What Making Asks of Us

Writing, art, and the practice of uncertainty

‍

I get why we call therapy a practice.

I used to think of practice as something you do as an act of learning. You practice a musical instrument. You practice a skill. You practice a sport. But the longer I work as a psychologist, the more I think about practice differently. Practice is also what we do when we are repeatedly willing to enter a space where we know enough to know that there are so many more things to know.

‍

Therapy is a practice of uncertainty. And I’ve realized, so is writing.

In therapy, I can practice uncertainty with another person. I can offer, I think this is what I’m hearing, and find out if we’re headed in the right direction. I can notice a shift in their expression or tone, hear hesitation in their voice, and ask new questions to deepen understanding.

Writing asks me to tolerate a different kind of uncertainty.

I have to make my best offering, without knowing exactly what the person on the other side needs, what they will hear, or what I might have missed. Therapy says, Let’s figure this out together. Writing says, Here’s what felt right to share. I hope it finds you. And then I have to let it go.

I want you - and all of us - to feel what it’s like to have someone truly want to see and hear you. And letting myself do my best and hope that if it’s meant to be we’ll get there, is so hard. Nothing has shown my the growth I still need to do around control and uncertainty like trying to write to you like this.

‍

Therapy is a practice of deep listening.

I’m listening for the emotions and patterns beneath what clients are saying. The subtle shifts in emotion, the specific word choice, the things that sound familiar from other points in their story. The things that may be significant or unsaid.

‍

It’s a practice of layering my responses for hope.

For me, hope isn’t just a feeling that things might get better. It’s also about feeling supported enough to imagine what’s possible, and to have clear steps you can see for what to actually do next. So in therapy and consulting alike, I’m continually fostering felt safety, togetherness, and being seen, while also offering actions, exercises and steps that might deepen hope and support change.

What does this person need from me in this moment? What would be most supportive of their goals and values? What from psychology applies here? And of the many things I could offer, what might be the most helpful for this particular person right now?

There’s some comfort in knowing that I don’t have to have the perfect answer right then. First I just have to listen sincerely, make thoughtful guesses, and get more information. We are experimenting and getting curious. Therapy is a practice moment by moment of care, intentional dynamics, and growth. And maybe more importantly, a practice of being willing to adjust.

‍

Writing is a practice too.

Writing is a practice of gathering applicable information around a question, much like I would for therapy.

There are the things I remember, the things I think about from conversations I’ve had and stories I’ve witnessed, and the patterns I’ve noticed. And inevitably, the things I remember a few seconds after I finally finish the first draft. Because our minds and associations are silly that way.

But there’s a significant difference. In writing, I need to make a call by imagining the person I’m creating this for, rather than getting to create with them. When there are so many things I could share, so many areas of research I could pull from, so many findings and patterns I could combine, and so many angles or summaries I could take, at some point I just have to make a decision. This is the thing I’m going to offer. And then I have to let it go.

‍

Writing is a practice of vulnerable visibility.

You’re having a conversation with someone but they haven’t responded. They are deadpan and buffering. And you post and you wait. Writing sometimes feels like speaking to someone in a quiet but crowded room. People are listening and there’s a one-way vulnerability to it. They hear you but you don’t necessarily get to know what they think or feel about it.

Did that resonate? Was I too academic or did I not bring in enough research for their level of curiosity? Did I share enough - too much? Did they read it or get distracted after a few lines? I don’t know. We as writers don’t get to know.

Writing sometimes feels like plunging into the cold waters of scroll-voyeurism and hoping we can adjust just enough to that discomfort to enjoy the swim.

And maybe that’s part of the practice too. Offering something without knowing or being able to further impact how it’s received.

‍

Writing is a practice of offering and waiting.

When I write, I’m trying to offer an insight on a topic in a way that could be helpful to the person I imagine. But I don’t get the moment-to-moment feedback I get in therapy, consulting, or really any other way I offer support to others as a psychologist. I give one big offering, and wonder if it helps. There’s no adding something because I noticed a reaction. No pulling from somewhere else, because the person needs something different than I expected. It’s all a hopeful guess that this may help someone somewhere.

And that feels like a massive responsibility when you’ve dedicated your life’s work tot he study and service of humanity. The more I study, meet, and understand people, the more lovely and surprising we can be. There’s a softness in that. We are growing, searching, and helping one another along. And sometimes I wonder when writing - who am I to stand as a representative of such massive things?

The short answer is that I’m not. I one person who has spent a lot of time studying, listening, wondering, getting things wrong, learning, and trying again. I know some things and not others. I care deeply about getting it right.

And maybe it’s enough to be a human sincerely trying to make something useful.

‍

Writing is a practice of facing uncertainty.

There are so many things we don’t know when we offer our writing to others. We don’t know who will see it. We don’t know what they’ll take from it, what they’ll get excited about or challenge. We don’t know whether it will change something for them or whether it will grow into a conversation that changes something for us both. But choosing not to post because we can’t guarantee the outcome certainly means it can’t reach anyone.

And I’ll admit, part of me is acutely aware when I hit “post” that nothing can go wrong when nothing is offered. But nothing will likely happen either.

So perhaps writing is a practice of allowing ourselves to take a chance without resolving that uncertainty first. I don’t have to know that this piece will help you before I post it - though I certainly hope it does. I don’t have to know if I’ve captured the topic perfectly. I did my best to listen, gather, think, make and offer. And now I am trusting you to have your own experience of it.

‍

Maybe that’s why all art is a practice.

The more I think about it, the more I wonder if this is part of what makes art so vulnerable. Making art is a practice of trying to create something real and hoping it reaches someone else in a real way.

And knowing that what works beautifully for one person may not work for another. And maybe even needs to not work for another. To truly help someone feel seen, I may make an offering that feels completely wrong for someone else. To make something meaningfully specific, I have to tolerate that it won’t be universally relevant. And to make something honest I do have to accept that someone may misunderstand it. To make anything at all, we have to tolerate not knowing what it will become or how it will land.

Maybe making is all about learning to offer without knowing. Making asks us to practice uncertainty, practice vulnerability, practice listening and trying again, and practice creating something that didn’t exist before. And then eventually it asks us to let that never-quite-finished practice leave our hands.

That may also be part of why I keep coming back to making, personally. I haven’t yet figured out how to do this without uncertainty. Even now I want to go back and further edit this for fear that I’ve made too many redundancies in how I wrote it. But I keep coming back because making gives me a place to practice being human inside of it.

‍

Sending you the courage to let it leave your hands,

Dr. Jackie

‍

‍