A clinical conversation need not be long or detailed to be memorable. A singular thought, a phrase, even a word can have a profound effect—for better or worse.

For a conversation to land, I think it needs to have both meaning and emotional impact. So what might that look like? Let me give you an example from my own history, and then we can unpack it.

When I was newly out of graduate school, no older than 23, I had my first analytic supervision.

Contrary to popular belief, my analytic supervisor was warm, engaging, creative, and bright as hell. It helped that we met in his home office in Greenwich Village, with floor-to-ceiling windows that allowed sunlight to fill the room, a fireplace, and even a little dog running back and forth through a small door within a door designed just for him.

I was eager and naïve in many ways, but dedicated to learning as much as I could about the field I was just entering. On one occasion, I asked my supervisor what he would suggest I pursue to help me become the best therapist I could be.

His answer has stayed with me and became a lesson I have used in supervision and teaching for all these years.

He told me to read all the Freud I could.

Even then, I knew Freud's collected works were extensive—the Standard Edition alone was twenty-four volumes.

After telling me this, he hesitated. And in that hesitation, I felt overwhelmed. I thought to myself:

‍ ‍

There's no way I can read all of those volumes. And even if I did, what am I supposed to do with it?

From his side of the hesitation—which, I came to understand, was quite intentional—he took note of my distress.

Then he suggested that after I read everything, I should forget it.

Not surprisingly, I was intrigued and confused at the same time.

He went on to offer an important lesson:

‍

Whatever I remembered from all that reading would likely be what was most important to the therapist I would become.

This “analytic gift” was offered with a light, humorous touch that softened my superego expectations. And what he offered me that day has proven true. That brief exchange led me to consider many theories throughout the years and to retain what was most meaningful to me, both as a person and as a therapist.

Now, let me be clear. I'm not suggesting everyone read Freud.

My point is: read.

Read and read some more. And then distill what you're reading into a useful, personal way of thinking that guides your therapy.

Let me offer another example from that same supervision.

I was anxious and embarrassed to acknowledge how uncertain I felt in treating a particular patient. After I disclosed my discomfort, silence filled the room.

Then he said simply:

‍ ‍. “You know, in my experience, therapy is most helpful when one of the two

participants is not too anxious.”

He paused before adding:

‍ ‍. “It is probably even more helpful if that one person is the therapist.”

What I took from that encounter was the recognition that, to be effective as a therapist, I needed to steady myself before saying something or offering an intervention.

Remember, this was 1972, when analytic psychotherapy was very much a “one-person psychology,” where the focus was on what the patient was experiencing—not the therapist.

Again, his observation was offered with a smile and a gentleness that allowed me to begin discussing the dynamics being played out in my therapy office rather than simply feeling ashamed of my uncertainty.

I don't think there is a single supervision I have provided in which I haven't offered some version of this same lesson.

For me, it became true north.

But we all need to find our own way there.