Holding the pain, healing together

A patient was referred to me through an NGO supporting survivors of sexual abuse. She was a young woman whose body had been treated inhumanely. In our early sessions, she sat with her back straight, hands clenched, eyes avoiding mine. Each gesture was calibrated for safety. Her silence wasn't empty – it was filled with things too weighty to say out loud.

I haven't lived this woman's experience. But I've spent years working with women whose trauma is stored in their bodies, whose trust must be earned breath by breath. As a woman and a clinical psychologist, I have come to understand how trauma shapes presence, how survival can look like detachment, stillness, even compliance.

My role wasn't to interpret or push her story into words. It was to stay, to not look away, and to trust that something begins to shift when safety is consistently offered, not demanded. In that quiet space, healing starts. Not because I know her pain, but because I respect its weight.

Over the past decade, I have had the privilege and challenge of working as a clinical psychologist with many women like this: survivors of trauma, including sexual abuse, domestic violence, and human trafficking. I often find myself at the intersection of vulnerability and strength. I've learned to navigate these complex, painful landscapes with empathy and clinical precision. But there's a delicate balance that must be struck. As a woman myself, the weight of the stories I hear, the echoes of pain, and the impact of these experiences are never fully separate from who I am.

Psychotherapy is a space where we, as professionals, are trained to contain and hold the emotional weight of others. But no matter how skilled we are, we are also human. As a woman, the resonance of trauma in my patients can sometimes stir something deeply personal within me. This isn't simply an emotional reaction – it's often a form of transference, a psychological process where unconscious feelings and projections from both the patient and the therapist can influence the therapeutic relationship.

My sessions with that patient, like many others, reminded me that counter transference is not a detour from the work – it is the work. As a woman, I've often been socialised to carry others' pain quietly, to be endlessly available, and to suppress my own emotional reactions. But in therapy, I've learned to transform those reactions into tools.

Echoes of pain and empowerment

When I feel overwhelmed, protective, or even exhausted, I don't see those responses as failures. They're signals. They help me understand what's happening beneath the surface, not just for the patient, but also in the relational space we share. The emotional weight I carry doesn't disqualify me, it grounds me. And in many cases, it allows me to tune in to what's unspeakable, to hold what hasn't yet been named. In other words, every encounter in the therapeutic space is actually instructive and developmental for us professionals, not only professionally but also as women.

In working with women who have suffered trauma, I have witnessed how deeply these experiences reshape not only their identities but also their ability to trust others and themselves. I've worked with women who have been controlled, silenced, abused or threatened into submission by their abusers. Each woman's journey is uniquely painful, but the patterns are often similar. One woman might come in, her voice barely audible, afraid of speaking out of fear of judgment or retribution. Another may sit with me, numb to her own feelings, unable to connect with the devastation she carries inside.

Through psychotherapeutical lenses, it's clear that the trauma these women carry doesn't just reside in the cognitive mind. It is embedded in their bodies, in their ways of relating to others, psychosomatic responses and in the unconscious defenses they deploy to manage the pain. I often see signs of dissociation, an attempt to protect the self from the unbearable, shutting down parts of their emotional experience to maintain any semblance of control. The internal struggle between self-preservation and the longing to be seen and understood is something that takes time to unpack.

But what strikes me most is the strength beneath the surface. These women are not just victims, they are also survivors. Slowly, sometimes over years, they begin to reclaim their sense of self, even as they hold onto the parts of their history that are painful and complex. This is the power of the therapeutic process, it gives them the space to transform their trauma into a story that is theirs to tell, not just a story of victimhood but one of empowerment.

The emotional weight

"To be effective, what matters is not the technique,

it is you, your person,

who uses the technique." 

J. David Nasio

As a woman therapist, there are moments when the stories I hear resonate deeply, cutting beyond the professional lens. While it's one thing to listen with care and expertise, it's another when the pain feels personal, especially when the injustices these women endure are so close to my own lived experience as a woman. Hearing accounts of abuse, control, and manipulation, often perpetrated by men in positions of power, can be overwhelming.

The emotional tension in these moments is about navigating the weight of their pain and my own anger without letting it overshadow the therapeutic space. In these moments, anger, sadness, and frustration aren't just valid; they're essential. They offer insights into the power dynamics in the room and reflect the broader gendered oppression that underlies the client's trauma.

As a woman, this countertransference is inevitable. But it's not just a challenge, it's valuable. My emotional responses connect me to the patient's experiences, providing depth to the therapeutic relationship. They help me understand and empathise in a way that's rooted in shared gendered experiences. Countertransference becomes a tool to understand the patient's emotional world more deeply and to enhance the work we do together. This approach ensures that while the emotional weight is real, the emotions themselves become part of the process of healing, not a distraction from it.

Supervision and self-care

However, this power must be carefully managed. The nature of working with trauma is that, as therapists, we are not neutral observers. We are active participants in the therapeutic process.The subtle impact that hearing a survivor's pain has on me, the compassion, the anger, or even the helplessness, can colour how I relate to the patient. Without supervision and reflection, countertransference could cloud my ability to offer the best care. This is why supervision is vital at any time of our professional journey.

Supervision allows me to step back from these emotional responses and examine them from a safe distance. Even as an experienced clinician, I find myself at times overwhelmed or caught off guard by the intensity of the work. Supervision provides a crucial space to reflect on my reactions, process difficult emotions, and regain clarity about my professional boundaries. It is essential for me to make sense of what I feel so I do not inadvertently bring my own unresolved issues into the room with my clients.

I've also learned the important lesson of self-care. We cannot pour from an empty cup. As women therapists, it is easy to fall into the trap of prioritising our clients' needs over our own, but the metaphor of the airplane emergency procedure is fitting: you must put on your own oxygen mask first before helping others. If we do not take care of our own mental and emotional health, we risk becoming ineffective or, worse, burned out.

Psychologically speaking, the act of self-care is not just about rest, it's about maintaining the integrity of the therapeutic frame. By attending to our own needs, we ensure that we can be fully present for our clients. It is not selfish to seek support, whether through supervision, peer discussions, or personal therapy. Instead, it is an essential part of being a professional who can offer true healing.

I remind myself and a young psychologist I work with regularly that self-compassion is a cornerstone of our work. Taking time to reflect, to rest, and to reconnect with our own personal lives ensures that we can continue to meet our patients with the clarity and empathy they deserve. The therapist's emotional health is intimately connected to the success of the therapeutic relationship. We cannot be emotional recycling bins for others' pain if we are not actively tending to our own well-being.

An ongoing journey

The work I do with women survivors of trauma is never easy, but it is always profound. There are days when the pain in the room feels like it will consume me, but I have learned to lean into my training, my supervision, and my own reflective practices to maintain my balance. I know that my clients need me to be strong, present, and clear, not just as a professional but as a person.

As women psychologists, we contain, hold and often share that emotional weight of the women we see. I have learned that can guide a therapeutic journey that is not just theirs; it is ours too, a shared process of growth, healing, and mutual respect. But we must acknowledge the emotional and psychological impact this work can have on us, and remember that by caring for ourselves, we can offer our patients the best of us – without losing ourselves in the process.

Zeynep Yasar is a Clinical Psychologist and Author