Working with Silence
A Clinical Reflection - A note before you begin
The reflections below are drawn from my own experience as a therapist. They are not intended as rules about silence, but observations that have emerged through practice, supervision and, occasionally, getting it wrong.
Silence means different things to different people. Learning to recognise those differences has become one of the most important parts of my work.
Silence frightened me more than clients ever did
When I first started counselling, silence felt like something I ought to fix.
If the room became quiet for more than a few seconds, I'd find myself desperately searching for another question.
Anything.
Just to get things moving again.
Looking back, I don't think I was trying to help the client.
I think I was trying to reduce my own anxiety.
Like many new therapists, I mistook silence for failure.
Over time I realised something important.
Not all silence is the same.
Sometimes silence is where the work happens.
Sometimes it's where the work stops.
Learning the difference has been one of the hardest—and most valuable—lessons of becoming a therapist.
When silence is working
Some silences feel almost alive.
You ask a question and the client looks away.
Their breathing changes.
Perhaps their shoulders soften.
Maybe they take a long breath they've been holding for years.
You can almost see them searching for words they've never said aloud before.
That's not awkwardness.
That's work.
It's incredibly tempting to rescue them.
To ask another question.
To soften the moment.
To reassure ourselves that therapy is still happening.
Often the kindest thing we can do is...
nothing.
Not because silence is somehow magical.
Because people sometimes need time to catch up with themselves.
I've also come to recognise another kind of silence.
The silence before courage.
The client already knows what they want to say.
They're simply deciding whether this is the room in which it's safe to say it.
Every second we don't rush them quietly communicates:
"I'll wait."
"You don't have to hurry."
"We can do this at your pace."
Sometimes those unspoken messages matter far more than anything I could have said.
When silence isn't helping
Silence isn't automatically therapeutic.
Sometimes it does exactly the opposite.
I've occasionally watched trainee counsellors become so committed to "holding the silence" that they've forgotten to notice the person sitting in front of them.
There is a world of difference between someone reflecting...
...and someone disappearing.
A client who has become overwhelmed, dissociated or frozen doesn't need us to become quieter.
They need us to become more present.
Likewise, there are moments when silence starts to feel less like shared reflection and more like an interrogation.
The therapist waits.
The client waits.
Neither quite knows who is supposed to speak next.
It can begin to feel as though whoever talks first loses.
That's no longer therapeutic silence.
That's two anxious people waiting for each other.
The silence between online and face-to-face
One thing I hadn't expected was how differently silence feels online.
In the therapy room, silence is shared.
You're both breathing the same air.
You notice posture.
Tiny movements.
The way someone's gaze shifts.
The almost imperceptible changes that tell you they're still with you.
Online is different.
Five seconds can feel like fifty.
A frozen screen.
A glance away from the camera.
An internet connection that hesitates just long enough for doubt to creep in.
"Are they thinking... or have we lost each other?"
I've become much more comfortable gently acknowledging those moments.
Sometimes I'll simply say,
"I'm aware we've gone a little quiet. How is this silence feeling for you?"
Not because silence is a problem.
Because online we sometimes need reminding that we're still together.
Supervision taught me this...
One of the most useful questions I've ever taken to supervision wasn't,
"How long should I leave the silence?"
It became,
"What was happening in me while the room was quiet?"
Was I waiting because the client needed space?
Or because I didn't know what to do next?
Those are very different silences.
The first belongs to the client.
The second belongs to me.
Learning to tell them apart has probably made me a better therapist.
What this has taught me
I don't think I've become comfortable with silence.
I think I've become more curious about it.
Rather than asking,
"How long should I wait?"
I now find myself wondering,
"What is this silence doing?"
Is it making space?
Offering protection?
Gathering courage?
Expressing overwhelm?
Or simply asking for company?
Perhaps the skill isn't learning to stay quiet.
Perhaps it's learning to recognise the difference.
In Practice
I don't believe there is a perfect length of therapeutic silence.
Some moments call for patience.
Others call for presence.
The challenge isn't counting the seconds.
It's remaining connected to the person sitting in front of us.
Reflection for Practitioners
What does silence bring up in you?
How comfortable are you with not speaking?
When have you interrupted a silence because it felt uncomfortable?
What might have happened if you had waited a little longer?
How does silence feel different online compared with face-to-face?
Continue Exploring
This article is part of the Free Resources for Trainee & Newly Qualified Counsellors, a growing library of practical guides and clinical reflections designed to support therapists in training and beyond.
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