When Your Client Prefers Chitchat

Sometimes, we can feel as if our clients are talking about things that aren’t relevant to whatever brought them to therapy. Whether the topic is the weather, rising interest rates, or the latest celebrity gossip, these conversations can seem to run on too long, go nowhere, and suck up time we’d rather spend getting down to the real work.

As someone who’s been teaching and supervising other therapists for decades, I often hear about such clients from my students. “My client just wants to talk about surfacy stuff,” they say, or “I feel like we’re just chatting and wasting time.” These clients are articulate and capable of self-reflection, but they seem unwilling to do the deeper work.

Over the years, I’ve encountered this situation with clients myself. It took me a while to learn that, although these clients seem to be talking about nothing, there’s often something deeper at play. I’ve learned that sometimes it’s not a matter of steering the conversation in a different direction, but of looking differently at the conversation that’s already happening. Often, what seems like nothing can be deeply significant.

Heinz Kohut, the psychoanalyst who developed self psychology, once said that clients sometimes need to talk at their therapists, rather than with them. We become what Kohut called a self object, helping our clients simply by listening openly and nonjudgmentally, with no other agenda. If we’re patient, valuable therapeutic work unfolds.

Kohut was right: when we check our frustration and stop trying to move clients away from subjects that feel important to them and unimportant to us, we often learn something critical about them, and they learn something about themselves. And when we recognize that even small, seemingly insignificant details are significant, therapy becomes enjoyable and meaningful. Such was the case for me with my client Brie, who taught me, in time, to let go of my assumptions about the kinds of topics therapy should focus on and embrace conversations about “nothing.”

The Hamster Wheel

Brie and I had been working together for several months. She was timid and introverted—traits she believed prevented her from finding a boyfriend and getting a promotion. At first, we had fruitful conversations about self-confidence and her desire to move toward these goals, but then our progress stalled. She’d start our sessions by plopping down on my couch, staring blankly into space, and telling me she had “nothing important” to talk about. When I asked whether she’d thought about some of the confidence-building strategies we’d brainstormed in earlier sessions, she’d shrug. “Here and there,” she’d say, without giving much more detail. “What sorts of things did you try?” I’d ask. “I don’t really remember,” she’d reply. Our work felt like pulling teeth.

One day, I asked her to tell me what had happened in her life since our last session. Surprisingly, this time, she perked up.

“Oh! Have you ever seen the TV series Survivor?” she asked. I told her I hadn’t.

“It’s a game show where people are stranded on an island and have to do all sorts of crazy tasks to stay in the game. I spent the weekend binge-watching it. You should watch it too. It’s great.”

Then, she added something else: “I think it’ll help you understand me.”

I was thrilled that Brie finally had something she wanted to talk about.

“I’m happy to watch a few episodes,” I said. “Why do you think the show feels so significant to you?”

Brie shook her head. “Just watch it,” she said. “I can’t explain it.”

I asked Brie to tell me about the most recent episode, hoping this would help me pinpoint something that had stood out for her. She proceeded to retell the episode in excruciating detail—and cut me off whenever I asked a clarifying question or attempted to comment about some possible connection to her real life.

Soon, I began to feel sleepy. How could something so important to her be so boring to me? I wondered. Not everyone can tell a good story, but if this show was so important to Brie, why didn’t her description have any emotional resonance? Why did it feel like “nothing” to me? What was I missing?

As our session ended, I thought about the advice of a long-ago supervisor, who said it was important to tell a client something about themselves in every session. It didn’t need to be earth-shattering, just a comment that might give them something to think about and let them know you’d seen them.

“This show and these people are really important to you,” was all I could muster. I hoped that was enough.

Panning for Gold

In our next session, I told Brie I’d watched some of the show. What I didn’t tell her was that my suspicions had been confirmed: I hadn’t found the series engaging, nor had it given me any insights about Brie. “I’d like to know, though, what makes it so meaningful for you?”

Brie frowned, looking annoyed, and then recapped the unexpected plot twists of episodes I hadn’t seen.

I felt my heart sink. Am I a bad therapist for letting her ramble on about a show? I worried. Every time I try to find a foothold or dig deeper, she gets annoyed with me!

Then, I remembered a moment from my own therapy, years earlier. “I had a pretty boring weekend,” I’d told my therapist. “I didn’t do anything, so I don’t have anything to talk about.”

“When you say you didn’t do anything over the weekend, what does that mean?” he’d asked. “Did you sit and stare at the walls? Did you sleep all day? Did you watch television or read?”

“No,” I’d laughed, “I didn’t sit and stare at the walls. I read a couple of dumb books, watched a couple of mindless shows, and talked to my mom on the phone for an hour.”

Interestingly, he hadn’t asked about the conversation with my mother—where I expect many therapists would’ve gone. Instead, he asked about the books and TV shows. He was curious about the plots, characters, and stories. I don’t remember what I’d been reading or watching, but I do remember being embarrassed that they were silly and worrying what he’d think.

“Your books seem like comfortable friends,” he’d said.

In that moment, my whole body had relaxed. A tension I hadn’t even known was there lifted. In a roundabout but significant way, his observation led to the first of many discussions about my lifelong shyness, something I’d struggled to overcome. Books, as he’d ascertained, were comforting friends to a young woman who felt awkward around her peers.

This line of questioning was my introduction to the concept of detailed inquiry, a phrase coined by psychoanalyst Harry Stack Sullivan, who used it to describe the process of encouraging clients to talk about the smallest, simplest details of their daily life. In his view, a close examination of the apparently mundane was a key that could open the door to a client’s inner world.

I often felt as if Brie was talking about nothing, but from her perspective, she was talking about something important—something she wanted me to understand without having to explain it. She’d shared valuable information when she said she couldn’t explain what she found meaningful about the series. Perhaps she didn’t know how to explain it. Regardless, the question wasn’t how to help her talk about something other than the show, but how to find a way to help her talk about details that made the show important to her.

I decided to start our next session differently, by asking about some potentially important moments I’d noticed while watching the show. I hoped that, in addition to showing Brie that I did have some interest in the series, I’d be modeling how seemingly insignificant details could be entryways into larger issues.

“Brie, would it be okay if I asked you about some things I was curious about while watching an episode, just to see if any of it resonates with you?” I asked. “I’d just like to be sure that I’m getting what you want me to get from it.”

Brie nodded, though she looked a little doubtful.

“It seems like the contestants are doing hard and scary things at the same time they’re being asked to do very unimportant stuff, like when they have to balance on a tightrope over a rushing river—which seems scary to me—and then balance tiles on a machete—which seems a little silly to me—and then quickly sort out those tiles to spell out a secret code, which again seems challenging.”

“Yes,” Brie replied, “but they’re working toward a goal.”

“That makes it all worthwhile,” I said.

“I think it’s the most important thing of all,” Brie replied.

“So does that make the small things as important as the big ones?”

“Yes, exactly,” Brie replied. “How do they keep going when things get really boring or really hard? What do they do when the other contestants they’ve bonded with get eliminated and sent home, or when they’re afraid that they’re going to get sent home?”

Suddenly, I felt wide awake. “That’s the key,” I said. “How do we keep going in the face of danger and loss?”

Brie opened her mouth, looking as if she might say something else, but then she stopped. Was she about to make a connection to her own life?

“Can you say what you were just thinking?” I asked.

“It was nothing,” she said flatly before continuing to talk more generally about the show. I wondered whether she’d shut down because I’d gotten too excited or because I’d focused too much on painful emotions. On my ride home, I realized that Brie had needed me to stay with the small details. It seemed she still wasn’t ready to explore the more difficult emotions tied to her own fears of rejection and loss.

In a detailed inquiry, it is possible for the client to consider painful situations without getting too sucked in. I realized that if I had stayed with the smaller details of the show—maybe by asking more about the contestants balancing on the tightrope, for instance—I might’ve learned more about what Brie thought the contestants were worried about, giving her an opportunity to discuss her own feelings from a distance.

A Turning Point

Brie and I spent most of the next five sessions talking about the series. I was no longer watching it, but I was engaged with her descriptions of the unfolding story. Gradually, she began to talk more about what she considered to be small but meaningful interactions among the contestants, details I believed were somehow connected to Brie’s emotional world. I seldom got sleepy, though each time I tried to make a connection between the show and some aspect of her personal or emotional life, she’d shut down again, reminding me, nonverbally, that I needed to go slower. Sometimes we moved so slowly that I wondered where we were going, or whether this was really therapy. I didn’t know it yet, but Brie’s life outside of therapy was changing, as was her ability to wrestle with her own feelings.

One day, Brie started our session very differently.

“I want to talk to you about something,” she said, taking a seat on my couch. I wondered whether she was ending therapy with me since, as far as I knew, her life wasn’t getting any better.

“I got offered a promotion at work,” she said, beaming. “My boss is very happy with how I’ve been doing.” Then, she paused.

“I want to accept it,” she said, “but I’m scared. I feel like I’m getting ready to jump off a cliff.”

I wanted to jump out of my seat and start cheering. Something was changing for Brie, in her life and in her ability to pay attention to and talk about her feelings. But still, I knew I needed to move slowly and let her lead this conversation.

“Wow,” I replied. “Well, first of all, congratulations on the offer! And second, do you want to talk about the scared feelings?”

“I don’t,” she said. “But I know I need to; I’m scared of failing, of making a fool of myself.”

“It’s hard to talk about these feelings,” I said.

Brie nodded.

“Do you think it might help if we talk about how these feelings show up in Survivor?”

Brie cocked her head to the side. “You know, what I love about the series is how real people cope with scary, overwhelming situations. They struggle, and sometimes it’s ugly or embarrassing, but they keep going. Eventually, somehow, they get out of bad places.”

Now we’re getting somewhere, I thought to myself. Finally, Brie was beginning to articulate how she felt, albeit in a more roundabout way.

Over the next few weeks, Brie and I spent time considering scenarios where she might mess up in the new job and how she could navigate a gaffe, misstep, or mistake. She’s trying to work something out, I reminded myself, and she needs me to be with her without telling her what to do or think.

When Brie finally accepted the promotion, I asked her what had helped her decide.

“Talking about it with you helped,” she replied. “By chatting about Survivor, I realized I wanted to be like the people on the show, to find the courage to move forward even when I stumble or don’t do things perfectly.”

Inviting her to go deeper and talk about her shyness and goals was something I’d felt I needed to do. But for Brie, slowing down, letting go of my agenda, and paying attention to what interested her was perhaps the most important component of our work.

As much as we might want our clients to get to the finish line faster, we need to be present with them while they figure things out on their own. Our clients are always communicating with us, even if they’re doing it indirectly. If we trust that seemingly insignificant details are important and pay attention to them, eventually, insights will follow. The truth was, Brie had never been avoiding hard subjects; she’d just been facing them in a way that was manageable to her. She went deeper when she was ready. My job had been to stay engaged long enough for both of us to figure out what she was talking about.

Case Commentary

By Janina Fisher

Barth’s article is a breath of fresh air! It speaks to the implicit judgments and biases held by most therapists: that we can’t help clients heal if they don’t access painful past emotions, so we feel blocked when they’re just “chatting.”

Barth’s advice to us—slowing down, letting go of our agenda, and paying attention to what interests the client—is key. When we do that, clients feel valued and respected. Hungarian psychoanalyst and clinical psychologist Peter Fonagy says the therapist’s first task is to communicate interest in a way that supports the client feeling understood. That’s what Barth did when she and Brie began talking about Survivor. Had she tried to lead Brie back to the “deeper” issues, their alliance wouldn’t have developed as it did. By following Brie’s lead and delving into what the television show meant to her, Barth spurred a gradual, organic transformation.

I remember a client from years ago who became mute if the conversation deepened, even slightly. She could talk about her job, her relationship with her partner, and her children, but anything more would paralyze her into silence. After weeks of trying to do more, I chose to accept what we could do instead of struggling to do what we couldn’t.

My client had a stressful job in public service that was often triggering, as was the experience of raising children. Her partner was supportive and patient, but traumatic attachment had made tolerating closeness challenging for her. We worked for many years together and could only discuss things on the surface, like the practical issues and struggles common to all parents, of which there are many, so we had a lot to talk about. I know our work helped her hang in there through it all.

By the time she “graduated” from therapy, she had a stable marriage, loving relationships, and a career she was passionate about. She was stable and content. But did we ever process her trauma? No. She could tolerate it being acknowledged and forgive herself for struggling so much, but the paralyzing fear associated with emotions and memories connected to the trauma didn’t allow for more. Is the goal of psychotherapy to increase our clients’ well-being and quality of life, or is it to process traumatic and distressing legacies of childhood? I think Barth and I are in agreement on the answer.