Some parts of training don’t appear on any timetable. They move quietly in the background, in moments that are hard to name. A look that lingers, a silence that holds its own shape, a sentence that changes the air in the room.

Personal therapy can be one of the places where these moments gather. There isn’t a single way for it to unfold. Sometimes it might feel clear; sometimes it wanders. Sometimes it might feel like nothing at all until much later. Each meeting carries its own tempo, its own way of breathing.

In that space, the language of the work begins to loosen. Ideas from books and seminars start to live in another form, not as theory, but as felt experience. Noticing what happens inside when someone listens, when a word lands, when a memory stirs and the body shifts almost imperceptibly. Nothing in this seems linear. It doesn’t point toward mastery or arrival. If anything, it seems to widen the field, to perhaps remind us that knowing has many textures, and that some of them have no words at all.

A therapist’s training might last many years, but the deeper education goes on quietly, long after the certificates are framed. It continues in the quality of attention given to another person, in the patience to let silence speak, in the willingness to stay with what is unclear. Personal therapy can be one way of tending that attention. It doesn’t create it, but it keeps it alive, a thread of presence that runs through the whole of the work.

And perhaps that is all that can be said. The rest belongs to experience itself, to the quiet between two people, to the listening that continues long after words have gone.

“We’re fascinated by the words — but where we meet is in the silence behind them.” — Ram Dass