“He’s under our bed,” the little boy says to his mother, eyes wide with terror. It’s dark and stormy outside. The mother feels tired, helpless. By now she knows: no matter how many logical reasons she gives for the monster’s nonexistence, no matter how sound her arguments, they won’t work. Sometimes logic doesn’t apply. For her shaking son, the monster hiding under the bed is as real as the bed itself. This creature might change each time—sprouting hair all over its body, or growing a couple of tentacles—but the boy knows. Because he feels it. And for him, nothing is more real than his feelings.
I have a friend who can’t believe she’s beautiful. When I look at her, I see an incredible woman. I’m not even talking about her great personality, her style, or the twinkle in her eyes that lights up the room—she’s absolutely gorgeous. When we talk about her perception of herself and the way I see her, the logic is solid. She knows that anyone who looks like she does is beautiful. She even believes me when I say how much I enjoy looking at her. But she doesn’t feel it. The tangled web of patterns and ingrained beliefs woven through her subconscious stays hidden and protected, leaving her with no access, no way to gently untangle and let go. She’s not a child; she knows better than to be scared of imaginary monsters. But her feelings are real. And changing the way she thinks doesn’t change the way she feels.
When I think about therapy—about seeing my clients and meeting their feelings—I understand the importance of finding my own path. The sheer amount of information available gives plenty to reflect on. I used to be a big fan of CBT; my mathematically trained brain craves logic and sequences. It thrives on algorithms and proofs. That’s my way, I thought once. Until I faced the reality of working with people—and realised that for many of them, some techniques, even the science-backed ones, even the ones preferred by the healthcare system, simply don’t work. They crash against the rocky terrain of real feelings and the mysterious nature of being human.
"All emotional problems require a narrowed focus of attention and often occur not through thought, but through emotional pattern matching, just like naturally occurring post-hypnotic commands," writes Mark Tyrrell, therapist, trainer, and co-founder of Uncommon Knowledge. And I understand every single word. Yes, me—with all my scepticism and my admiration for theories backed by research and proof. Because I know the power of feelings. I’ve learned so much about neuroscience and behavioural patterns. I’ve collected countless tools, tested them all, and found the ones that are wonderful, reliable, and effective. And yet, I sometimes go to places inside myself where nothing works. Places where big feelings take over and rule my world.
I remember when I first started my training to become a counsellor and discovered hypnotherapy. No way, I thought, this thing is real. A year and a half later, I sit in my chair after another session with a client I’ve guided on a journey woven from our imaginations, walking hand in hand. I see the tears and the smiles. It feels again like an invisible string, connecting our inner worlds, bridging the gap between our emotions. I taste my own tears. And they are a sign: I’ve chosen the right direction.