There is a common image of the psychologist: a person sitting in a comfortable chair, nodding with a serene, almost detached wisdom, as if they’ve solved the puzzle of existence. People often walk into my office and look at me as if I’m a finished product, a machine that doesn’t glitch, a mirror that never fogs.

But the diploma on my wall isn’t a magical shield. It reminds me of a graduation cap I once saw:

Psychology degree: UPLOADED.

Knowledge: INSTALLED.

Empathy: INSTALLED.

Judgment: DISABLED.

This isn’t just a clever graphic; it’s the unwritten set of rules we live by.

The Work Never Stops

The truth is, my “expertise” doesn’t come from a place of perfection, but from a commitment to the process. I am not a psychologist because I have a life without shadows; I am a psychologist because I’ve spent years learning how to sit with my own shadows without looking away. I still trip over my own words outside these four walls. I still have to remind myself to apply the same patience to my own mind that I offer so freely to others.

The Mirror and the Uncomfortable Question

Being a psychologist means learning to be a mirror, even when that mirror reflects things that are hard to look at. I know that my questions can be incredibly annoying, even frustrating. I might return to the same point over and over, circling a thought until it finally clicks. It’s part of the job.

I remember reading somewhere (I couldn’t tell you the book or the author even if I were tortured) that when you know how to ask the right questions, the answers might surprise you and show you more than you ever saw before. That is my duty. I am not here to give you the answers, but to ask the questions that make you see yourself. It is a slow, sometimes irritating process of mirroring, designed to make you recognize the patterns you didn’t even know you were wearing.

A Final “Professional” Confession: Let’s be real: just because I understand the neurobiology of stress doesn’t mean I don’t occasionally lose an argument with a stubborn Tupperware lid. And while “Judgment: DISABLED” is my professional setting, it apparently doesn’t apply to my own life. I can sit through a session with total clinical neutrality, yet I will absolutely judge myself for five minutes because I walked into a room and forgot why I was there.

I might be an expert at asking “the right questions” in a session, but when my partner asks me a simple, “What do you want for dinner?”, my brain suddenly hits an ‘Error 404: Answer Not Found.’ Apparently, I can make you find the meaning of your life, but I still can’t decide between pasta and pizza without an existential crisis.