When Your Tutor Isn’t Grounded

I think I expected more.

Not perfection—but a basic level of groundedness. A sense that those teaching counselling would be further along in their own emotional regulation. That they would, at the very least, try to meet others with compassion. But instead, I encountered something that felt like the opposite.

One woman, who wasn’t actually my Level 3 tutor, came in to cover a session. She’d been involved in my Level 2 course previously but had dropped out halfway through. No real explanation—she just disappeared. I later found out she continued working with other groups. So when she turned up in our Level 3 class to cover for a tutor, I already carried a strange sense of unfinished business.

And during that one-off session, she gave me some of the most extreme, unbalanced feedback I’ve ever received. It was almost surgical in its focus on criticism—cold, clinical, and strangely removed from the full picture. No recognition of the positives, even though the session had plenty of them. No sense of balance. Just a magnifying glass held up to every perceived flaw.

The more I’ve reflected, the more I realise: I don’t think it was really about me.

Back in Level 2, I had wondered if she left our group because of something unspoken. At the time, my therapist questioned that idea. But now, with distance, I trust my intuition. I don’t think it was ego speaking. I think I did make her uncomfortable—just by being me. Just by holding presence, being observant, and seeing through the performance.

One time, during Level 2, she didn’t turn up to class. No email. No communication. We showed up, made the journey in, and stood there waiting—only to be told by someone else she wouldn’t be in. I remember the quiet anger in me that day. It wasn’t just the absence—it was the lack of respect.

She struck me as someone who lived in a victim mindset. Everything was someone else’s fault. And I think my presence—calm, curious, composed—maybe made her feel deeply incompetent. Not because I did anything wrong. But because I didn’t give her what she needed to feel in control. I didn’t break under pressure. I didn’t collapse.

I just said, “Yeah… that’s a fair point.” Again and again.

And I think that infuriated her. Because when I didn’t break, she broke the next person instead—telling a fellow student she shouldn’t even be a therapist. It was cruel. And in hindsight, it revealed the truth: it wasn’t just about me. This was her pattern. Her shadow. Her unresolved wounds bleeding into a space that demanded care.

Not long after, a different tutor observed me and said something that stayed with me:

“You seem like someone I’d like to talk to as a therapist.”

He said I was easy to speak to. That my listening was strong. That I could push myself a bit more, sure—but that the foundations were solid. And that comment… it meant everything. Because it reminded me that sometimes people do see you clearly.

It’s taken time to untangle her criticism from my self-worth. But I’ve come to see that when someone reacts that strongly to you, it’s often not about your shortcomings. It’s about their discomfort.

And while it still irritates me—that someone like that can hold power in a space so vulnerable—I’m learning to carry my anger more wisely. Not to suppress it. But to let it fuel discernment. So I can keep walking my path, knowing that I don’t need to shatter to be seen.

Sometimes staying whole is the most threatening thing of all.