Closing the Gap Between Authenticity & Technique

One fall afternoon in Manhattan, walking to lunch with my core training instructor, AEDP developer Diana Fosha, she perceptively mentioned, “You might consider letting more of yourself show up in sessions with clients.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. To me, the psychoanalytic model I was trained in and the associated neutral, abstinent stance were inseparable, a package deal.

“Well, you could let your clients experience more of your personal self—your empathy, sense of humor, and playfulness,” she explained.

“Oh, no, that’s a very bad idea!” I responded with a touch of self-deprecating humor. “I can be judgmental, controlling, and stubborn.” In my view, my job was to apply the models I’d been trained in correctly, not bring my personal self into the room. Besides, I explained, I didn’t want to lose sight of my clinical map, because it kept me grounded and on track.

“Your map is solid,” she reassured me. “And furthermore, there’s room for the map and you.”

I wasn’t convinced, but the seed had been planted.

Gradually, I started experimenting with bringing more of myself into sessions. My work became increasingly effective and efficient. I began seeing how two modes, technical precision and authentic presence—which I’d always considered incompatible—could actually work together. Diana had seen a professional trajectory for me I couldn’t. Over time, my theoretical framework gave me the confidence to reincorporate what I’d left behind: the warmth, humor, and authentic presence that had led me to become a therapist in the first place.

Our conversation that afternoon changed how I think about therapy. And it gets at something I hear at nearly every training I lead, whether I’m teaching how to work with defenses, regulate anxiety, or deepen affect. When people feel comfortable enough to be direct, they ask a version of the question Diana helped me answer: How can I use all these techniques and still be myself in the therapy room? In fact, this question reveals a false dichotomy in our field—that you’re either technically skilled or authentic, either following a model or being yourself. The reality is that effective therapy necessitates learning to balance technical skill with who you actually are—something training programs rarely teach.

The “who you are” part of this equation is what we call POTT—Person of the Therapist. It refers to the attributes and interpersonal capacities that make us effective beyond our technical skills: warmth, ability to tolerate ambiguity or conflict, authenticity, humor, directness, flexibility, presence. In our field, POTT has an almost mythical quality, as if it were psychotherapy’s version of The Philosopher’s Stone, a legendary and rare alchemical substance believed to cure illnesses and grant immortality. But when POTT remains mythical rather than practical, clients pay the price. And so do we: in work dissatisfaction, self-doubt, and burnout.

This is why closing the gap between the concept of POTT and how it plays out moment-to-moment in our work is so important.

Over the 25 years I’ve conducted advanced psychotherapy training, I’ve noticed a pattern. By and large, clinicians fall into one of two camps when it comes to how we show up in the therapy room. Some therapists—who I’ll call technicians—favor precision, structure, metapsychological maps, and systematic exploration, just as I once did. They tend to relate in a more challenging or anxiety-provoking manner versus in a supportive, validating, anxiety-regulating manner. Technicians are most comfortable relying on “specific factors,” or the technical aspects of a particular therapy model, believing the foundation of change is the interventions themselves. Other therapists—who I’ll call connectors—tend to favor warmth and supportive presence over precision. They draw on “common factors,” meaning personal attributes and interpersonal capacities, like honesty, humor, directness, and attentiveness. They tend to favor a more supportive or anxiety-regulating manner of relating and believe change is primarily activated by genuine presence and care. They’re most comfortable attuning to emotional states and building strong alliances. Connectors believe the foundation of change is the relationship itself.

Each style has strengths and limitations. When technicians lean too heavily on their models, they risk losing out on moments of personal vulnerability and deeper human connection, which impacts the therapeutic alliance and ultimately, therapy outcomes. On the other hand, when connectors lean too heavily on validation and support to avoid eliciting a “negative” reaction from clients, they risk missing out on opportunities to challenge maladaptive behavior.

Errors of omission are still errors. A connector failing to challenge a client who needs to be challenged is just as much a “mistake” as a technician failing to communicate empathy and support. What we don’t do in sessions matters just as much as what we do. Therapy requires presence and technical skill, art and science. So how do we learn to embrace both? And when we tip too far in either direction, how do we recognize it and adjust?

Because we’re rarely taught the skill of balancing both modes in training, when things aren’t going well, technicians tend to get more technical and connectors tend to double down on support. It’s like stripping a screw by pressing and twisting harder when what we should’ve done was back off and use plyers. Which is to say, the question we should be asking ourselves isn’t whether it’s better to be a technician or a connector, it’s: how do you flexibly toggle between the two to best serve this particular client in this particular moment?

The Technician and The Connector

Let’s look at two therapists seeing different clients on the same evening. Each is entrenched in a therapeutic style that suits their preference for either analyzing or relating but limits their range of effectiveness with clients as well as their own satisfaction with their work.

“So the trigger is your boss’s criticism?” Judy, the technician therapist, asks. Her client Colin nods. “Are you open to looking at how this anxiety sequence unfolds?”

“Sure,” Colin says. “But honestly, I’m usually so overwhelmed I can’t think straight.”

“What’s the first physical sensation you notice when he’s critical?”

“My chest tightens?” Colin shrugs and glances at the window.

“I notice you’re looking away,” Judy points out. “Is exploring this making you uncomfortable?”

“I don’t know.” Colin’s eyes have gone flat. “I guess I’m afraid of getting fired.”

Judy guides Colin to challenge his automatic thought. Colin complies but seems detached. By the end of the session, she feels a familiar sinking feeling. Nothing much is changing in Colin’s life between sessions. By attending only to the model-specific content and avoiding the process between them and her own sinking feeling, Judy’s missing something crucial.

Meanwhile, down the hall, Benjamin—who’s more aligned with the connector style of doing therapy—leans toward his client Fabiola. It’s their fourth session, and she’s just shared a memory of caring for her younger brother while her mother worked double shifts at a local hospital. She begins to cry.

“Let yourself feel this,” Benjamin murmurs. “This is so hard.”

“What I don’t understand is why I’m still taking care of him 20 years later and why I always cry when I talk about him,” Fabiola says. “I want to move on and be happier!”

Benjamin, concerned about showing adequate empathy, nods, missing these comments as signals of Fabiola’s emerging awareness of a pattern that isn’t working. Fabiola returns to listing complaints about the many ways her brother takes advantage of her. Benjamin, in connector fashion, has followed her lead—listening, offering validation, trying to help her understand why her brother acts the way he does. While his focus is supportive and comforting, it explores her brother’s patterns. In this case, following the client’s lead and allowing an external focus aren’t helping Fabiola change her maladaptive patterns.

The Seasoned Therapist Myth

There’s a common idea in our field that as you gain experience, technique runs on autopilot in the background while you do powerfully transformative work just by being yourself. So a seasoned therapist might notice a client’s defense mid-sentence, track a shift in their own nervous system, note what phase of treatment they’re in, and invite exploration—all while maintaining warm eye contact and a conversational tone.

This may look effortless, but it’s a hard-won achievement based on countless hours of practice. The therapists at this level of mastery are sometimes viewed as “supershrinks.” But even here, effective use of POTT hasn’t replaced technique. The art and science have merged in a way that appears seamless when in reality, the therapist is toggling deliberately between analyzing and relating, making constant micro-adjustments. They’re being themselves, yes—but they’re doing so within a systematic protocol they’ve learned to use flexibly.

This kind of mastery is the exception, not the rule—and aspiring to it is a bit like planning your retirement around winning the lottery. Focusing on what we need to do consistently to facilitate change will serve us better than banking on the random arrival of effortless expertise. Otherwise, we’re left waiting for those rare moments of synergy where our natural inclination happens to be a good match with the client’s need of the moment.

Without a theoretical framework that provides accountability and rigor, simply being yourself is necessary but not sufficient. Some of us default to an intuitive manner of conceptualizing—what therapist Jon Fredrickson calls “folk concepts.” This natural and instinctive approach is based more on our own psychological idiosyncrasies and emotional conflicts than on clinical principles. We resort to familiar moves and rely on what feels right to us, but a highly personalized, subjective view, while warm and well-intentioned, tends to be reactive and off-track when it comes to the needs of another. It’s reflexive and lacks the objective structure and precision needed for deep change.

Part of what fuels this thinking is a misinterpretation of therapy effectiveness research. What therapist hasn’t heard about the therapeutic relationship being the most important change agent? This finding, originally called the Dodo bird verdict after psychologist Lester Luborsky’s 1975 research comparing different therapy approaches, showed no clear superiority of one approach over another, which is sometimes misconstrued as meaning techniques aren’t essential. But what it actually means is that common factors like authentic presence and kindness require the structure of specific techniques to land and support change. What’s critical is mastering your specific approach while cultivating your personal common factors.

Which raises a key question: how do our training programs prepare us to both master our craft and show up as a person? The short answer is, generally, they don’t.

Missing Pieces

Training programs often emphasize one domain at the expense of the other. As a result, many early career therapists view “the technique” and “the person” as separate when they’re actually overlapping circles—distinct but interdependent. When we train one without the other, we risk producing therapists who analyze well but struggle to connect, or connect well but feel clinically adrift.

So, what does integrating them look like? Counterintuitively, it involves returning to the basics.

After leading hundreds of trainings, I’ve noticed an interesting pattern: advanced therapists tend to forget the fundamental common factors they possessed before any formal training. Without these fundamentals as a foundation, advanced techniques fall flat. For instance, some of these fundamentals include being a good interviewer, asking for specifics in the face of vagueness, highlighting what’s happening before inviting exploration, joining with a client before challenging a defense, using a conversational manner that puts clients at ease, and being transparent to build the alliance and enhance safety. The basics don’t become less important as you advance, they become more important and more available when you regularly practice and internalize them.

And one of the hardest fundamentals to master is knowing what to do with your own reactions. Clients bring intense emotions into the room, and sometimes they’re directed at us, which can be activating. But trying to ignore or suppress what you feel toward clients doesn’t make you neutral; it makes you defensive and anxious. It’s hard to help clients navigate their own internal experience when you are fighting your own. A far better approach involves paying close attention to your reactions, letting them inform your thinking, and being judicious about what you choose to share. The critical question isn’t, Should I have this reaction? It’s, What does this reaction tell me clinically, and could sharing part of it serve my client’s goals?

In the words of psychologist David Wallin, we ourselves are the tools of our trade, and as a result, our blind spots and unresolved issues enter the room with us. Through tone, pacing, and the questions we either ask or avoid, we transmit messages about what makes us comfortable and uncomfortable. If we’re not aware of these signals, we may inadvertently condition clients to comply with our emotional preferences, potentially reenacting the very damaging relational patterns that brought them to therapy.

Here’s an example I see often in consultation. A therapist tells me a client wasn’t ready to address a painful feeling. When I ask for the signs that support this view, there aren’t any. After a brief pause, the therapist realizes that they were the one who wasn’t ready—not the client. Whatever was taking place triggered something in the therapist. Although not explicitly stated, the client picked up on this, and they both colluded to avoid productive exploration.

When we’re defensive about our own reactions and can’t access or acknowledge what we’re feeling, we tend to become intellectual, punitive, anxious, or withdrawn instead. You might think of this position as therapist at worst. When we’re able to relate from a grounded, unconflicted place and compassionately use the healthy action tendency that goes with our emotional responses while consulting our clinical maps, we get into the zone of therapist at best. In order to accurately establish what’s happening within our clients, we must first be present, grounded, and clear on what’s happening within us.

This is why paying attention to your reactions is critical. They’re as much a part of the clinical data as your client’s history or the patterns you’re observing. Your own frustration, curiosity, boredom, anxiety—whatever’s coming up—informs you and gives you choices.

I saw this clearly with a client I’ll call Deborah. After I’d pointed out patterns in the way she responded to my interventions that seemed to interfere with our work, she asked, “Are you frustrated with me?”

My gut reaction? A resounding yes.

Still, I paused and asked myself, Am I frustrated because of something happening between Deborah and me, or am I just having a bad day? I mentally reviewed our recent exchanges and felt that click of congruence, when my personal reaction matches my clinical assessment.

Rather than saying, “Yes, you’re frustrating me,” I got specific: “I am frustrated. You’ve dismissed the last three things I said without considering whether they might be useful. How long did you think about each one before deciding it didn’t apply?”

She laughed. “Not even a second!”

That precision and pattern recognition—naming the specific sequence of responses, rather than expressing general frustration—shifted us from interpersonal conflict to working together on her internal conflict about depending on others.

Paying attention to your reactions gives you information, keeps you regulated, and strengthens the alliance. It also helps you remain authentic, which is particularly important given that most clients, because they’ve been chronically invalidated in some way, are highly sensitive to what’s real versus performance. And since we spend so much time encouraging clients to explore their reactions with curiosity and openness, it’s only fitting that we do the same.

Stance and Delivery

In martial arts, “stance” is your foundational starting position or home base that you return to between specific techniques. In therapy, it’s your characteristic manner of delivery: being consistently warm and inviting, being matter of fact and direct, being gently affirming, being curious and intellectually probing.

Most training programs focus on what to do, not how to be—yet the right stance typically strengthens your interventions. We spend so much time thinking about and practicing how to intervene and so little on how we relate, when in fact, the words we use account for less than 10 percent of what we communicate.

If we’re excessively soft and gentle, demanding, intellectual, or visibly hurt by a client’s response, what are we communicating? Are we conveying ambivalence through mixed messages—warmly inviting exploration of anger while subtly tensing when it emerges? Is our rapid speech a covert way that we control what happens in the room? Does our tone imply that certain topics are off limits?

When we consider stance, we also need to be mindful of how much we’re leading versus following. When a client is anxious or defensive, it’s often useful to take a more leading stance: providing structure, being direct, addressing what’s being avoided (leaning on technician skills). If the therapist is conflict avoidant—as many connectors are—leading in this manner may be difficult. When feelings or new material emerge, we’re better off following, creating space, staying curious, letting the client guide us (leaning on connector skills). It’s a flexible, reciprocal dance between your internal experience and the technical choices you make—between leading and following, analyzing and relating.

If clients feel connected to us and motivated to do the work, the question of who’s leading matters less: you’re working collaboratively toward a shared goal. But much of the time, clients are ambivalent, both motivated and resistant to address painful material.

Toggling in Real Time

Judy the technician, and Benjamin, the connector, have each been practicing what doesn’t come naturally to them. In Judy’s consulting room, Colin is talking about his boss again, but mid-sentence, his eyes drift to the window. Judy notices a subtle contraction in her chest. Because she’s been paying attention to her own reactions, she recognizes this as a cue that Colin may be feeling conflicted or uncomfortable.

Her old instinct would have been to intervene immediately, saying, “I notice you’re looking away. Is this uncomfortable to talk about? Are you avoiding something?” Direct, technically sound, but potentially alienating. Instead, she pauses.

“Colin,” she says softly, “You were right there with me, and then … something happened. I’m curious about that.”

Colin’s eyes return to hers.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. It’s a small moment, but it’s a new place for them. He’s staying engaged rather than withdrawing. “I started feeling … I don’t know. Exposed, I guess.”

Down the hall, as Benjamin listens to Fabiola talk about her brother, he feels a familiar warmth in his chest. He cares about Fabiola and senses her pain, but he also likes being needed.

“I notice we keep coming back to this dynamic with your brother,” Benjamin says warmly. “We’ve talked about this several times now. Is understanding why he acts this way actually helping you respond to him differently?”

Fabiola looks surprised. “Not really. But I keep hoping that if I understand him better, something will shift.”

“I get that,” Benjamin says. “Understanding is important. And I’m wondering what might be getting in the way of moving from understanding to action.”

They’ve taken an important first step to addressing what’s keeping her stuck.

Doing What’s Unnatural

What we do in exploratory, character-change psychotherapy goes against the grain of ordinary human interaction. How natural is it to sit with someone who’s devaluing you and calmly respond, “It sounds like you’re really frustrated with me—can we look at that?” Not at all! But that unnatural response is part of what makes therapy therapeutic and emotionally corrective. Here’s the paradox: even these unnatural clinical responses have to start somewhere natural: with you.

Interpersonal defenses are intended to keep us at an emotional distance. Generally, respecting other people’s defensive behaviors means you’re attuned and considerate. If you inquire about a friend’s divorce and she responds curtly, it would be inconsiderate to press for more information. But with a client in therapy, you’d lean in and gently explore what she’s avoiding, what feelings are getting stirred up, what meanings she’s making of the experience. That’s part of our role, stance, and function. People wouldn’t hire personal trainers if they could achieve fitness goals on their own, and therapists wouldn’t exist if clients could resolve their own issues.

Without explicit permission to do so, pointing out others’ problems is rude. Respecting unspoken or undeclared problematic behaviors by steering clear of them serves us well in friendships but prevents us from addressing the very patterns our clients enter therapy to change. Just like a surgeon, therapists have special permission to cross conventional boundaries. It takes courage to point out the “elephant in the room” precisely because it’s unnatural. Yet doing so is often a turning point when the client realizes this is not an ordinary conversation, and the therapist will do whatever necessary to help them reduce their suffering and reach life-altering goals. Sometimes, when I’m feeling reluctant to address something difficult with a client, I ask myself, If I don’t do this, who will?

Once, one of my supervisees told me, “God, I just wish my client would shut up! He talks endlessly. It’s impossible to help him!”

“Well, let’s go with that,” I said. “What would you say if you could just express your anger directly?”

“I’d say, ‘Shut up! Just shut up, already! You hired me to help you, but you won’t let me get a word in edgewise!”

“Good,” I said. “Now shift into being a therapist and put that in clinical language.”

My supervisee paused. “Hm. I guess I’d say, ‘Do you notice how you’re talking right over me and your own feelings? How will you get the help you so desperately want if I’m not an equal participant here?”

Toggling between who you are and the technical aspects of therapy takes practice—the same way you learn tennis or the piano. You stay with discomfort, tracking your reactions without being hijacked by them, remaining present when your instinct is to retreat, attack, or defend yourself. You wait for that click of congruence, when your natural reaction and clinical reasoning coincide. Over time, you learn to analyze and relate simultaneously, sometimes from one moment to the next.

After almost three decades of practice in which I started out as a pure technician, I still take the therapy process very seriously, but now, the person I am as a therapist is the same person I am in life. I enjoy my clients more than I did at the start of my career and feel more energized by my work. The entire process of therapy—not just the moments of success—feels deeply rewarding, and I recognize the privilege of being entrusted with material that’s so consequential. What a relief to have granted myself permission to bring my authentic presence to the work while still maintaining a strong reliance on my clinical organizing map! Nothing needs to be excluded. Some days toggling between these two modes is quite deliberate and challenging: other days, it’s seamless.