“Name it to tame it” has become a popular phrase among parents and those working with children. It denotes the principle that we can help emotionally overwhelmed children feel better by helping them put their feelings into words. Daniel Siegel provides an example of this principle. Bella, a nine-year-old girl, watched the toilet overflow after flushing it, “and the experience of watching the water rise and pour onto the floor left her unwilling (and practically unable) to flush the toilet afterward.” Her father later sat down with her and encouraged her to tell the story, allowing “her to tell as much of the story as she could,” and helping her “to fill in the details, including the lingering fear she had felt about flushing since that experience. After recalling the story several times, Bella’s tears lessened and eventually went away.”

Putting these experiences into words, Siegel writes, “allows us to understand ourselves and our world by using both our left and right hemispheres together. To tell a story that makes sense, the left brain must put things in order, using words and logic. The right brain contributes to bodily sensations, raw emotions, and personal memories, so we can see the whole picture and communicate our experience.”

Putting Theory into Action in Therapy

I repeatedly experienced the power of this principle during the six years I worked with children in an elementary school. After I transitioned to working with adults, I would sometimes forget the principle. I can remember a session with Mary, a 55-year-old woman who could not bring herself to leave Harlan, her emotionally abusive husband of 30 years. She had entered therapy to find the resolve to leave, something her friends and even her grown children had long encouraged her to do.

I spent the better part of the session encouraging Mary to give voice to that part of her that wanted change. She followed my lead and asserted her rights and needs. After speaking with passion for several minutes, she suddenly stopped talking and looked off into space. “I know everyone thinks I should leave Harlan, and I know their hearts are in the right place.” Her eyes fell to the ground, all the energy that had animated her just moments before now gone.

“We were basically kids when we got together. We grew up together. There’s something about Harlan and me that others just don’t understand. There’s something that I just can’t put into words.” There was a heaviness to her words. She seemed to be saying, ‘Yes, on paper there are good reasons for leaving him, but these other reasons possess a power that ensures that things can never change.’

I had given Mary the space to share her story, but she was now telling me that part of her story could not be shared. She was suggesting that this part of her story, perhaps because of its ineffability, exerted a hold over her from which she could not escape. Consequently, she felt she could not move toward the goal that had motivated her to start therapy. As the session ended, her despair seemed contagious, and I too felt that she would never be able to articulate that part of her story.

I thought about our session over the next week and couldn’t avoid feeling that I had failed her. Yes, I had empathized with her, and I think she felt that, but I had failed to give her hope. I shared my feelings with my own therapist, and she said something that reminded me of another popular principle among parents, one often described as, “the power of yet.”

I hadn’t helped Mary put words to her feelings —yet! She and I would again talk about Harlan, and she would again say that there was something about their relationship that others didn’t understand, something she just couldn’t put into words. I would add that simple, powerful word. “There’s something you can’t put into words—yet.”

Not unlike a parent, my job as a therapist is to sometimes help others find words for their experiences. Helping them find their words is not the answer to every problem, and indeed words cannot fully and adequately describe the depth of many important experiences. Yet.  

Helping clients put words to their most difficult experiences can be profoundly helpful. Mary could not describe a crucial part of her relationship with Harlan—yet. My work was to help her find those words. I thought back to my clinical supervisor’s statement that, when his clients struggled to describe their inner experience, he would ask if an image or even a color came to mind. The goal was not for them to provide a precise, granular description of their feelings at first, but to try to take steps in that direction, little by little, one word at a time.

I now had hope, and I knew I would be able to share my hope with Mary. It might take time to get there, but with my encouragement, she would vocalize that aspect of her relationship that had never before been vocalized. And when she did so, she would feel less isolated and more empowered. I did not know what she would feel empowered to do, and neither did she. Yet.   

Questions for Thought and Discussion

In what ways does the author’s message resonate with you? Not resonate with you?

Based on the readings, do you agree that the author initially “failed” with Mary?

How might you have addressed Mary’s decision to remain with Harlan?  


File under: The Art of Psychotherapy, Musings and Reflections