, I will offer this: The kind of love this essay has tried to give shape to (the archetypal, soul-altering, life-breaking kind) is not a mistake. It is a kind of initiatory wound. It splits the skin of your ego so that something more honest, more whole, might be born. You may never “get over it.” But you can alchemize it…into vision, into art, and into soul.

From Longing to Meaning

Love, when stripped of illusion, does not promise Eden. As Hollis reminds us, relationships are not designed to make us happy, they are meant to challenge us, to confront us with our unconscious through the sharp edges of trigger points and projections, both positive and negative. Love, then, offers something far more dangerous, and more sacred: a confrontation with the self. Not the self you think you are, but the self you become when you dare to love with your whole being and turn the magnifying glass inward.

As for me, I am still becoming her… whoever that may be. I still find myself caught in the projection — longing, missing, hurting. But I lean in rather than turn away. I let myself feel it all fully (sometimes unbearably), in hopes that by doing so, I may become the conscious embodiment of what I once cast outward.

In Ginette Paris’s Heartbreak, Mourning, Loss, Volume 1: Detach or Die (a depth psychological exploration of grief and identity), she argues that we must choose between psychic decay and conscious separation. Now, please let us not mistake the term “detach” as emotional numbing, suppression, or erasure, but rather as a reclamation of life from illusion.

After much thought, and after pouring myself through the ache, depth, and sheer emotional weight of reflecting on a love that once was, I have arrived at this: I believe I will always miss him. And I will always love him… my brutally honest reflection, the one who both challenged and saw me. But, c’est la vie. This is where I find myself, for now. Not over it, nor wholly through it, but more honest for having ever walked through it.

Some reflections do not fade. They simply shift form and lead you inward…if you let them.

“We are not loved because we are understood. We are loved because someone has risked being changed by what they have seen in us.”
— James Hollis (The Eden Project: In Search of the Magical Other)

EMDR: Modern Rituals in Trauma Healing

“There is no coming to consciousness without pain… One does not become enlightened by imagining figures of light, but by making the darkness conscious.”
— Carl Jung (CW 13, ¶335)

This post will be a little different from my usual writing. It leans more academic in tone because I want to reflect on one of the most widely respected tools in trauma therapy: EMDR.

For those unfamiliar, EMDR stands for Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing. It has gained endorsements from the American Psychological Association (APA), the Department of Veterans Affairs, and even the World Health Organization. Its place in the clinical world is well established, and its benefits are experienced by many.

What follows is not a dismissal of EMDR’s value but a reframing of how it may actually work. While EMDR is best known for its use of bilateral stimulation (BLS), I propose that the deeper source of its healing power is something more timeless: the direct confrontation with trauma.

To be clear, I fully acknowledge the growing body of research supporting EMDR’s efficacy (Lee & Cuijpers, 2013; Shapiro, 2018). My aim is not to strip away its credibility but to look at it through a symbolic lens. As a clinician-in-training steeped in trauma-informed care and depth psychology, I wonder whether the field has misattributed its effectiveness. Are we focusing so much on the method that we overlook the ritual act at its core?

The Hypothesis: Exposure, Not Eye Movements, Is the Active Ingredient

Let us first dive into the research: EMDR leads to significant symptom reduction in trauma survivors. However, when the role of bilateral stimulation is isolated, the findings become a bit murky. Davidson and Parker (2001) conducted a meta-analysis and found that eye movements did not significantly enhance outcomes beyond exposure alone. van den Hout et al., (2011) observed that while BLS may slightly reduce vividness and emotionality, it appears non-essential to successful treatment.

This brings us to a question that many researchers have asked, but few clinicians or educators seem willing to face directly. Is it wholly the eye movements or the repeated, structured confrontation with trauma that promotes healing?

Here is what has not been explored deeply: the symbolic and psychological function of BLS. What if BLS serves more as an emotional buffer, something that helps to regulate discomfort rather than reveal truth? What if the real healing lies not in tracking a therapist’s fingers, but in walking through the fire of memory without turning back out of fear?

Talk Therapy’s Avoidance Problem

In many graduate counseling programs, students are taught to be trauma-informed by emphasizing non-intrusiveness. Do not push. Do not retraumatize. Do not make the client uncomfortable. While well-intentioned, this approach can backfire. In our effort to “do no harm,” we may do nothing meaningful and cause harm in and of itself. We sit quietly, hoping the client will go deep on their own, while silently colluding in their avoidance.

This avoidance can, moreover, mirror the client’s trauma and merely perpetuate a trauma loop. A sense of being abandoned, unseen, or emotionally unheld in their darkest moments. The therapist’s inability to bear witness to pain perpetuates the very repression that trauma thrives in. If we cannot make space for and hold the heat of a client’s story, how can they ever trust themselves to come to face it with courage?

EMDR as Modern Ritual

Looking through a Jungian lens, EMDR is less about BLS and more about a ritualized descent into the unconscious. It mirrors ancient rites of passage found across cultures. These are journeys into darkness, chaos, or death to retrieve something vital: a lost part of the Self. In this way, EMDR becomes a modern ritual that guides clients into the symbolic underworld to reclaim what was fragmented.

Now this is where the controversy deepens… What if BLS is not a catalyst, but a distraction? A rhythmic soothing agent, not unlike a lullaby or a pacifier, that makes the journey more bearable but less potent. Yes, the bilateral tones and eye movements can regulate the nervous system. But perhaps they also cushion the intensity of the experience. And maybe, just maybe, that is where a fundamental problem lies.

Hypnotherapy: Another Descent-Based Modality

Take hypnotherapy. Dismissed by many for its pseudoscientific reputation, hypnosis also facilitates an altered state of consciousness. It invites a trance, a softening of ego boundaries. Like EMDR, it opens the door to unconscious material. When paired with cognitive-behavioral therapy, hypnosis has been shown to enhance trauma treatment outcomes (Kirsch et al., 1995; Valentine et al., 2019).

From a depth perspective, hypnotherapy is not about control or suggestion. It is about a symbolic descent into the abyss. It is Dante, led by the image of his Beatrice, the guiding archetype of the inner feminine, through the underworld toward integration. It is Persephone, reclaiming her agency. These are not techniques. They are myths made real. What unites EMDR, PE, and hypnotherapy is quite obviously, not their form, but their demand for emotional honesty.

What Actually Heals

When clients wholly come to face their trauma, not just remember it, but feel it fully, symbolically, and viscerally, that is when the inner alchemical transformation begins. These methods succeed not because they are gentle, but because they ask something of the client that many modalities do not: to return to the wound with open eyes.

The client becomes the mythic hero. The one who chooses descent. And the therapist, if they are willing, becomes the witness, the anchor, and the soul guide.

What Needs to Change

If talk therapy wants to remain relevant in trauma work, it must stop pathologizing emotional intensity. Too often, strong emotions are seen as something to avoid or regulate rather than engage with. But it is precisely within these intense emotional states of grief, rage, and fear, that the deepest healing potential lives. Avoiding them keeps both therapist and client circling the wound rather than entering it.

Therapists must be trained not only to avoid harm, but to tolerate discomfort: their own and their clients’. The ability to stay present during emotional upheaval is not optional in trauma work. It is essential. A therapist cannot guide someone through the storm if they are only willing to stand on the shore.

What heals is not comfort, but honest confrontation. True safety is not the absence of emotional risk. It is the presence of someone who can stay steady when everything else feels like it’s falling apart. That is what clients need. That is what trauma work requires.

Revisiting “Do No Harm”

It is important to pause and address what may already be rising in the minds of many readers. The ACA Code of Ethics states that clinicians must avoid harm. Non-maleficence—do no harm—is one of the foundational principles of our profession. It is often cited to justify cautious, client-led, non-intrusive approaches, especially when working with trauma.

But we must ask the harder question: what does “harm” actually mean when it comes to trauma?

Are we being wholly benevolent when we avoid stirring the inner wounds of our clients? Or are we, under the guise of caution, participating in something more insidious? When a therapist avoids a client’s trauma, when they softly reassure, “You don’t have to go there,” while that trauma silently erodes the client from within, is that not a form of harm? Is that not abandonment by another name?

In our effort to be kind, we may become complicit. Complicit in avoidance. Complicit in shame. Complicit in preserving the very suffering we claim to treat.

Let us also be honest about something else: there are far more bad therapists in the world than there are good ones. This not cynicism, it is reality. And the tragedy continues in that nearly everyone believes they are one of the good ones. But sincere trauma work does not come from being “good”. It comes from being whole.

Only those who are themselves on the path to wholeness (not perfection and not performance) can embody what trauma-informed care actually requires. This is not just a clinical posture. It is a way of being. One must be able to sit in the fire with another human being without retreating. That is what heals. Not credentials, not compliance, and certainly not the illusion of safety.

Thus, if we, as clinicians, shy away from that confrontation, we teach our clients to do the same…and nothing changes. The trauma goes on repeating. But when we consciously aim to walk with them, into the depths, through the fire, with eyes unaverted, something ancient stirs. Not just recovery, but resurrection.

“Fear, like love, can become a call into consciousness; one meets the unconscious, the unknown, the numinous and uncontrollable by keeping in touch with fear, which elevates the blind instinctual panic of the sheep into the knowing, cunning, fearful awe of the shepherd.”
— James Hillman, (Pan and the Nightmare, p. 65.)

References… for your viewing pleasure.

Davidson, P. R., & Parker, K. C. H. (2001). Eye movement desensitization and reprocessing (EMDR): A meta-analysis. Journal of Consulting and Clinical Psychology, 69(2), 305–316. https://doi.org/10.1037//0022-006x.69.2.305

Kirsch, I., Montgomery, G., & Sapirstein, G. (1995). Hypnosis as an adjunct to cognitive-behavioral psychotherapy: A meta-analysis. Journal of Consulting and Clinical Psychology, 63(2), 214–220. https://doi.org/10.1037//0022-006x.63.2.214

Lee, C. W., & Cuijpers, P. (2013). A meta-analysis of the contribution of eye movements in EMDR therapy: Psychological Bulletin, 139(2), 241–268. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.jbtep.2012.11.001

Shapiro, F. (2018). Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing (EMDR) Therapy: Basic Principles, Protocols, and Procedures (3rd ed.). Guilford Press.

Valentine, K. E., Milling, L. S., Clark, L. J., & Moriarty, C. L. (2019). The efficacy of hypnosis as a treatment for anxiety: A meta-analysis. International Journal of Clinical and Experimental Hypnosis, 67(3), 336–363. https://doi.org/10.1080/00207144.2019.1613863

van den Hout, M. A., Engelhard, I. M., Beetsma, D., Slofstra, C., Hornsveld, H., & Houtveen, J. (2011). EMDR and mindfulness: Eye movements and attentional breathing tax working memory and reduce vividness and emotionality of aversive ideation. Journal of Behavior Therapy and Experimental Psychiatry, 42(4), 423–431. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.jbtep.2011.03.004