There was a moment in training that stayed with me — not because it was dramatic, but because it quietly crossed a line.

I was observing a session.
I wasn’t the client.
I wasn’t contracted for personal work.
I wasn’t prepared to be exposed.

And yet, during a discussion about another student who appeared dissociated, my tutor suddenly turned to me and said — in front of the group — that I do the same thing.

It was out of the blue.
Unchecked.
And it landed hard.

What I’m Noticing

Earlier in the year, this same tutor had assessed me and decided I wasn’t ready to progress. Her view at the time was that I was dissociating.

What she didn’t know then was that I was likely neurodivergent. I had a strong internal sense that ADHD was part of my makeup, but I hadn’t yet received a formal diagnosis — and I didn’t feel any need or obligation to disclose that tentative understanding in an assessment context.

I was only formally diagnosed later, over the summer.

That context matters.

Because behaviours interpreted through a trauma lens can look very different when understood as neurodivergent processing.

In therapeutic training, discomfort is often justified with phrases like “this is a confronting course” or “clients will throw curveballs.”

But ethical confrontation happens:

  • within a clear role
  • with consent
  • with relational safety
  • and with some degree of readiness

What happened here wasn’t confrontation.

It was exposure.

And exposure without consent doesn’t build resilience — it destabilises.

What made this more difficult was that it wasn’t an isolated moment. There’s a recurring pattern where feedback is delivered suddenly, publicly, and without checking readiness — often framed as “Alex, you need to work on this.”

What’s striking is that, before this tutor even entered the room, I had been discussing this exact dynamic with others.

And then it happened again.

That doesn’t feel like challenge.
It feels uncontained.

When neurodivergence is mistaken for trauma, a person can end up feeling:

  • misunderstood
  • redefined without consent
  • quietly shamed

Even when there’s no malicious intent.

I don’t believe harm was intended here.

But intent doesn’t erase impact.

There was also something else present — harder to name, but important to notice.

When identities aren’t mutually known, and when confidence in one person mirrors unresolved difficulty in another, moments like this can carry an unconscious charge.

I’m not interested in blaming.

But I am interested in noticing how personal material can leak into professional spaces — especially when power is uneven.

As therapists, we don’t leave ourselves at the door when we enter a room.

Why I Think It Matters

With a client, I expect challenge. I prepare for it. I consent to it.

But this wasn’t that.

This was a learning environment where boundaries blurred — and the cost of that blurring landed on me.

What unsettled me wasn’t that something personal was noticed.

It was that it was named:

  • publicly
  • unexpectedly
  • without checking readiness

I actually like this tutor as a person.

I simply don’t like the way she treats me at times — and I don’t particularly resonate with her therapeutic style.

That distinction matters.

Because part of my growth has been learning to separate behaviour from character, and fit from fault.

There’s also a quiet silver lining here.

She is neurodivergent — and that alone reminds me that I can be a good therapist too.

Not by copying her style, but by trusting my own.

The Open Question

In the past, I might have minimised this.
Told myself to toughen up.
Questioned my sensitivity.

Now, I’m more interested in asking a simpler question:

Was this appropriate?

I’m still figuring this out.

But growth, for me, no longer looks like enduring exposure in the name of learning.

It looks like discernment.
It looks like self-trust.
And it looks like choosing environments that are actually capable of holding the people they invite in.