Even the most attuned, compassionate clinicians hit this wall: You want your client to thrive, and when they don’t, it feels like you’ve failed.
One of the most challenging parts of doing client work is accepting that—despite our best efforts—we’re working with real people. People with agency, unpredictable patterns, and their own timelines.
No matter how effective our interventions are, no matter how clearly we hold the map, we can’t control the path someone chooses to take.
And the truth? It can feel deeply personal.
It’s not uncommon for us, as mental health professionals, to internalize a client’s backslide or stagnation. We want so badly for them to thrive, to feel relief, to experience change. And when that doesn’t happen, we often turn inward. We consult, we overanalyze, we dissect each interaction trying to pinpoint where we went wrong.
Our questions sound like:
Did I miss something?
Should I have phrased it differently?
Was my treatment plan solid enough?
We’re trying to create logic around something that, at its core, is inherently human and therefore often illogical.
Because here’s the thing: people will be people. Even if we deeply want a different outcome, they get to make their own choices. We can show up with skill, presence, and compassion, but that still doesn’t guarantee a straight line from pain to progress.
I remember early in my career, I worked under a clinical model that required therapists to label cases as either “successful” or “unsuccessful” at discharge. That was the actual language. No in-between. No nuance. It was clinical black and white.
As a brand new therapist, that felt overwhelming.
The implication was clear: if the outcome didn’t reflect progress, it was on me. I carried that weight hard, often feeling like I had failed if a client didn’t meet a specific goal or was discharged before we reached some defined milestone.
Looking back now, I can see just how much pressure that system placed on me and how deeply I internalized it.
It took a long time of reflection, support, and somatic work for me to reframe what success really means in therapeutic work.
What I know now is this: I am responsible to my clients—not for them.
And so are you.
Detachment often gets misunderstood. It doesn’t mean we stop caring. It means we recognize the boundaries of our role. It means allowing ourselves to trust the process, even when we don’t get to witness the end result. It means holding space without holding everything.
So how do we start to detach in a healthy, embodied way? Here are a few practices that have helped me:
As clinicians, your job is to show up with presence, attunement, and skill—not to control the outcome.
When you find yourself spiraling over a client’s choices, come back to this:
That’s your lane. Stay in it.
Trying to carry what isn’t yours will only leave you depleted, burnt out, and dysregulated.
Therapy doesn’t often come with a final product. There’s no certificate of completion, no instant results.
In a field so focused on goals and outcomes, we have to remember that growth often happens quietly, slowly, and beneath the surface.
Sometimes the most significant shifts are subtle: a breath taken, a moment of presence that wasn’t there before, a new way of responding to emotion.
These moments matter. Even if they’re not documented in a progress note.
When our own systems are in a state of stress or over-responsibility, we reach for control. We become overly attached to things like outcomes, structure, and certainty—things that feel soothing but are ultimately out of our hands.
The more grounded and resourced we are, the more able we are to hold space without overidentifying with what’s happening in it.
This is why I return again and again to regulation practices:
Not because they’re trendy, but because they keep me tethered to myself.
Because if our bodies are interpreting a client’s regression or resistance as failure or danger, it’s going to be hard to hold the work with clarity. But when we’re connected to our own sense of safety and rootedness, we can detach without disconnecting.
So I’ll ask you what I continue to ask myself:
The truth is, we don’t always get to see the fruit of our labor. And yes, that’s hard. But it’s also the nature of this work.
We’re not surgeons or software engineers—we don’t always get a clean before-and-after. We’re often laying the groundwork for something that may unfold quietly, later, and without us there to witness it, blooming out of sight.
That doesn’t make our work less meaningful.
If anything, it makes it sacred.
I know the emotional labor of this field is immense.
I know how much this work asks of you.
You’re not meant to carry it all alone.
If you’re ready to approach this work from a more grounded, connected, and sustainable place, I’d love to support you.
The Groundwork is ongoing 1:1 nervous system support (monthly, bi-monthly, or quarterly sessions) for helpers and healers who want to stay anchored, regulated, and resourced as they hold space for others.
The Grounded Clinician is my 8-week program for mental health professionals ready to deepen their somatic regulation, boundary setting, and embodied presence in their work.
Because your wellness isn’t a bonus.
It’s a necessity.
And your worth was never meant to be measured by someone else’s healing.
Fill out this quick form and I’ll be in touch. Whether you’re curious about a program or simply need support, I look forward to hearing from you.
Let’s get you back to what’s yours—and only yours.
Always,
Betsy
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