Skip to main content

Humanised Listening


Some people are so accustomed to themselves as they are that abandoning what harms them requires a certain amount of time and effort—something that is not for the therapist to judge.

I recall a patient whose chronic pain made the periodic use of medication essential for clinical management. Yet, she was reluctant to rely on it.

Her refusal to take any medication stemmed from a fear of becoming dependent on it. She associated it with a previous experience, where it took her far too long to wean herself off an antidepressant she had used daily.

However, this was now a reheated emotion. What could have been resolved in a few follow-up appointments—if not the worst of the crisis at least—stretched into a long journey of many interventions. But, given her self-imposed limitations, perhaps that was the time she needed and was capable of allowing herself.

The most painful part of humanised listening is knowing that much of what is advised and prescribed will be ignored by the patient. Help is not always accepted. It does not always fit in the budget or in the mind.

This excessive attachment to what is at hand, to emotional experiences, creates problems because the healing process fundamentally requires detachment.

A patient may leave the consultation armed with doses of courage, tablets of patience, bottles of hope, and injections of faith. But that is not enough. It is essential to be a friend of change.

It takes time to understand the process. To break free from limiting beliefs, emotional blocks, recurring thoughts, and ambiguous feelings. To change, even if slowly, but to change nonetheless—to rediscover, transformed and renewed, the old self.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

When Shawn Mendes Became a Lifeline

When my father fell ill in his final days, the lyrics of Shawn Mendes’ In My Blood became an unexpected refuge, helping me process the reality unfolding before me. The song’s plea — its raw, urgent cry against the weight of helplessness — resonated in a way that felt almost too personal. “Help me, it’s like the walls are caving in” — those words captured the suffocating dread that gripped me in the small hours, waiting for news, hoping for a miracle I already knew would not come. The song does not offer easy comfort; nor does it deny the pain of endurance. Instead, it acknowledges the struggle — the desperate search for strength when every instinct urges collapse. “I just wanna give up, but I can’t.” That was it, exactly. The exhaustion, the emotional erosion, the moments when hope felt like a cruel joke. And yet, beneath it all, an unspoken defiance: the fight continues, not because it is easy, but because surrender is unthinkable. The grief that followed those long hours ...

The Quiet Battle of Becoming

Sometimes I write selfish pages. Not out of greed, nor vanity — no. I write them as if whispering to myself in the dark, so I don’t forget. Because forgetting is easy. The noise of the world is thick, sticky, clinging to the skin and numbing the senses. And in this blur of days, of duties, of silences swallowed whole, I must remind myself of what truly matters. Life isn’t a straight line, nor a grand revelation. It is a slow unravelling, a peeling away of what isn’t yours until you find what is. Never stop fighting, they say, until you arrive at your destined place. But what is destiny if not the place where you are most yourself? And how do you know when you’ve arrived? You don’t. You just keep moving, sculpting yourself with each step, shedding skins that no longer fit. There must be an aim, a north, a whisper calling you forward. Otherwise, what is effort but exhaustion? With purpose, even suffering holds meaning. The wind scatters those who walk without direction, but t...

The Shape of Thought

Gustav Klimt once said, “Art is a line around your thoughts.” A line — thin as a whisper, trembling yet deliberate — emerges from nothingness. It does not impose itself. It does not command. It is barely there, yet it holds. It is the first breath of form, the fragile boundary between the unsaid and the spoken. Without it, thought is a flicker in the dark, a thing half-lived, dissolving before it can be known. A vision stirs. Not summoned, not controlled. It arrives unbidden — whole yet veiled, elusive yet certain. It lingers at the edge of perception, pressing gently, insistently, against the mind’s quiet. It cannot be seized outright. To reach for it is to risk shattering it; to hesitate is to watch it dissolve. And so, the line must be drawn. But not too soon. Not too rigidly. It must breathe, as thought itself breathes, as meaning unfolds. The hand moves, uncertain yet assured, guided by something beyond logic. An intelligence older than language, something that knows ...