One of the questions I get asked most often is, “What actually happens in therapy?”

For many people, the image that comes to mind is the classic Freudian scene: the client lying on a couch while the therapist sits quietly, occasionally asking, “And how does that make you feel?” It’s an image that has become almost synonymous with psychotherapy.

There is truth in that picture.

Traditional psychoanalytic and psychodynamic approaches place enormous value on silence, observation, and allowing the unconscious to emerge naturally. Rather than directing the conversation, the therapist creates a space where thoughts, memories, feelings, and patterns can surface on their own. The pauses matter. The things left unsaid matter. What appears in the room between therapist and client often tells us as much as the words themselves.

I was trained in this tradition, and I continue to believe it has tremendous value.

But I’ve also learned that it is only one tool.

Over the years, I’ve found that many clients don’t arrive in therapy already knowing how to untangle what’s happening inside them. They may know they feel anxious, stuck, angry, disconnected, or overwhelmed, but asking them to simply “talk freely” can sometimes leave them feeling even more lost.

Sometimes they need someone to walk beside them.

That is why I ask questions.

Not because I have the answers, but because the right question can help someone discover their own.

Instead of stopping at “How does that make you feel?”, I might ask:

• What do you imagine the younger version of yourself needed in that moment?
• What story are you telling yourself about what happened?
• What evidence supports that belief? What evidence challenges it?
• If that feeling had a voice, what would it be trying to protect?
• What happens in your body when you say that?

Questions like these invite curiosity rather than judgment. They help clients slow down, notice patterns, and connect pieces that may have felt completely unrelated.

I often think of therapy as exploring a dark room together. I can’t tell someone what’s in the room because it’s theirs, not mine. But I can hold the flashlight, point toward interesting corners, and ask whether they’d like to look a little closer.

That collaborative approach also means borrowing from different therapeutic traditions when they serve the client.

Sometimes that means exploring unconscious relationship patterns through a psychodynamic lens.

Sometimes it means using parts work to understand the conflicting pieces of ourselves, the part that desperately wants intimacy alongside the part that pushes people away. Rather than viewing these parts as flaws, we can begin to understand what each one is trying to accomplish.

Sometimes it’s cognitive behavioural therapy (CBT), gently examining the thoughts that may be contributing to anxiety or depression and asking whether they’re entirely accurate or whether there might be another perspective.

And sometimes, perhaps surprisingly, it’s laughter.

People are often surprised when I say that humour has a place in therapy.

Not because we make light of pain. Quite the opposite.

Humour can create breathing room. It can reduce shame. It reminds us that even in the middle of grief, trauma, or anxiety, we are still whole people capable of joy, connection, and perspective. Sharing a genuine laugh can strengthen the therapeutic relationship in ways that are difficult to put into words.

Therapy doesn’t have to be solemn every minute to be meaningful.

In fact, some of the most profound moments happen immediately after we’ve laughed together.

For me, therapy isn’t about rigidly following one school of thought. Every approach has something valuable to offer, but no single approach is right for every person or every moment.

My role isn’t to fit clients into a model.

It’s to use the models in service of the client.

Sometimes that means listening in silence.

Sometimes it means asking another question.

Sometimes it means gently challenging a belief that’s been carried for years.

Sometimes it means sitting with grief.

Sometimes it means sharing a laugh.

The goal is always the same: helping people understand themselves a little more deeply, feel a little less alone, and discover new ways of moving through the world.

Because healing rarely comes from someone giving us the answers.

More often, it comes from being asked the questions we never knew to ask ourselves.