In his book Ways of Attending, McGilchrist (2016) discusses a difference in attention—one that seeks organization and one that any attempt at organizing subverts. A bit like Schrödinger’s cat, just by looking, it is disturbed. In differing translations of Tranströmer’s poem Prelude from 17 Dikter (1954), about the moment upon wakening from a dream, he captures the infinite possibility that slides one fully awake into a new day, and which fades rapidly back into the now-forgotten dream. He captures this as much by what he articulates as by what is left unsaid and filled in differently by our own implicit view. This is part of the dialogue of poetry, as it is the call and response of two people endeavoring to understand one another in a professional relationship of psychotherapy.

Much has been written about the right brain in psychotherapy—the underlying emotional resonance, this unique nonverbal communication that serves up, hopefully over time, a clearer understanding of what brings one to therapy in the first place. It is a goal to develop not only an understanding of self but also an utmost respect for the unique individual self that awakens to the world every day. Accepting both gifts and faults, holding empathetic space for shortcomings and even abject failures, while accepting and owning our better moments too, is more elusive than would seem rational. But we are not rational creatures, as much as this idea comforts many. We are also greatly emotional, and for those who have accurately translated the chaos of physiologic stimulation into feeling, we have a rudder.

Those who by some arbitrary rule don’t feel they have a right to their own anger, grief, or joy—feelings that are protective, celebratory, and connecting—are as vulnerable as an un-ruddered ship to winds. Bouncing around helplessly in response to anger, or expending enormous energy subverting feelings, shortens the lifespan and infects experiences with fatigue, emptiness, malaise, depression, anxiety, and more. Our ability to feel and understand our emotions, and to distinguish between ours and someone else’s, serves as a most accurate compass in our relations—casual, professional, and intimate. It lends the calm that accompanies an inner locus of reliable and trusted control, and an ability to maintain composure in provocation. And, perhaps best of all, through the power of emulation, we teach our children that they inherently matter just for who they are.

This opens space for generosity, genuineness, and meaningful connection, and it protects us from the anger of others who cross our paths. It protects us from succumbing to the distorted perspectives of those who comfortably say things out of alignment with their actions, who attempt to shed their shame into anyone willing to absorb those feelings. The ability to recognize and marshal this is when the work of therapy can be said to be done. This begins the formal work of termination, grieving the ending of an internalized and close relationship now ending in real time.

We are all vulnerable to projection, projective identification, and to repressing and suppressing feelings. There are those who don’t actually recognize feelings as they arise. Some learn to deny feelings that are equated with weakness or thought to reveal poor strength of character. Medicine specifically teaches us to compartmentalize our grief and sadness even as we are chronically exposed to the suffering of others. But it doesn’t teach us to create space for these at a later time, and this robs us of our meaning and an essential part of ourselves and our identity—who we feel ourselves to be. We cannot be effective healers over the long term if we cannot face and embrace all of it—my patient died, my patient suffered, my patient is suffering. Because to be effective, as obvious as it sounds, we have to open ourselves to caring. This is partly a right-brain phenomenon, difficult to articulate, our fingers left grasping at mist evaporating into what we hold dear but can never adequately say with words. Like that moment upon awakening, suffused with possibility that we release with our dreams at the start of the day.

Maire Daugharty is an anesthesiologist who expanded her expertise by earning a master’s degree in clinical mental health counseling, merging her long-standing interest in mental health with her medical background. As a licensed professional counselor, licensed addiction counselor, and licensed marriage and family therapist, she brings a well-rounded perspective to her private practice, where she works with adult individuals and couples on a wide range of concerns. In addition to her counseling practice, she continues to work part-time as an anesthesiologist and has a deep understanding of the unique challenges faced by clinicians in today’s medical landscape. To learn more about her practice, visit Physician Vitality Services.