Becoming a counselor requires a tremendous amount of intellectual work. We read extensively, study models of human development, memorize diagnostic criteria, practice interventions, and become fluent in ethical codes and procedures. This intellectual foundation is essential because, without it, we would not be competent or responsible professionals.
And yet, as I continue my training, I am understanding that counseling education asks for something more, something that cannot be fully captured in textbooks or lectures. It asks for the development of the heart.
By “heart,” I don’t mean sentimentality or good intentions alone. I mean the kind of human maturity that allows us to genuinely make space for another person. The capacity to sit with someone else’s pain without rushing to fix it. The ability to listen for meaning, emotion, and what is being said between the words. This dimension of the work cannot be reduced to technique, even though technique can support it.
In training, we are often evaluated on what we know: Can we conceptualize a case? Can we select an appropriate intervention? Can we explain our theoretical orientation? But in the therapy room, clients are often responding to something deeper: Do I feel seen here? Do I feel safe? Do I sense that this person can tolerate my story without turning away?
Developing that capacity involves learning to listen to ourselves, including our reactions, discomfort, defenses, and emotional limits. As we grow into the role of counselor, we learn to notice where we become anxious, where we want to rescue, where we shut down, and where our own unresolved experiences show up. This kind of learning is rarely linear, and it cannot be captured through an APA-formatted paper.
Additionally, traditional academic training rarely prepares students to process difficult experiences. How does one learn to process the emotions involved in a client’s relapse or decision to quit therapy? Intellectually, we understand the processes involved. Emotionally, however, it can still sting. It can activate self-doubt, disappointment, or a sense of failure.
Learning to hold these moments with compassion and honesty, rather than defensiveness, is part of becoming a counselor. Sometimes a client leaving has little to do with our competence and everything to do with timing, readiness, finances, or countless other factors we may never fully understand. Accepting this truth requires human maturity, not just clinical knowledge.
This same kind of maturity is also required to understand and accept the limits of our profession. Counseling is meaningful work, but it is not omnipotent. We cannot fix every problem or prevent all pain. Some clients will not improve in the ways we hope. Some will leave before the work feels complete. Some struggles are rooted in systems and circumstances far beyond the therapy room.
Recognizing these limits is a step forward in our education. It protects us from burnout and allows us to practice ethically and sustainably. It also reminds us that our role is not to control outcomes, but to offer presence, skill, and care within the boundaries of what is possible.
As a counselor in training, I am learning that the intellectual and the heart dimensions of this work are inseparable but not interchangeable. The course content gives us structure, language, and direction. The heart gives us depth, patience, and humanity. Without both, the work falls flat.
Becoming a counselor requires learning how to be with others, with oneself, and with the inherent uncertainty of human change. That kind of education is demanding, ongoing, and deeply personal. It may begin in an academic setting, but it also requires interiority, emotional growth, and sustained effort toward becoming the best therapist one can be.
I will see you next week.
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Roque Neto 