My dad has this way of zeroing in on the smallest things he’s proud of me for.
Just the other weekend, I was helping him and my mom mulch their backyard landscaping. I noticed a few spots where it looked thin, so I grabbed some woodchips, got on my knees, and pressed them along the edge, smoothing the transition from grass to mulch.
My dad walked by, pushing his rusted wheelbarrow, and with a sparkling smile said, “Awesome job, Benny!”
I laughed to myself. Part of me thought—Really? You’re proud of this? You noticed that?
But another part, deeper down, received that affirmation like a cup of cool water in the muggy Minnesota summer.
It was the same growing up—making it down a steep ski hill without falling, shifting my old manual car without stalling.
After a soccer game I barely touched the ball in, he’d give me a high five: “Great job, Benny!”
It didn’t matter if I was good. He just saw that I was trying—that it mattered to me. And with surprising precision, he affirmed that.
Not everyone grows up with a voice like that.
But I think a part of all of us still longs to hear it—somewhere, from someone.
The other day, I sat in the silence of my office after a long seven-session day and felt a hollowness in my chest. I had four progress notes left to write, the first of which illuminated my laptop screen. The cursor blinked at the blank space where I was supposed to document what I had done to help my client.
On and on it blinked. In and out. In and out.
Part of me wanted to just write the usual: Processed emotional experience and how it affects them. Or Utilized active listening to build rapport.
But another part—the part that felt the hollowness—resisted.
Are you helping this client? Is what you’re doing actually making a difference? Does it even matter?
Before becoming a therapist, I thought this part of the job would feel more tactile. I imagined the feedback would be clearer, the progress more obvious.
I didn’t expect weeks—sometimes months—of wondering if anything I was doing was working.
I thought this would be one of the most meaningful careers: sitting with people in their most vulnerable places. You’d think it would be obvious that that matters.
But there I was—staring at a blinking cursor, unsure if I’d made any difference at all.
And quietly, I ached for something like my dad’s pride.
Some small, attentive voice that says: This counts. This matters.
But the room was silent. And the cursor just kept blinking.
I know I’m not supposed to need anything from my clients.
I’m there for them—their healing, their story.
And I believe in that.
But if I’m honest, part of me still wants someone to say, You’re doing okay.
Not from the client—I’d never ask for that.
But when a client says, “Hmm, I never thought of it that way,” or even just “Thank you,” I have to fight off a big, goofy grin.
To not let on how much I needed to hear it.
If someone could see what I’m doing—and say, with confidence and warmth, “Great job, Ben,” I think I’d finally feel the solid ground I’m searching for.
That longing feels childish sometimes.
Like, Come on—you’re not a kid anymore kicking around a soccer ball.
Shouldn’t you be past this by now?
But another part of me doesn’t feel childish at all.
Just discouraged.
Worn down.
In need.
I think, as helpers, the parts of us that need help often stay quiet.
Especially early on, we project—to clients, supervisors, peers, even ourselves—that we’re fine.
I’m okay! Things are going great. I love this work.
Just last week, a coworker passed me in the hallway between sessions. I smiled and said, “Busy day, huh?” like I wasn’t completely exhausted.
That’s what we do.
We slip into the role.
We try to become the therapist we think we’re supposed to be.
But the longing to be seen—truly seen, insecurities and all—still glows like coals buried under ash.
A supervisor once told me something that helped reframe all this.
I had finally opened up about how I was struggling to feel like what I was doing mattered—that I couldn’t see much progress.
“That makes sense, Ben. I think most of us have felt that at some point,” he said.
“Your job, though, isn’t to pick the flowers and make a great bouquet. You’re just planting seeds. Scattering them around, hoping something might take root. But you’re just planting seeds.”
His words planted something in me.
That next week, as I sat with my clients, I felt a shift.
When I asked a question, I imagined gently placing a seed in soil.
Validating a feeling—another seed.
Letting silence fill the room so something real could emerge—another seed.
Nothing magical happened.
My clients didn’t suddenly get better.
No one clapped.
But there was something I could point to.
Something I could keep watering.
Something a little more tangible—quiet, but alive—that I hoped, maybe just started to believe, mattered.
And I think if my dad saw what I was doing—not just the work, but the meaning I’m learning to see in it—
I think… I know… he’d be proud.
“Great job, Benny.”
Where are you planting seeds in your life or work that you can’t yet see growing?
Right there with you,
Ben