Therapists like maps.
We learn theories, frameworks, protocols, and models that help us organize complex information. We look for patterns. We develop clinical formulations. We try to understand where we’ve been, where we are, and where we might be going.
Maps give us orientation. And orientation matters. But therapy isn’t always a map. Sometimes it’s a maze.
Maps help us know where we are
One of the things I love about EMDR is its structure. The 8 phases give us a shared language. They help therapists organize information, communicate with consultants and colleagues, and understand where they are in the process.
When the phases become familiar, they create a kind of mental map. We spend less energy trying to remember where we are and more energy noticing what’s happening clinically. That’s the value of a map. It gives us orientation without requiring every session to look exactly the same.
But maps can imply that someone knows the route
This is where the metaphor begins to change for me. A map can accidentally suggest that the therapist knows the way. That we can see the destination. That if we understand the case well enough, we can determine the path the client needs to take. But therapy doesn’t always work that way.
Sometimes during reprocessing, it feels more like the client is inside the maze while the therapist has a bird’s-eye view. The therapist may see broader patterns and context. We may notice connections across time. We may recognize something the client can’t yet see from inside the experience.
But the client has information we don’t have access to. They may notice a doorway we can’t see. They may find a connection we couldn’t have predicted. They may discover a path that isn’t visible from our point of view.
That’s where the maze becomes useful. It leaves room for discovery.
Two different viewpoints
The therapist’s perspective matters. So does the client’s. The therapist has training, clinical knowledge, context, and orientation. The client has lived experience, internal awareness, and information the therapist cannot access from the outside.
Neither perspective has to cancel out the other. The work happens somewhere between them. This is one of the things I find most compelling about EMDR. The therapist doesn’t have to know exactly where every path leads before the client begins walking.
We pay attention together.
The temptation to steer
Of course, watching someone move through a maze can create its own kind of tension. From above, a path may look obvious. We may see a connection and want to point toward it. We may have an idea about where the client should go next. Sometimes clinical guidance is appropriate. But sometimes the most important clinical skill is noticing instead of steering.
Just as we prepare clients for EMDR by encouraging them not to make anything happen, therapists don’t have to make anything happen either. We can allow enough space for the process to unfold. We can let clients arrive at their own adaptive resolution as much as possible.
Their insight becomes more meaningful when it belongs to them.
You don’t need the whole map
There is another reason I keep returning to the maze metaphor. A maze doesn’t require us to understand every possible path before taking the first step. Sometimes one doorway is enough. An image. A belief. An emotion. A sensation. Something the client recognizes as important, even when they can’t fully explain why yet.
We can begin there.
This doesn’t mean abandoning clinical thinking or moving without orientation. It means accepting that understanding can continue to develop while we’re moving. Sometimes we recognize part of the maze before we can describe it.
Paying attention together
For me, the difference between a map and a maze isn’t about choosing one over the other. We need maps. They give us structure, language, and orientation. But the maze reminds us that structure doesn’t eliminate discovery.
The therapist may have the bird’s-eye view. The client may see the secret passage. And neither of us has to know the entire route before we begin. We can orient. We can move. We can notice what emerges.
And we can pay attention together.
