Recently, I was invited by a film production company to participate in an unusual and fascinating project. I was asked to conduct a therapy session on camera, not with a real client, but with an actor working from a carefully researched script. Due to the nature of the production, I signed a non-disclosure agreement and must remain silent about the content itself. What I can discuss, however, is the experience and some of the reflections it prompted.
The premise was simple. The actor arrived with a backstory, a character and a narrative. My role was not to follow a script but to respond authentically, exactly as I would with any client sitting opposite me. The filmmakers were interested in capturing genuine therapeutic reactions in order to inform the script, rather than relying upon a dramatised version of therapy. It was an intriguing experiment and one I was excited to be part of.
It took most of the morning to transform my top floor Marylebone consulting room into a film set. Cameras, lights and sound equipment occupied every available corner. Yet once the filming began, something familiar happened. My attention moved away from the technicalities and towards the person sitting opposite me. The cameras faded into the background and I found myself doing what I have done for more than twenty years: listening, observing and trying to understand the emotional experience being presented.
What struck me quite quickly was that the subject matter itself was not something about which I had particular expertise. Yet therapy has rarely been about becoming an expert in somebody’s story. Whether a person is describing experiences that are familiar or entirely outside our frame of reference, our attention is drawn to something deeper. We listen for the emotional significance of what is being said. Fear, shame, grief, anger, hope and resilience tend to transcend circumstance. Whilst people’s stories differ enormously, the emotional themes that underpin them are often surprisingly universal.
As the session unfolded, I found myself reflecting on my training. Psychotherapists spend years learning how to work with intense emotional material. We are taught how to remain present, empathic and engaged whilst maintaining enough perspective to think clearly. Through supervision, personal therapy and clinical experience, we develop an ability to sit alongside another person’s distress without becoming engulfed by it. We learn how to enter emotionally complex territory without losing our footing.
The actor’s experience appeared very different. As the session progressed, they seemed to move more deeply into the emotional world of the character. The emotional responses felt increasingly real, despite originating from a fictional narrative. By the end of the session, it was clear that what had taken place had affected them on a profound level. Afterwards, they needed time to gather themselves and emerge from the emotional landscape they had inhabited.
Watching this process unfold gave me a newfound appreciation for the demands of acting. It is one thing to witness emotion. It is quite another to embody it. Therapists are trained to observe, reflect and contain. Actors, by contrast, may be required to immerse themselves in emotional states in order to create authenticity. Whilst both professions engage with powerful feelings, they do so in fundamentally different ways.
The experience also left me wondering about the longer term impact of repeatedly entering emotionally charged states. What does it do to a person when their work requires them to access grief, fear, rage, despair or vulnerability again and again? We know that emotions are not abstract concepts. They are biological events that involve the nervous system, the endocrine system and the body as a whole. Even when the mind recognises that a situation is fictional, the emotional and physiological responses may feel entirely real.
It also made me curious about the rewards of acting. The intensity of emotional immersion, the sense of connection, the applause, the recognition and perhaps even the temporary escape into another identity may all have a powerful pull. Human beings naturally seek experiences that provide meaning, validation and emotional fulfilment. I found myself wondering whether, for some performers, the process of becoming someone else might meet needs that are difficult to satisfy elsewhere. Equally, I wondered whether repeatedly inhabiting powerful emotional states could itself become compelling, not unlike other experiences that offer intensity, relief or escape.
These are not criticisms of acting. If anything, they are reflections born from admiration. Watching the actor’s commitment to the role gave me a deeper respect for the psychological demands of their profession. It also reminded me of something important about my own. The therapeutic relationship is not built upon carrying another person’s emotional burden. It is built upon helping them carry it. Our task is not to absorb trauma but to create the conditions in which it can be understood, processed and integrated. The boundaries we develop through training are not barriers to empathy. They are what make empathy sustainable.
Reflecting on that day, I was left with a renewed appreciation for both professions. Therapists and actors each enter emotional territory that many people spend their lives trying to avoid. Both require courage, skill and emotional intelligence. Yet they travel through that territory in very different ways. One seeks healing and understanding. The other seeks truth and connection through performance.
Perhaps what stayed with me most was the thought that every convincing portrayal of human suffering, joy, fear or longing comes at a cost. Behind every character is a person willing to enter those emotional landscapes on our behalf. As therapists, we are trained to approach such landscapes with care and containment. Watching an actor step directly into them reminded me just how demanding that journey can be.
Whether we are therapists, actors or simply human beings navigating life’s complexities, emotional engagement is an essential part of being alive. The challenge is not learning how to enter those experiences, but knowing how to return from them.
