Learning to Trust Presence

On becoming a practitioner, embracing uncertainty, and the quiet wisdom of being present.

There is a difference between learning something and beginning to embody it.

I have been reflecting on this a great deal lately, particularly as I continue my studies in Gestalt Psychotherapy and my third year in Somatic Experiencing.

For years, I have been drawn to the body, to the stories we carry, and to the ways our experiences shape how we move through the world.

I have spent time studying, practising, questioning, and exploring these approaches through my own experiences.

And yet, there is something different about moving from being a student to sitting with another human being in the role of practitioner.

Suddenly, the teachings are no longer just something we understand intellectually.

They become something we are invited to live.

The Moment I Began to Question Myself

I remember feeling nervous as I began bringing my Somatic Experiencing training into practice outside the classroom.

There was excitement, curiosity, and a genuine desire to offer something meaningful.

But there was also responsibility.

I wanted to honour what I had been taught.

I wanted to create a space where another person could feel respected, supported, and free to explore their own experience.

And somewhere within that intention, I noticed a familiar question arising.

Am I doing enough?

Am I listening carefully enough?

Am I following what is unfolding?

Am I guiding this in the way I have learned?

These questions came from a place of care, but I began to notice how much attention they were taking.

A part of me was looking ahead.

Trying to anticipate what might happen next.

Trying to understand where the process might lead.

And in doing so, I became aware of something important.

I was beginning to move away from the very presence I wanted to offer.

Returning to the Body

So I returned to my breath.

I noticed the ground beneath me.

I allowed myself a moment to settle and reconnect with my own body.

Not to make the nervousness disappear, but to acknowledge it without allowing it to direct my attention.

And slowly, something shifted.

I no longer needed to look so far ahead.

I could return to what was happening in the present moment.

To listening.

To noticing.

To being in relationship with another human being.

This experience has stayed with me.

Because it reminded me of something that can be surprisingly easy to forget, even when we spend so much time studying awareness.

Presence is not something we achieve once and then permanently possess.

It is something we return to.

Again and again.

The Difference Between Knowing and Listening

In somatic work, we learn many things.

We learn about the nervous system, sensations, patterns of protection, regulation, and the ways experiences can influence our responses to the world.

We learn frameworks and approaches that help us understand what may be happening.

These teachings matter.

They provide orientation, structure, and ethical responsibility.

But I am discovering that knowledge alone does not tell us everything about the person sitting in front of us.

Every human being arrives with their own history, their own ways of making meaning, their own boundaries, and their own relationship with their body.

We cannot assume that we know what another person's experience means simply because we recognise a pattern or sensation.

And perhaps this is one of the most humbling parts of the work.

To have knowledge without allowing it to become certainty.

To remain curious without imposing our interpretations.

To recognise that another person's experience belongs to them.

I find myself returning to a simple question:

Can I allow myself not to know, while remaining attentive, responsible, and engaged?

The Courage of Not Knowing

I think we often associate competence with having answers.

Knowing what to do.

Knowing what comes next.

Being able to explain what is happening.

And of course, working with others requires knowledge, appropriate training, clear boundaries, and the ability to recognise when additional support is needed.

But there is another quality I am learning to value.

The capacity to remain with uncertainty.

Not as an absence of responsibility, but as an expression of humility.

Because human experience rarely unfolds in a straight line.

There are moments of clarity and moments of confusion.

Moments when words come easily and moments when silence feels more honest.

Moments when we understand something and moments when we simply don't.

I am learning that I do not have to fill every silence.

I do not have to interpret every experience.

And I do not have to know the destination before beginning the journey.

Sometimes the most meaningful thing I can offer is my willingness to remain attentive to what is actually happening.

Presence Is Also a Relationship

One of the things I appreciate about my training and studies is how much it continues to invite me into my own experience.

Not only as a practitioner, but as a human being.

What happens within me when I feel uncertain?

How do I respond when I want to do something well?

Can I recognise when my own expectations begin to shape the way I listen?

Can I return to myself without losing connection with another?

These questions are not always comfortable.

But they feel important.

Because I don't believe we can completely separate who we are from how we accompany others.

Our histories, assumptions, expectations, and ways of relating inevitably enter the room with us.

The work, as I understand it, is not to become someone without reactions or limitations.

It is to develop enough awareness of ourselves that we can take responsibility for them.

To recognise what belongs to us.

To remain open to feedback.

To seek consultation and supervision when needed.

And to continue learning.

We Are Not Meant to Do This Alone

Something else I have come to appreciate is the importance of community in becoming a practitioner.

There is a particular kind of learning that happens when we share our questions with others who are also finding their way.

When we acknowledge uncertainty rather than hiding it.

When we allow ourselves to be students, even as we begin to accompany others.

I have found value in returning to fellow practitioners, teachers, and the wider learning community.

Not because someone else can always provide an answer.

But because another perspective can help us recognise something we may not have seen on our own.

And perhaps there is a beautiful parallel here.

Just as the people we accompany deserve spaces where they do not have to navigate everything alone, we as practitioners also need places where we can reflect, learn, and be supported.

I don't want my practice to become something I do in isolation.

I want it to remain connected to learning, dialogue, humility, and relationship.

Becoming Is an Ongoing Practice

I sometimes wonder whether we ever truly arrive at a place where we feel we have become the practitioner we imagined we would be.

Perhaps our understanding deepens.

Perhaps certain skills become more familiar.

Perhaps we develop greater confidence through experience.

But I hope there will always be room for curiosity.

Room to be surprised.

Room to recognise what I don't yet know.

And room to change.

Because the more I learn about the complexity of human experience, the less interested I become in having all the answers.

I am becoming more interested in the quality of the questions.

In the capacity to listen.

In the willingness to remain open.

In the responsibility of accompanying another person without taking ownership of their journey.

And in the quiet practice of returning to myself when I notice that I have moved away.

I think back to that moment of nervousness.

The questions.

The desire to do enough.

And the simple act of returning to my breath.

It did not give me all the answers.

But it reminded me where to begin.

Perhaps becoming a practitioner is not about reaching a place where uncertainty disappears.

Perhaps it is about learning how to meet uncertainty with presence, humility, and care.

And remembering that we, too, are always becoming.

An invitation to reflect

Where in your own life do you feel the pressure to know, to perform, or to have everything figured out?

And what might change if you allowed yourself to meet that uncertainty with a little more curiosity?

With warmth,

Nallely