Why I Don’t Tell You Much About Myself in Therapy

One of the things that can feel strange about therapy is how little you may know about the person sitting across from you.

You might spend an hour telling your therapist about your relationships, your fears, your childhood, the things you’re struggling with and yet, when you think about it, you may know very little about their life.

For some people, this can feel unsettling. I get it, it can feel unfair. We are accustomed to relationships having a certain reciprocity. You tell me something about yourself, and naturally, you may expect me to tell you something about myself. You share a difficult experience, and perhaps you wonder whether I have experienced something similar. You may even find yourself thinking, Who is this person listening to me? I understand that feeling.

The relative absence of self-disclosure in therapy isn't because your therapist is hiding from you. It isn't because we don't have our own experiences, struggles, relationships, or complicated histories. We do.

It's because this hour belongs to you.

Therapy is one of the few spaces in our lives where the usual expectations of reciprocity can be intentionally set aside. You don't need to take care of me. You don't need to ask how my week has been. You don't need to make sure I'm comfortable with what you're telling me. You don't need to leave room for my experiences.

The therapy hour is yours. Your grief can take up space here. Your anger can take up space. Your confusion, shame, resentment, fear, ambivalence, and uncertainty can take up space.

And sometimes, what you need most is the experience of being able to speak without having to immediately make room for someone else.

That doesn't mean I am absent from the room.

Quite the opposite.

I'm paying attention. I'm thinking with you. I'm noticing what happens between us. I'm bringing my training, experience, curiosity, and humanity into the room. I am not a blank slate, and therapy isn't meant to feel cold or impersonal.

But I am careful about what I bring forward about myself.

There may be moments when sharing something personal could genuinely serve the work we're doing together. Sometimes a small piece of self-disclosure can help someone feel less alone or make something we're discussing more accessible. But I want that disclosure to have a purpose. I don't want my story to unintentionally become part of the story you now have to hold.

Because I think there is something quite powerful about having a space where you don't have to hold anyone else.

There is also a reason for this boundary beyond simply keeping the focus on you. Boundaries create safety. They help make the therapy room predictable and allow you to know that you don't have to manage the relationship in the same way you might manage relationships outside of therapy.

If I were to share freely about my own life, it could subtly shift the relationship. You might begin wondering how I feel about what you're telling me, comparing your experiences to mine, or feeling that you need to respond to what I've shared. Even unintentionally, my story could begin taking up some of the space that was meant for yours. You can change your mind. You can be angry, confused, embarrassed, or uncertain without having to worry about taking care of the person sitting across from you.

This doesn't mean the relationship isn't real. It means that it is intentionally different. The boundary is not a wall. It is part of what makes the space yours and I consider it a privilege to be invited into these deeply vulnerable moments of people’s lives.

I get to witness people do extraordinarily courageous things in this hour.

I hear people say something they've been afraid to say out loud.

I listen to them acknowledge something they don't particularly like about themselves.

I listen to them confront a fear they've spent years avoiding.

I witness them admit that they're angry, even when they feel they shouldn't be.

I observe as they allow themselves to be vulnerable with another person.

Sometimes, these moments are subtle. There isn't always a dramatic breakthrough. Sometimes courage looks like simply saying, “I think I'm actually more hurt by this than I wanted to admit.”

Those moments matter.

Being honest with ourselves can be uncomfortable. Allowing another person to see what we usually keep hidden can be even more so.

And yet, people do it.

Week after week, people walk into a therapy room and practice turning toward the parts of themselves that they might otherwise avoid. I have enormous admiration for that.

So if you've ever wondered why your therapist doesn't tell you more about themselves, perhaps it isn't because there is nothing behind the person sitting across from you.

There is.

It's simply that, for this hour, your experience gets to be at the centre.

And I think there is something deeply meaningful about that.