Therapeutic Fit: The Parts That Don’t Show Up

Recently, I started working with a new therapist. A part of me said something fairly outrageous. He laughed and said, “That should be on a T-shirt.”

Then I noticed him writing notes and asked, “Are you writing down the quote and drawing a T-shirt around it?” We both laughed. I had simply said what came to mind, and he joined me in the humour.

Depth and fullness

I have a dry, sarcastic side. With my previous therapist, it was much quieter.

I knew I wanted more room for spontaneity and humour, but I had not understood how the relationship was shaping what came forward. I became more open around vulnerability, shame and grief, while becoming more inhibited in other ways.

I could disagree with my therapist and bring feedback. But being able to say something is not necessarily the same as feeling free when you say it. I could speak up, but I was often tentative.

The work had depth, but not always my full range.

The clues were there

Looking back, I asked for permission quite a lot. Was it okay if I swore? Was it okay to talk about desire and intimacy?

My previous therapist had a calm, measured, gentle manner. Over time, I found myself matching that tone. I watched their reactions and became very deliberate about how I gave feedback, speaking from my own experience and being specific about the impact. Some of that was simply thoughtful communication, but part of me also experienced them as someone I did not want to hurt. I was trying not to leave them feeling attacked or diminished. Sometimes I decided not to say the sarcastic comment that had formed.

I did not fully see how much I was adapting until I noticed how differently I behaved with a new therapist. Quite quickly I thought, “Oh, he can take my jokes.”

Looking back, my previous therapist’s way of being had met my tendency to monitor, and together we had created a rather restrained relational dance. That way of being worked well with vulnerable parts, but I had also wanted us to change rhythm.

That monitoring was a subtle form of caretaking. I filtered responses and took some responsibility for how I might affect my therapist. Their softness brought out my softer side, but I was also turning down my volume.

Space and freedom

I am also starting to think about the difference between being given space and feeling free within it.

Too much space can quietly become responsibility. For me, it began to feel as though I was the driving force behind the work: deciding what to bring each session, where we should go with it and how to make the hour useful. Space that was meant to give me freedom could sometimes leave me feeling responsible for making the therapy happen.

In another relationship, a more active back-and-forth can feel surprisingly freeing. The therapist occupies their side of the encounter without taking over mine. I do not have to fight for space, but I am not responsible for filling all of it either.

Perhaps therapeutic fit is less a property of the therapist than something that emerges in the interaction between two people.

Fit is not determined by one comfortable or uncomfortable session either. Sometimes the useful information is in the pattern: what we repeatedly have to ask for, what repeatedly goes quiet, and who we repeatedly find ourselves becoming in the relationship.

Safe enough to play

Humour was only one clue. What interested me more was the spontaneity behind it. Could I have a thought and let it come out without first calculating its impact on the other person?

For me, that is becoming one marker of relational safety: whether I can stop scanning and adjusting myself long enough to simply respond.

Perhaps fullness is partly about range: tenderness, depth, playfulness and edge. I once described this as not wanting to play in the sandbox alone. I do not need therapy to become banter, but I do want room for that side of me when it naturally appears.

What this asks of me as a therapist

Clients adapt to therapists too. Our tone, humour and reactions shape what feels possible. A client may be emotionally available while also monitoring the therapist and narrowing themselves around what the relationship seems able to hold.

So I want to ask not only what a client brings me, but who they become with me. Do they become unusually careful or agreeable? Where is their anger, humour, desire, confidence or mischief? Do they quietly take responsibility for keeping the work moving?

If someone repeatedly asks, “Is this okay?”, I can reassure them, but also wonder what they are checking. Are they worried about being too much or having an impact on me they then feel responsible for managing?

Perhaps one measure of fit is not simply how deep we can go, but how much range the relationship can hold, and how much of ourselves we can bring without carefully engineering the interaction first.

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