by 
In my early days as a therapist, I placed immense pressure on myself to find the thing—the perfect word, technique, or resource—that would help my clients solve their problems.
At the end of the day, I would sit against an empty wall, staring into nothingness, drained.
Empathy, I learned, is not an infinite resource. After hours of listening, I often wondered if I had accomplished anything beyond absorbing pain. I liked to believe that even this had healing power, but more often than not, it left me empty. My desire to help, I feared, had turned me into a receptacle for emotional suffering—a trash can where people discarded their grief and despair.
Becoming a therapist is a process. In the early stages of training, I noticed in myself—and later, in the trainees I supervised—a desperate urge to fix. Fixing provides a sense of control, a feeling of accomplishment. It gives us the illusion that we are making a difference.
This impulse often stems from personal history. Many therapists, including myself, grew up in households shaped by mental health struggles or addiction. My own journey into this work was fueled by a deep desire to understand my father’s struggles.
Beyond our personal inclinations, external pressures push us toward tangible results. Parents beg us for solutions for their struggling children. Insurance companies demand measurable goals to justify payments. The legal system mandates counseling and expects visible progress.
I once stood before a judge who scolded me for “not doing anything” about a child’s trauma. The child, who was being removed from their parents’ custody, had barely spoken to me—offering only one-word answers, refusing to discuss their pain. I had done everything in my power, yet it wasn’t enough to satisfy a system that equates silence with inaction.
I understood the judge’s frustration. In high-stakes situations, people crave certainty. We want data, solutions, anything that restores a sense of control. But therapy is part science, part art. Trust, especially that of a vulnerable child, cannot be forced to fit within a court’s timeline.
Learning to Sit with Powerlessness
Therapists can offer tools, education, empathy, and resources. When these help, it’s a beautiful thing. But they do not always work—or at least, not in the way we might expect.
Some children face severe mental health challenges that require management, not “fixing.” Some loved ones will continue to drink or use drugs despite interventions and consequences. For some, poverty makes daily survival the only achievable goal.
Eventually, every therapist encounters the limits of what we can do. And in those moments, we come face-to-face with our own powerlessness.
For me, this powerlessness is more difficult to endure than a child throwing a tantrum in my office or even bearing witness to the most unspeakable traumas. Accepting that, in some cases, I can do nothing—that is the hardest part of my work.
And yet, it is where I have learned the most.
When I sit with a client in shared powerlessness—acknowledging the truth of human limitation—something unexpected happens.
My need to fix, control, and rescue begins to fade. In its place, something larger enters the space. It rarely looks like a solution.
Some call it God. Others call it grace, a higher power, or simply reality. But when my clients and I accept what is—fully and without resistance—something shifts.
Grief often brings about this shift most profoundly. Many clients come to realize that avoiding difficult emotions means denying their love for what they have lost. Eventually, as painful as it is, they choose to embrace the grief—and paradoxically, this brings relief.
Sometimes, powerlessness leads us somewhere new. A woman once came to me, unable to forgive herself for a past decision. Despite our efforts, she remained stuck. Finally, she reached out to a priest, seeking guidance. His words of love and forgiveness transformed her understanding of God, healing the shame rooted in her childhood beliefs. This moment of surrender allowed her to accept her past and rediscover her faith.
Other times, there is no revelation—just companionship in the stuckness. A client with chronic depression and I learned to laugh when she sensed an episode approaching. “Here we go again,” we’d say. “Let’s buckle up.” In those moments, we found solidarity in the struggle.
The gifts that come from surrender are never predictable. I don’t know how to create them, only how to witness and allow them.
The Real Work Begins
When I feel powerless, I am grateful for a faith tradition that redefines power—not as control, but as surrender. My image of God is not that of a heroic, omnipotent ruler who swoops in to save. I follow a God who chose to suffer, who hung on a cross, who embodied powerlessness.
Over the years, I have sat with many moments of powerlessness, and they have led me to this belief: When we reach our limits, something beyond us begins to unfold. It opens us up to the unknown. It is not the end—it is the beginning.
That is when the real work begins.
