The Truth About Being a Therapist:

Antonietta Bruccoleri LCSW-

People often ask me, “How do you sit and listen to people talk about their problems all day?”

What they don’t see is this : As a therapist, I have the privilege of sitting with people during some of the most vulnerable and transformative moments of their lives. The connection I feel with my clients is deeply human—sometimes deeper than I’ve experienced in my personal life.

I’m profoundly grateful to be present with them in those raw, unguarded moments. There’s a sacred synergy that happens when someone is open and honest—it moves me. It reminds me that healing doesn’t just flow in one direction. Something shifts in me, too. Bearing witness to someone’s truth is the most spiritual thing I can do—for them and for myself.

In Man’s Search for Meaning, Viktor Frankl wrote:

“When we are no longer able to change a situation, we are challenged to change ourselves.”

That line stays with me. Because every time someone walks into my office, that’s exactly what they’re doing—whether they know it yet or not. They’re not just talking; they’re transforming.

Much like Frankl, Abraham Maslow believed that our deepest needs—once survival is met—are for belonging, purpose, and self-actualization. And yet, so many people walk around feeling like something’s off. They’ve checked all the boxes, done everything they were “supposed” to do, and still find themselves wondering: Why don’t I feel okay?

That’s not dysfunction. That’s a signal. A call inward.

I didn’t become a therapist because I had it all figured out. I became one because I was once sitting on the other side of the room, and something inside me whispered, You’re meant to do this.

That’s the thing about change: it rarely comes all at once. It comes in whispers. In nudges. In those quiet moments when you begin to imagine something different.

Healing isn’t always about changing your circumstances. Sometimes, it’s about changing how you show up in them.

Right before a recent trip to Italy, I was listening to a psychologist who said something that stopped me in my tracks:

“When your kids come to you and tell you something vulnerable, say, ‘Thank you for telling me that. I believe you.’”

It sounded so simple—but I felt it in my gut. Probably because I didn’t hear things like that growing up.

While I was in Italy, I was telling my dad about my travels. I mentioned how I felt a family member hadn’t treated my mother very kindly. I wasn’t attacking anyone—I was just sharing how it felt to me. But before I could even finish, he cut me off: “Don’t say that. Let me tell you why you’re wrong.”

And just like that, I was transported—back to that all-too-familiar feeling: Your perception is off. Your feelings are too much. Your truth doesn’t belong here.

That moment reminded me why I do this work to create the kind of space I never had. To hold space for people the way I wished someone had held space for me.

Because the truth is, most of us aren’t walking around broken—we’re walking around unheard.

Feelings don’t come up to make us miserable. They come up because they need to be healed. They rise to the surface to be witnessed, understood, and finally released.

So when someone shares their truth with me—when they cry, stumble, or sit in silence—I don’t see brokenness. I see courage. I see movement .I see the beginning of something sacred.

And I’m honored to sit beside them—not because it’s my job—but because it’s my calling.