Foundation Reflection
The Silence of Defense: From Rage to Clarity
As I think about my own process, I wonder why I have sometimes been so impatient, how easily frustrated I could become, and more historically, the deep anger I used to carry. I think that intense frustration is often suppressed anger; it really is not healthy for an adult to walk around with the tension I used to feel—how confusing this must have been for my younger self.
I view this protective layer as a heavy armor: a necessary defense mechanism that was built deep within, suddenly erupting into action when threatened. I would feel a rising heat through my body and a sudden overwhelm. There was no 'flight' response available to me as a child; it was entirely 'fight'—the unconscious script decision had been made simply to protect.
"The armor was created in early childhood as a superpower—a necessary script decision to survive a turbulent environment."
Clarkson (1991) notes that a child may take the blame in a chaotic or abusive dynamic, absorbing the turbulence within themselves. The psychological defenses were formed here: they were created as a superpower to insulate against an unpredictable and hostile early environment.
But what of the impatience and frustration that can still occasionally flare up today? Clarkson suggests that the child internalizes these chaotic emotions, carrying them into adulthood. However, I have noticed a new sensation of late; it’s hard to put a single word to it, but it feels like freedom. Where once there was a constant hum of defensive noise, there is now a space for the present. No immediate reaction, no heavy armor, just being in the moment. It feels relaxing, exciting, and makes me deeply curious about the therapeutic process. It is the movement from internal noise to moments of profound clarity.
Intersectional Reflection
Working-Class Man, Middle-Class Industry
During my clinical studies, it has become increasingly apparent that I need to consciously consider intersectionality; it is something that, in my everyday life, had often remained completely in my unconscious.
Entering my first major training seminar, my nervous system felt as though it was in meltdown; I was highly dysregulated. I made a beeline for the corner—unfortunately for me, that corner was at the front where the tutors presented. 'Great,' I thought, 'no hiding place here.'
I felt entirely out of place, yet I perceived that everyone else in the room was entirely comfortable. My thoughts that morning were racing: there are going to be trained therapists, counsellors, and healthcare professionals here. What am I doing here, a former factory worker? 'I am never going to succeed at this,' I told myself. A working-class man entering an academic space—what a massive discount to my own worth and capability.
As a working-class male entering a middle-class industry predominantly populated by females, I must navigate my own intersectional challenges, not only for my own ongoing process but to deeply understand my client’s experience. In clinical case studies, I have had to critically examine gender roles, class structures, and societal expectations. Acknowledging my own cultural framing is absolutely essential so I do not unconsciously project it onto the next client who walks through my door.
"The privilege of a lifetime is to become who you truly are." — Carl Gustav Jung
Clinical Reflection
Countertransference and the "Don't Feel" Injunction
During clinical work, a practitioner will inevitably encounter profound sadness or heaviness in the therapeutic space. When this happens, a vital reflective process begins: determining whether this emotional resonance belongs to the therapist, the client, or the shared relational field.
Understanding this through the lens of countertransference is essential. Sitting with this question—rather than rushing to an intellectual answer—allows the therapist to gather information about how emotionally charged the client's material may be, and how deeply it is landing in the room.
For a practitioner who may have historically adapted to early environments with a “don’t feel” injunction, recognizing and sitting safely with this shared sadness is a significant marker of intrapsychic change. It bypasses old emotional defenses, not by overwhelming the therapist, but by inviting a direct, embodied connection to the work.
This reinforces the absolute importance of ongoing self-awareness. It highlights how therapy can bring aspects of the therapist’s own script into awareness, and how these moments—when held thoughtfully and ethically in supervision—serve to deepen, rather than compromise, the clinical relationship. It reminds me that our own injunctions continue to be shaped and softened through both personal relationships and grounded therapeutic practice.