Transitions
If you’re uncertain of who you are or where you land, this is an invitation to gently notice the light that emerges in transitions—keeping us on our path, and guiding us home.
To be listened to, read quietly—individually or together.
Dealing with transitions is one of the main reasons I hear from those seeking psychotherapy—or already there—trying to find their path, therapists and non-therapists alike.
As usual, I ask myself what this means, which I also ask those in the room, wherever that may be.
To me, it says that sometimes it may look like we all have a hard time dealing with change—and we might even meet the criteria for a mental disorder. But in fact, this is life, a part of our transformation—what it means to be human—which can be easy to forget these days.
I think it makes the most sense to say that healing isn’t a straight line going up but moves in many different directions—even down. Nothing changing can be change, too, especially if there’s been a lot of fluctuation before and you’ve been doing better for a while—or not at all. It all depends on the context and where you’re sitting in the room.
Living in Vermont is like all the seasons of our lives—always changing, but ever consistent throughout. I love the warmth of summer, the letting go of fall, and the sacred stillness of winter.
And then, finally, the aliveness of Spring—forecasting another new beginning as the circle of life continues to slowly rotate—the landscape and portrait always evolving inside and out, settling into another new pattern.
The renowned child psychologist, Jean Piaget, calls this assimilation and accommodation—helping us understand how children think, not just what they know. I think this also applies to adults who have experienced trauma, as well as those who live or work with them.
Experiencing change can bring about a new normal, even though it may meet some resistance along the way. Despite what you may hear, it’s not as easy as putting a label on some symptoms and popping a pill. When you stop to think about it, our nature seems to have a different way.
If a child part is stuck in past trauma, it’s quite helpful to have an experienced therapist in heart to help you in the present, so you can remember who you are in your Core Self—and who you’re becoming.
I used to think: some new patients are pretty straightforward, just facing some new challenges in their lives. Now, I try hard not to make that assumption—and instead think of it as a transition that is a necessary part of change and transformation—a healing that sticks.
With my courage on board, I dig a little deeper, asking what they have internalized about themselves—and when it started. Some will give me a specific age or event, like the birth of a new baby or starting a new job—or retirement—and then a marital split or the loss of a loved one.
We all have our own list. No one is immune; we each have our own way to protect what’s most tender.
When I inquire further, I usually learn that there were other transitions where they felt the same—many going back to childhood—choice points that helped us survive, but we weren’t always aware of.
They may be ones we haven’t thought about for a while—or sometimes think about too much—linked to old fears and low self-worth that shaped how we learned to meet the world.
Like solving a complicated murder mystery, I think about the missing piece or link. What seems out of place. What aren't they telling me that would be important to know—and what am I assuming to be true? The assuming is a killer—just like a bad dad joke when my kids say, “You’re trying too hard, Dad.”
Even though my family might shake their heads, I put on my “Columbo” hat and dig a little more. Rubbing my sandpaper face, I scratch my thinning gray head of hair and play dumb—which comes pretty naturally these days.
Nevertheless, I find my voice and boldly ask, “If you say that you’re having difficulty dealing with transitions, can you think of a time when you weren't dealing with change?”
Some people will open their eyes wide, like a deer in the headlights. Others start to look calmer, like they‘re starting to see the light. Some just look down and swallow.
Many do all of these, with transitions that happen in the blink of an eye and without any particular reason—reflecting a lifetime of unpredictability and change, an old normal that’s difficult to shift.
All of these cues give me a clue, and as Bessel van der Kort says—the body keeps the score.
Looking closer, moment to moment, I sometimes notice my patients rocking back and forth, or their eyes darting side to side, and then abruptly stopping, as they open wider.
There’s always something—like a tell in a game of poker, you can usually tell if they’re covering up or holding the cards they say—even when they don't know it yet themselves. Without hesitation, not waiting for their recognition, I softly state, “Something seems to be happening inside.“
Often, there is silence—another transition.
I pause to hold them with my compassion and light—which seems like the right thing to do when there’s a shift toward their Core Self, and the light enters the room.
Other times, I promptly hear the words, “nothing’s changing.” Depending on how they say it, that usually tells me they’re hiding something—and are blended with a wounded child part inside.
Being careful not to assume or lead too much, I sometimes think that it might help to look back to see forward, gently asking, “Let me say it a different way. Was there ever a time when you didn't feel bad about yourself?”
Then, the dots start to connect. I can usually see it on their face and in their eyes. Waiting patiently, saying less than more, the floodgate opens, then a river of tears—catching them with a tissue, or nothing at all.
Opening their eyes, the light arrives to do the rest. The words come next or just silence—a sacred pause. Then, without notice, they often remember a season or time long ago that had been lost but not completely forgotten.
I lean in and say, “Just give that part some space that needed to hide. It had to survive back then by not saying what they felt, but now they know they are you, the person they’ve grown up to be—who has always deserved to be loved. You both know that the littles live in your heart where they’ve always been—and you, their adult, are driving the car.”
In unison, like we’ve practiced for years, we say, “That's where I belong… I do belong.”
In the moment, taking a deep breath, I reflect on how therapists go through transitions, too. I've gone through many, and now, in a later season of my life, coming closer to another new beginning, I help other therapists face their own.
Although we all have our own ever growing file of lists, one of the most common is moving from a community mental health or school setting to practicing independently. What this means for many is that we’re becoming more autonomous—our courage and vulnerability coming along with us.
That doesn’t require leaving a location, but being in the place we need to be. We help foster it in our patients—but that’s who we’re becoming as well.
We’re all getting older, but being a therapist who practices independently is not a dying profession—far from it—no matter what you hear from those who think they know, but may at times convey something else.
Start working with an independent therapist—or be one yourself. Or, if you’re just a witness, appreciate those who do, regardless of whether they work in a solo practice or as part of a group.
And sometimes the work is simply staying—more fully—where we already are.
Moreover, look for the one who works experientially and doesn't want to just label you or put you in a box based on your symptoms. But instead, helps you embrace your differences as possibilities, not barriers that hold you back. That's the light inside that you know to be true—and are beginning to discover once again, or for the first time.
You never know—it might be a transition that will be life changing for yourself and all those you touch with your heart—alongside the many they hold close to theirs. You see, we may practice independently, but we’re never alone—those we work with spreading the light to others in need.
When things are dark—inside or out—try to trust the process and remember: just because we are moving forward, doesn't mean others are with us. Our change is likely to stir things up for them.
No fear, that’s just another transition, which can be a resetting—a painful truth, but still moving forward in the direction of separation and individuation, just another opportunity for more assimilation and accommodation—a change that can truly stick.
Many blessings to the little ones inside. May all our transitions lead to further transformation and growth—an ever deeper, lasting healing.
Transitions don’t mean we’re lost—or refer only to gender identity change. It's much bigger than that. The path may look a little different for each of us—but we’re still on it together.
The light of our Core Self is helping us stay steady, guiding us home through the transitions and seasons of life—becoming the person and people we were always meant to be.
If we follow our light, we learn new ways of healing that help us know ourselves better—and then develop our own.
The same goes for our patients and others in our lives. It’s best not to judge by giving them a name written in indelible ink, but to help them fill in the gaps in their learning—by connecting to the way their Core Self views the world, along with some new skills that work better now.
Feeling the power of change within us, focus on keeping things simple and experiential. It will help the work stick when life gets complicated and messy. That’s the bottom line—which is also our growing edge.
So glad to be on this journey with you.
Let’s keep walking in the light of invisibility into the New Year and beyond, a blessing to all, knowing we’re home again—in silence, but never alone.
Home isn’t where we’ve been. It’s our bodies knowing we belong and are loved—now and forever true.
The silence is love. In that place, we know we belong—and are home.
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 or others 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 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.