It’s a Good Day to Be a Therapist

Marc D. Richter, LICSW, LADC
Aug 28
3 min read

As a therapist, I hear every day about people’s emotions, experiences, and struggles. Clients share their disappointments and triumphs, their failures and victories, both large and small. We bear witness to loved ones lost, homes destroyed, lives regretted, careers shattered, and families divided. The truth is, being a therapist isn’t easy — and most of us won’t talk about that part, at least not at dinner parties. Shielding others from the weight of what we hold often comes with the territory.

Still, we also carry the privilege of witnessing moments of breathtaking clarity, resilience, and growth. We’re invited into some of the most intimate human experiences — raw, painful, and beautiful. But in general, clients don’t tend to save their happiest moments for us — and that’s just fine.

The Weight of Intimacy

The other day was one of those days at the office when I left knowing I had truly earned my keep. One of my clients was in a particularly dark place. His ego had gotten in the way, and his actions unintentionally caused the loss of something precious to him and his family. Again, he had let them down. They were angry — rightly so — and let him know with some sharp words.

He sat with me weighed down by guilt, shame, grief, and sorrow, all of it mixing into a pool of self-hatred. Once again, he tried to bury those feelings in the bottom of a bottle.

But alcohol never takes the pain away. It only numbs it briefly before throwing it back twice as hard. He knew this intellectually — he knew drinking solved nothing — but the rawness of once again hurting his loved ones was overwhelming. Sobriety, as we’ve worked on together, requires learning to sit with painful emotions rather than running from them. But some days he isn’t ready. On this day, he just wanted to leave — to “get away” and visit his brother down south.

Geographic fixes sometimes give temporary relief, but you can’t run away from yourself. Still, I understood his desire to give his partner the space she had asked for as she left that morning in tears. I also understood his aching need to escape. But I was mindful that he had been running from intimacy for much of his life.

He assured me he was not suicidal. I believed him, though I reminded him that suicide doesn’t end pain — it only spreads it, transferring it to those left behind. He nodded, said he understood, and again promised he was safe. But his words spilled out raw: he was tired of being the hurtful one, tired of being “a shithead.” He just wanted to get out of town, to “feel life” — and to do it sober.

What I Said to Him

Before he left, I said:

Of course you feel like a shithead. But maybe what you’re really afraid of is intimacy. Like all of us, you long for it, but you also fear it. There’s intimacy in anger — in your own, and in the anger your family feels toward you. Living life on life’s terms means feeling it all: the good, the bad, and the ugly. That is life. Running from it only lands you farther away from intimacy.

You may still take that trip south, but as you sort through this, make sure you don’t lose the opportunities for closeness with your family. Hear them out. Listen. Recognize them and what they reveal to you. Most of all, see them. All of us — with all our naked feelings — need to be seen, witnessed, and acknowledged. Do this, and I promise your soul will begin the process of healing.