Lately, I can’t seem to get off the topic of visibility. A few weeks ago, I wrote about the problem of invisible work—that is, the work that we do that is not readily apparent to other people, and the pleasure of having that work acknowledged. I’ve also talked about people whose appetites for being seen sometimes get the best of them, to the point of damaging their relationships with others.

Today I’m trying something different. If you’ve been following this blog for the past year, you’ll find it’s a departure from what I usually do. I would especially love to hear your feedback in the comments this week, if you have a minute.

So bear with me. To talk about this, we have to go back to the beginning— back to my first job out of school in the mental health profession. Labyrinth Healing celebrated its first year anniversary last month, so it seems fitting to talk about beginnings a bit today, too.

Here we go.

The case of the melted crayons

My first job out of school back in 2007 was as a mental health case manager. I worked in a rural community mental health clinic, seeing adults, teens and children.

I loved my job. It was challenging, and there was a pretty steep learning curve at times. My clients taught me a lot of simple yet profound lessons about being with people, and I still think of the experience fondly.

The work was not without its problems, though. In school, I did not receive much training in working with children and adolescents. Yet, I was expected to see clients ranging in age from 3 to 75 because the clinic was so understaffed.  We had two full-time mental health professionals serving the entire county. Yep, that meant fresh-out-of-school yours truly and the other guy.

So, you can probably imagine how nervous I felt, then, to be a twenty-something in my first “real world” job, being labeled as an “expert” by some clients and as “just a kid” by others. I had a whole set of barriers to grapple with the adults I worked with—establishing credibility and trust, and discovering what we might do together to try and make things better.

I never felt that sense of judgment or expectation from the children I saw. They were truly unassuming—some bashful, some boisterous, all a little confused about why they were there. (Really– how do you explain the concept of psychotherapy to a four year old?)

Nonetheless, with my adult clients, I felt on more equal footing. If nothing else, I had the words I needed to communicate. I could listen, express compassion. If needed, I could problem-solve.

The kids were a whole different story, though.

I felt I lacked the proper tools– in every sense of the word—to help the kids.  I was newly out of school, with very little formal training on working with children and adolescents.  I had a big jar of half-melted crayons, a few coloring books, some stickers, and one doll in my office. And the doll was kind of scary-looking, so I was reluctant to use it. (What can I say? Community mental health clinics do not have tons of discretionary funding.)

I remember sitting in my office late one evening and feeling stuck, helpless, and worried that I was in over my head. How was I ever going to make a connection with these children when so many of them came to me having already experienced pain and betrayal on a scope I had yet to understand?

Learning to see

Fortunately, I was too busy most of the time to entertain my own self-doubt. I had a full caseload. And without even realizing it, the kids taught me how to help them along the way.

Kids that would get stuck or frozen in their chair when I asked them their names would ease up when we drew or played together. I didn’t have training in play therapy or other formal therapy techniques for children. Yet, I discovered one very powerful form of healing that came from a series of simple gestures:

When a child or teen would finish coloring a picture, I would ask them if they were planning to take it with them, or if I could keep it. They seemed delighted at the inquiry—the idea that something they produced was special, that the “doctor lady” might actually want to hold onto something they had made.

I would take the picture, carefully and deliberately smoothing out the wrinkles. I would offer a comment about the nice orange they chose for Cinderella’s dress, or the lovely shading of the grass, or the unsteady lettering of their name in the top right corner.

Then, I would make a show of taking the picture gingerly by the corners, and ask if I could put it on my wall. We’d find a suitable spot, and I would tape it next to the dozens of other pictures displayed there. Even the most reserved children would brighten when they saw this.

Over time, I began to realize that this small gesture meant a big thing.

It showed that I had a sense of pride in them and their work. It suggested that they were special. It showed that they got to have space in my office (in my mind, in my heart) that was just for them. Even when not physically present, they were represented.

In that moment, that child was really seen.

You may be wondering if any child took issue with the fact that I had so many pictures on my wall, that maybe it wasn’t so special.

This was never mentioned. There was plenty for everyone.

Come find me

I learned more about this special kind of seeing from other experiences, too.

There was the kid who always insisted on playing hide-and-seek in my closet-sized office. He’d hide under the same chair—in plain view, really—again and again. I’d pretend not to see him and then, after much fruitless searching under my desk and behind the potted plant, I would discover him. And he would be elated every time.

You may remember the joy of playing this game as a child yourself. I particularly remember the thrill of hiding and waiting to be discovered—and also the fear that perhaps I would hide myself so well that no one would ever find me! This process does not end in childhood, however.  And it becomes less and less a game.

Every day, there are people hiding in plain sight, waiting to be discovered, to be seen. People who want you to look at them, not through them. To talk with them, not at them. It’s so easy for us to get caught up in the hastiness of a life that asks us to do more with less, to hurry, hurry, hurry. I do it all the time, in spite of myself.

But, a healthy dose of slow and careful attention can go such a very long way.

See and be seen

Those children taught me a lot with those melty, blunted crayons. I realize now that my office wall was just a proxy for a refrigerator door. Parents have been doing these kinds of things for ages. But, we don’t often have similar processes in place for adults.

When’s the last time someone really saw you?

The good news is that you can teach by doing—you can take a slow moment to really look at someone and appreciate what you see there. Acknowledging tasks and accomplishments is fine. Even better if you can make it about the person rather than what they do. A few more ideas:

1.) Listening without agenda. How many times have you read that one? Easy to say, hard to do. Really listen without waiting for your moment to shine. Restate what you’ve heard. Try hard to get the message right without impacting it in any way.
2.) Be personal. If you’re paying someone a compliment, make eye contact. Hold their hand if it’s appropriate. Let the feelings of goodwill rise up inside you, and let your smile reach your eyes when you talk. People will be able to tell the difference.
3.) Make it new. Imagine you’re discovering this person for the first time. Delight in all the things you love about them. Make visible in your mind’s eye all of their unique and amazing features and characteristics. You’ll be amazed at all you see that’s perhaps gone missing over time.

Sometimes we need a little extra help. The people in our lives may not make very good mirrors. Or, we get lost in agendas and supposed-to’s and to-do lists. We end up hiding, waiting to be found.

One of my favorite things to do in therapy is help people “get found.” I try hard to see and hear things as they really are, to explore and discover, and to develop satisfying new options with my clients. And while I don’t have any crayons in my office anymore, I have other ways of helping clients be seen.

Thanks for sharing a few moments of your day with me. I’d love to hear your thoughts—please feel free to leave a comment below.

“The best part of hiding is being found.” –Emily Freeman