Dancing with the Elephant
Elephants are a sign of our greatness—not to be avoided, but taken seriously. Dance with the elephant a bit, and notice if it helps you find your way home.
If you like, you can listen to me read these words first before reading them yourself.
Sitting with someone caught in the past facing complex problems in the present can be messy and pretty heavy—like trying to ignore an elephant in the middle of a room that everyone sees but no one wants to disturb.
We’ve all been there at times—and it’s all over the news these days. It‘s like being in a noisy restaurant where everyone is yelling; the wait staff are running around frantically, but no one is taking your order.
My wife and I wait patiently and tell each other we’ll give it a few more minutes. Finally, we get up and slip out the door—no words given or received.
It’s like we’re invisible and no one cares how we feel. At least we do—and we’re not alone. Thank God.
However, that’s not the case for some people I work with. Even though they don’t want to be there, it isn’t safe to leave. Like Oliver Twist, they were just a kid—still feeling that way at times—fearful of waking up a herd of angry elephants.
Many feel alone, and others around them feel the same way—but they’re afraid to talk about it.
Sure, you can give someone medication to slow things down and dull the pain, but that can mask the symptoms without truly addressing the problem. It can also collude with the part inside that doesn’t want to feel—not just in the patient, but in ourselves as therapists.
Some of the newer meds can open a door to the past, but without an experienced guide, the danger will still be there when they return.
Sometimes it actually makes things worse, because the person can see more clearly how bad things are—but nothing is changing. They can even feel bad about themselves for waking up the elephant they learned to ignore—wearing a badge of shame put on them by those in control, defined by what they’re not—not who they are.
When they do start to feel, their emotions can flood them—which can be addictive when they haven't felt anything for a while—or never learned what their feelings mean.
Like going to a fast-food restaurant, it’s supposed to be quick and easy, but there’s often something missing when you finally receive your order. At least you get a few extra napkins to clean up the mess—inside and out.
The way I think about it is that I‘m accompanying the person moment-to-moment—creating a safe container within and between us to do the work.
Otherwise, they can get stuck on a merry-go-round they call life. It just makes them dizzy and nauseous. Their body takes over, and eventually they don’t have a choice—and they have to stop.
Some people just want to keep talking and tell you their story—like doing so will make it change. But it can feel like going down a rabbit hole where the story keeps repeating itself and never seems to end. For some, that can feel safer—because it’s familiar—rather than connecting to their Core Self, which they don’t know as well, yet.
Leaning into my care and compassion, I gently redirect them—encouraging them to slow down, so we can both experience the feelings and thoughts caught between the lines, and in our bodies.
I stay with them and do this again and again—knowing they’re just running from the pain, and that we don’t want to bypass it or kick it out of the room.
Instead, I try to help them make room for both the pain and the transformation—differentiating what happened back then from what’s happening now. Not afraid to redirect them to the right thread. The slower we go, the faster we get there.
Privileging the experience helps them buy into the work—and stay with what’s changing and healing. Otherwise, I can go down the rabbit hole with them and collude—without meaning to. Then nothing sticks, except for my own humanness… and eating some humble pie.
That’s actually a pretty big thing—as healing comes from rupture and repair, not from being perfect.
Ever so carefully, holding onto the light within myself, we take it one thread and knot at a time, until the ball begins to unravel—the light growing brighter inside both of us. Sometimes they start to feel things they weren’t allowed to feel before—or grieve what happened to them that wasn‘t safe to talk about.
And in a breath, rocking back and forth to get in sync, they begin to feel calmer as the wounded child parts wake up in the heart of the person they’ve become.
Things start to stick as they figure out what got them tangled—and they see more clearly how to stop this from happening again.
Now, as their own internal caregiver, they meet themselves in the way they have always deserved. In this place, they feel less alone—making their life quieter, despite the noise around them, and the masked faces that bring tears to their eyes. Yet, their Core Self enables them to let in some of the light that was invisible but was always there—inside and out—and between.
That's what I do most days. I’ve been doing it since I was a kid. I couldn’t just ignore the elephant in the room. That would be like ignoring myself.
That’s not who I was, nor who I am.
The difference is that back then I felt run over at times—living in the fear of being alone. But now I don't let that happen, and try to stand in my Core Self—alongside the fear. I think of it as a dance—and we’re learning how to dance together, sometimes with me leading, other times with them—feeling the power we both have inside.
If you may, find someone you can dance with, who can help you listen to yourself and quiet the noise inside. It’s not shameful to ask for help. That’s being human. But it‘s painful when you don’t ask for it—or do, and don’t receive it. I hope you don’t give up—and try again.
Therapists need that help too. Otherwise, it isn't safe to do the work—and the restaurant eventually runs out of food, or just stops serving. You never get to sit with some friends at the local diner and share some delicious pie to celebrate your birthday—even just a couple of bites. That’s all we need—not trying to be famous.
When we don’t have that kind of nourishment, something else happens.
Don’t wait until you become the elephant in the room—starving for attention, but labeled as something your insurance company will pay for, or a not-so-kind name someone who believes they’re in power calls you.
Instead, walk with the elephant. Come out of the darkness and into the light. The little ones can wake up and don’t have to hide anymore. Oliver Twist and all the other lost children, especially Annie, can come home to a place they belong—no longer used and abused.
And last but not least, Timmy still holds a special place in my heart, hoping that he’ll be reunited with his beloved dog, Lassie, someday. I still cry when I think about that one—holding my heart so the littles know the light still shines brightly for those I have lost, who gave me so much light.
You may be surprised by how quiet it gets. The noise has stopped, and I just hear a sweet hum. Even the chilly air around you will feel warmer. If you’re not there yet, take a moment to imagine—and to feel it in your heart, and throughout your body.
Then you’ll be making your own kind of music, and singing. The light inside your heart will take you home—dancing all the way.
Just wear some good shoes and be careful where you walk. Elephants do tend to eat a lot.
And don’t forget to laugh—and cry a little too. Then you’ll know you’re really dancing with the elephant—not just surviving but thriving, and lighting up the world.
No one can take that away. That’s just who we are—and who we‘re becoming—the person we were always meant to be.
Don’t worry about me. Even if you don't see me, I’ll still be in the room enjoying the music—helping others see how each of us is special in our own human way.
Don’t wait until tomorrow. Let’s keep dancin’ together—in the light of invisibility.
Gratitude: In appreciation of those who have shared their light and sweetness with me over the years—and received mine.
Confidentiality note: Any resemblance to your own life is both coincidental and universal—reminding us that our stories echo one another in the shared fabric of human experience.
Comments or questions? Email me at mcecilvt@aol.com. Feel free to share in r these words—and this blog—with anyone you hold close or long to be held.
Dr. Cecil is a licensed psychologist, certified AEDP supervisor, approved EMDR consultant, and senior CSRT consultant. He specializes in treating complex relational, developmental, and transgenerational trauma, bringing therapy to life through heartfelt stories and images of connection and healing that emerge from the light of invisibility.