A place to speak

Two chairs. Two presences. Between them, a tacit pact: not to flee too quickly from what arises.

One speaks, the other listens — but it is not a conversation. It is a work of echoes, of subtle shifts, of hospitality offered to what had not yet found words.

The psychologist is not a guide in the traditional sense. They hold no map. Rather, they carry a lamp — discreet, fragile, at times flickering — that casts light on the blind spots of the narrative. They do not show the way, but make visible what was already there, unseen by the inner eye.

They do not analyze like one disassembles a machine. They weave — from fragments, silences, slips of the tongue. They follow the thread of what resists, what repeats, what trembles.

They listen to words, but also to their texture, their rhythm, their reticence. They hear the phrases, but also the gestures that contradict them.

Between patient and therapist, a third space is formed — neither entirely one nor the other: an invisible laboratory where wounds can be laid down, defenses can rest, and hidden truths may surface in a new light.

What unfolds there is often slow, sometimes imperceptible.

It is not about “fixing” the other, but about helping them rewrite themselves — with less fear, more coherence, more flexibility. In other words, to reconnect with those fragments of self and story that have long spoken without being heard.

The psychologist offers no ready-made answers — they welcome complexity without simplifying it, pain without judging it, contradictions without forcing them into resolution.

They remain — even when the story is heavy, tangled, chaotic. And this steadiness, this unobtrusive presence, is sometimes already healing in itself.

What do they do? They offer shelter to someone’s enigma.

And sometimes, through patience and attunement, that enigma allows itself to be touched.

Not to be solved, but to be acknowledged.