When I contemplated a career in therapy, one of the elements that made my eyes light up was the prospect of continuing education. I looked forward to formal learning that never stopped, imagining something akin to master classes by the greats of the field. I didn’t imagine hauling ass through rush hour traffic to watch PowerPoint presentations illustrated with memes.
So far only about twenty percent of trainings have inspired me in my work—a pretty shabby average. The rest have just cost time and money when I can’t spare either for things that don’t feel essential. Like most licensed professionals, though, I’m required to meet a quota of CEUs.
Still evolving within the work, I nonetheless developed the core of my professional identity and preferences relatively early, with the support of an exceptional first-year internship supervisor, who emphasized the primacy of the therapeutic relationship and the value of simply, truly meeting clients where they’re at.
That’s not to say that my supervisor, a school social worker with an agency background, didn’t utilize specific strategies, tools, and techniques—in her case, an adventure-based approach along with play therapy. Rather, those things became a seamless part of her work and never took precedence over the present-moment needs of the kids she saw.
The therapeutic modalities that so often comprise the training opportunities available, by comparison, tend to seem rote and too directive in their approach. Or they feel so to me. “Visit one is for general assessment using the XYZ Mental Health Inventory; visit two is for problem-identification with cognitive mapping; visit three…” Etc.
There are many reasons for the manualization of therapeutic processes, including the mandate for brief therapy imposed by insurance companies, and the “soft science” complex that haunts a profession seeking status in a mechanistic, data-driven world.
People who know me would probably agree that I’m a stickler about many things, from the quality of the food I buy down to the commas in a piece of writing. But holding clients to a rigid framework ain’t my scene.
You could say I care more about “practice-based evidence” than I do about “evidence-based practice.” EBPs can certainly boast success stories, and I’m sure they work best when employed by their strongest adherents. Yet I know many clients who’ve “graduated” from CBT, DBT, and other acronymnal programs and express that they consider themselves none the better.
Then there are the trainings that feel like mere repackaging of modalities that have come before, the therapeutic equivalent of the “seven basic plots” in literature. In cynical moments, you might catch me saying, Maybe if I took mindfulness, broke it into ten components, and called it “Experiential Sensory Integrity Development (ESID),” I could start a 401K on the proceeds?
Many trainings seem to involve no actual “training” whatsoever, merely glossing their subject matter within advertisements for certification processes that cost upwards of ten times as much as the cost of admission for the 6 out of 40 CEUs you’re sitting there to earn, before your two licensed years are up and you (pay an additional fee to) start again.
To put it metaphorically, the latter type of training consists of allusions to a destination that lies perpetually just around the bend. The scenery feels so unchanging, in the classroom or conference room or partitioned hotel space—Warning: complimentary peppermints contain red dye and GMO corn syrup—it’s as though the vehicle is immobile. In those cases, the answer to “Are we there yet?” is, There is no “there” there.
If only I could write book reports to earn my CEUs… I’m deeply grateful for my readers, and as always, I’d love to reach more. If you enjoyed this piece, please consider sharing it with anyone you feel might like it, too, by linking to it in whatever way works for you. I typically post once a month, so no barrage.
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