Research Aims and Questions: Some Pointers

Your aims are the beating heart of your research project, and your write-up. Whether you are conducting an exploratory study or a hypothesis testing one, whether qualitative of quantitative, you are trying to do something in your research, and specifying what that doing is is the key that holds your project together.

Wherever you are in a research project, try specifying exactly what your aims for it are, for instance:

In this project… I am trying to discover how clients’ experience preference work

In this project… I am trying to find out if school counselling is effective

In this project… I am trying to assess the psychometric properties of the Goals Form

In research, the aim is to always find something out, so it’s always possible to also reframe your aims as a question:

How do clients’ experience preference work?

Is school counselling is effective?

What are the psychometric properties of the Goals Form?

Framing it either way is fine. But it’s essential that your aims and your questions match, and it’s generally helpful to be aware of both forms as you progress through your research.

If you’re struggling to articulate the aims of your research, ask a friend or peer to ‘interview’ you about it. They can ask you questions like:

• ‘What are you trying to find out?’

• ‘What’s the question that you are asking?’

• ‘What do you want to know that isn’t known up to this point?’

• ‘What kind of outcome to this project would tell you it’s been a successful one?’

Trying to articulate your research aims/questions isn’t always easy, and it’s generally an iterative process: one that develops as your research progresses. Sometimes, it’s a bit like an ‘unclear felt sense’ (from the world of focusing): you kind of ‘know’ what the aim is, but can’t quite put it into words. It’s on the tip of your tongue. That’s why it can be helpful to have a colleague interview you about it so you can try and get it more clearly stated.

Another way into this would be to ask yourself (or discuss with peers):

• ‘What might be meaningful findings from my project?’

For instance, with the research questions above, meaningful findings might be that ‘clients find it irritating to be asked about their preferences’, or that ‘the Goals Form has good reliability but poor validity?’ Of course, you don’t want to pre-empt your answers, but just seeing if there are potential meaningful answers is a good way of checking whether your question makes sense and is worth asking. If you find, for instance, that you just can’t envisage a meaningful answer, or that the only meaningful answers are ones that you already know about, it may mean that you need to rethink your research question(s). There needs to be, at least potentially, the possibility of something interesting coming out of your study.

You may have just one aim, you may have more than one aims. A few aims is fine, but make sure there aren’t too many, and make sure you’re clear about what they are and how they differ. Disentangling your aims/research questions can be complex, but it’s essential in a research project to be able to do that: so that you and whoever reads your research knows what it’s all about, and what your contribution to knowledge might be.

If you find it difficult to articulate your aim(s), it may be that, at the end of the day, you’re not really sure what your research is about. That’s fine: it’s a place that many of us get to, particularly if our research has gone through various twists and turns. So it’s not something to beat yourself up about, but it is something to reflect on and see if you can re-specify what it is, now, that you’re trying to do and ask, so that you can be clear. This may mean turning away from some of the things you’ve been interested in, or some of the questions that you were originally asking. It can be sad to let go of aims and questions; but it’s generally essential in ensuring you’ve got a nice, clear, focused project—not one where you’re going to be lost in a forest of questions and confusion.

If you specify your aims but can’t rephrase them as questions that’s also worth noting. That may be an indicator that really what you are trying to do is to prove something, rather than conducting a genuine inquiry. For instance, you may find that your aim is, ‘to show that people living in poverty cannot access counselling?’ or ‘to establish that female clients prefer self-disclosure to male clients’. If that’s the case, try and find a way of re-framing your research in terms of an open question(s): one(s) that you genuinely don’t know the answer to. It’s so much more powerful, interesting, and meaningful to conduct research that way. Indeed, if you’re struggling to articulate your research question, one really valuable question to ask yourself is:

• ‘What is the question that I genuinely don’t know the answer to?’

And ‘genuinely’ here does mean genuinely. If you’re pretending to yourself that you don’t know something so that you can show it anyway, then that’s likely to become evident when you write up your research. So really see if you can find a question that you genuinely, really genuinely, can’t answer at this point—but one that you would really love to be able to. That’s a fantastic place to start research from.

Once you’ve got your beating heart, write it up on a stick it note and put it on your wall somewhere or put it on your screensaver. Keep it in mind all the time: the aims of your research and the questions you’re asking. When you’re interviewing your participants, when you’re doing your analysis… keep coming back to it again and again. It’ll keep you focused, it’ll mean that you keep on track, and it’ll keep you with a clear sense of where it is you want to go and what you are trying to do.

If you deviate, that’s fine, we all do that. Just like in meditation, notice you’re moving on, then try and bring yourself back. Or, if you really can’t bring yourself back to your aims/questions, then it may be that they need to change. That’s fine in a research project and it does happen but, again, be clear and specific about what the aims and questions are changing to, and make sure that the rest of your project is then aligned with those new directions. What you don’t want, for instance, is a Literature Review asking one set of questions, and then a Results section that answers an entirely (or even slightly) different set of aims.

And when you write up your thesis or research paper, start with your aim(s)/question(s). Often people put them towards the end of the Literature Review (i.e., just before the Methods section), but you can also put them earlier on in your Introduction. Write them down just as they have been formulated as you’ve progressed: clear, succinct, a line or two for each. If there’s more than one, write them down clearly as separate aims/questions. You probably don’t need to give them in both formats and you could use different formats in different places: for instance, they could be stated as aims in your Abstract and Introduction, then as questions just before your Methods section.

Once you’ve got those aims/questions stated, you can build all the other parts of the research and write-up around it. For instance:

• Literature Review section: You can structure this by the questions you’re asking, with different sections looking at what we know, so far, in relation to each question.

• Interview questions: In most instances, the questions you ask your participants should match, pretty much exactly, your overarching research questions. So if you are interested in how clients experience preference work… ask them. No need to faff about with indirect or tangential interview questions: just go into the heart of what you really want to know, and have a rich, complex, multifaceted dialogue about it.

• Results section: Whether qualitative or quantitative, you can present your findings by research question: So what did you find in relation to question a, then in relation to question b, etc.

• Discussion section: This, too, can be structured by research question—though I would tend to do this in the Discussion or in the Results (not both), so that the sections don’t overlap too much with each other.

• Limitations: Don’t just say what’s good or bad about your research: say how the answer you got to your questions might have been biased by particular factors, and what that might mean.

• Abstract: When you come on to write this, make sure your aims/questions are clearly stated, and then clear answers to each question are given.

Being clear about your research aims and questions, and focusing your research around them, may seem obvious. It may also seem pedantic or overly-explicit. But it’s key to creating a coherent, focused research project that—as required at master’s or doctoral level—makes a contribution to knowledge. It can be hard to do; but working out, for yourself, what you are trying to do and ask is a key element of the research process. Research isn’t just a question of mucking in, generating data, and leaving it to your reader (or your assessor) to work out what it all means. You need to do that: to guide the reader from question(s) to answer(s), and to help them see how the world is a better-understood place (even if it’s just a little better understood) for what you have done.

Acknowledgements

Photo by Bart LaRue on Unsplash

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How to (almost) Fail a PhD: A Personal Account

The year, 1996, didn’t start well. My then-partner and I went to Spain, with three friends, for a Christmas break. For some reason we thought it would be shining hot. As it turned out, we spent a week in a wet, damp bungalow in the middle of nowhere. The main thing I remember were the Spanish tortillas on the few days we got out—wet and damp as well, with burnt soggy potatoes at the bottom.

My PhD viva was on Friday the 6th Jan—25 years from the publication of this post (more details on what a PhD viva is are available here). I’d read through my thesis a few times and felt fairly well-prepared. It was a somewhat unusual topic, Facilitating the expression of subpersonalities through the use of masks: An exploratory study. Basically, during my undergraduate studies I’d gone to a mask workshop run by a friend of mine at Oxford University and been amazed at the power of masks to bring out different ‘sides’ of my self (or ‘subpersonalities’). I researched it further for an undergraduate paper and then, in the early 1990s, applied to Sussex University to do a PhD on the topic. Basically, I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do as a career—either media (TV, journalism) or academia—and, as I couldn’t find a way in to media work, I thought I’d do the latter, particularly when I was awarded a grant from Sussex University to support me. That’s when I also started counselling training: I thought I better to do something practical alongside the PhD.

The internal examiner for the viva was a tutor of mine from my undergraduate days and someone who I knew fairly well. The external examiner was an academic in humanistic psychology I didn’t know much about, but had read a couple of her books and they seemed interesting. The three of us sat that Friday in the internal examiner’s office: dark and small, with his bike leaning against the bookshelves.

I remember more about after the viva than the viva itself. But the questions came quickly and they felt pretty intense from the start. ‘Why was I writing about subpersonalities?’ ‘What evidence was there for them?’ ‘What made me think they were a legitimate basis for a PhD?’ ‘Why was I so dependent on the work of John Rowan, what about my own thoughts?’ I answered the questions as best I could, wondering if that was how vivas were supposed to be—anxious that, perhaps, this was more critical than normal. After about 90 minutes I was asked to leave and sat in the Department common room—somewhere I’d spent many hours as an undergraduate socialising and relaxing in. I felt a rising anxiety from the pit of my stomach. I’d done my best, but something felt wrong. One of my other undergraduate tutors passed by and asked me how things had gone. He said he was sure it would all be fine: no one got failed for their viva. I wasn’t so sure.

Called back in the darkened room, like a death sentence. They had, indeed, decided to fail the thesis. Well, not quite fail it, but they were proposing that I resubmit for an MPhil: the next to lowest outcome. The main thing I remember was crying. I think it was an armchair I was sitting in, in a corner of the room. Sobbing away. Couldn’t believe it, even though I’d felt it coming. I went to see my supervisor and told him the news. Then I walked and walked and walked to a nearby village. Bought some cigarettes for the first time in years, rang my closest friend from a red call box and just smoked and smoked. There was nothing else I could do.

I came back to campus and went to see my supervisor again. He said that the examiners had decided that, in fact, I could have another chance to resubmit for a PhD: one outcome higher. But it would require a complete rewrite—four years’ work down the drain!

I met my partner at our house near Brighton station. Then we went to the pub. A few pints and I felt better, but I knew it was just temporary. Back home, as the alcohol wore off, the reality of the situation smashed back in my face. And so many questions: ‘Why had I failed?’ ‘Why had my supervisor said to me, just the day before the viva, that the work was “excellent”?’ ‘Were they ever likely to pass it even if I did spend the next three years rewriting?’ More than anything, I just didn’t understand what was wrong with the work, why they had failed it. The examiners obviously, clearly, really didn’t like it. But why?

That weekend was probably the worst of my life. I hardly slept the Friday night, just terrible feelings of anxiety and worry. Thinking over and over again what had gone wrong. A few hours sleep, then pub the next day and again some temporary relief. Then walking, walking, walking with my partner—along Brighton seafront—trying to make sense of things and work out ways forward. A game of pool in a pub in Hove. Slow walk back along the Western Road. I bought some aftershave at a chemist in Seven Dials that was my favourite for many years. Back home in the silence and the pain of it all. Moments alone were the worst, when my partner went to sleep. Several serious suicide attempts over the next few days. I won’t go into details, but suffice to say that it was just the terror of the pain, and the thought of having—and meeting my—children in the future, that held me back.

It wasn’t just failing my thesis. It was where I was in life. Basically, I was 30, had been struggling for years to work out what I wanted to do. Had been watching so many family members and friends succeed in their careers. I felt like I was going nowhere. The one thing I had was this PhD and the possibility of being an academic, and now even that was in tatters. It was the last closed door in a series of closed doors. The last possibilities I’d been hanging out for.

One of the worst things was that I had to run seminars for the psychology undergraduate students the next week. I felt so totally and utterly ashamed: surely everyone would know about my failure, and then how could they possibly take anything I said seriously? I drove in that Wednesday, facilitated the class as best I could. It didn’t help that the internal examiner was the module coordinator. I spoke to him as well on the phone on the Monday. He was sorry to hear I was feeling so awful. He tried to explain what had happened but it just didn’t make any sense. More questions, not less.

I was teaching psychology at Brighton University as well at that time, and was so grateful that the programme coordinator there didn’t seem to flinch when she heard the news. She still trusted me, let me continue my teaching. In fact, that summer, when she moved on, I was offered her job, and started in a more permanent position at Brighton University.

Something had already seemed to turn, though, before that time. I felt a bit better by April. I had a new supervisor now (one of the conditions for me being allowed to resubmit): a professor from my undergraduate years that I really trusted. He was down-to-earth, grounded, gave me hope. But it was a whole new thesis, and three more years before I finally completed.

What Went Wrong?

So why had things gone so badly wrong? Had my supervisor let me down, was it that the examiners had been unfair, or had I just done a really poor piece of work? It took me months, maybe even years, to work out. But now I’d understand it something like this: When I started the work, I was doing it in the field of cultural studies. It was about masks, and with a fairly relaxed design: I was drawing on literature, ethnography, drama therapy. There was no stringent method, but that seemed fine for that field of study and others who wrote a thesis in a similar way had done fine. But then, about halfway through my programme, we’d shifted my registration to Psychology. My supervisor, I think rightly, wanted me to come out with a doctorate in psychology so that I could use that if I wanted to go into psychology as a profession—for teaching or clinically. But the problem was, the focus or content of my thesis hadn’t really changed. So my examiners, who were fairly classical psychologists, thought the whole thing was just off the wall. Far too a-methodological, no real use of systematic methods or analysis. As a psychology thesis yes, they were right, it didn’t meet expected standards. But I had no idea what those standards were. And somehow my supervisor had never seen that coming. And I guess I hadn’t too. There were warning signs. For instance, I presented at my psychology department’s seminar series and I could see that they weren’t too taken by being asked to wear masks and to move around in them, but I hadn’t wanted to see the problems. And I should have pushed harder for a second supervisor. I did ask, and it was discussed, but I let it go and thought it would all be OK.

What’s the Learning?

I guess, as with all awful things, there was a lot of learning. That experience has stayed with me throughout my life. I still go back to that pub by Brighton station every so often to sit and reflect and thank something or someone for, in the end, making things OK. And I’d do that again tonight if it wasn’t for COVID. Somehow, amazingly, within ten years of that viva I was a professor of counselling at a prestigious university in Scotland: something, sitting back there in 1996, I could never have even hoped for. When I go back to the pub, I kind of ‘talk’ to my 1996 self and tell him that things are going to be OK in the end, and to hang on in there. And it’s nice, in some ways, to have that chat with him and reflect on where things ended up. He’d have been so happy and relieved.

As a Student

One thing that I really did that was wrong was to isolate myself away from any academic community while I was working on my PhD. I never went to conference, or engaged with departmental seminars, or submitted to journals. And just the one time I did present, as above, I didn’t stay open to how people were responding. I was in my own little bubble, and that wasn’t shattered until my actual viva. I think I did that because I was scared: worried that others wouldn’t be that interested in my work or feel it was good enough. But I made the classic mistake of avoiding, rather than facing up to, the thing I was afraid of.

As a Supervisor

I really try and be straight with my students if I think there’s problems. If I don’t think the work is at the right level, I’ll do my best to say it. Much better they hear it from me than from their examiners.

And when it comes to choosing an examiner for a student, I do think about the importance of ‘alignment’. This is not about finding someone who will simply waive the thesis through; but finding someone who has some of the same basic assumptions and expectations as the student and the supervision team. Most psychologists would probably fail a cultural studies PhD if it was submitted as psychology. And, similarly, I imagine that many cultural studies academics would fail a psychology PhD for reasons—like lack of epistemological, cultural, and personal reflexivity—that traditional psychologists might never consider. So there’s a reality that, in the academic world, there’s lots of different sets of expectations and assumptions; and it seems essential to me that students are assessed in terms of what they are trying—and supported—to do.

These days, most universities (certainly Roehampton) have a minimum of two supervisors for doctoral work, and that’s absolutely key to ensuring that it’s not dependent on just one academic’s views. We do our best, but our blind spots are, by definition, blind spots. Really getting an honest second opinion on student’s work—triangulation—makes it much less likely that things will go off track.

As an Examiner

I’m still angry at my examiners. Fair enough, they didn’t like the work and didn’t think it was at doctoral standards. But, they were so critical, so personal about the problems in the thesis. The external examiner, in particular, felt just ‘mean’ at times. When my new supervisor and I wrote to her, while I was revising, just to check I was along the right lines, she wrote a response that felt so demotivating and unclear. It just wasn’t needed. So when I’m a doctoral examiner now, even if I feel more work needs to be done, I try and do it supportively and warmly—with kindness, sensitivity, and empathy.

There’s also something about acknowledging the multiplicity of perspectives on things. As an examiner, I have to give my perspective on what I think is doctoral standard, I can’t ever be entirely objective; but I can acknowledge it as my perspective. You can criticise something without criticising the person behind it.

As a Person

I guess one of the best things that came out of this whole period of my life is that I’ve never taken my job for granted. I feel incredibly privileged to have had a chance to work and teach: just seeing students, writing emails—it’s amazing to have this role and this opportunity with others. I still, deep down, don’t believe that I would/will ever have it.

I guess the downside of this, which has not been so great for relationships and, perhaps, as a father, is that I’m still so focused on work. If I don’t do a set number of hours each day, I start to feel almost shaky and that I’m letting work down. I’ve worked, maybe, 55 hour per weeks for the last twenty or so years. Rarely taken my full annual leave. And that’s, in part I’m sure, because I’m still haunted by the ghost of that experience. My 1996 self still regularly tells me ‘You’ll never have a job’, ‘You’ll never be part of a work team,’ ‘You’ll always be a failure and outside of things.’

Something else at the edges of my awareness: when I look back, I realise how much I had to contribute at that time. So much passion, energy, commitment. I really wanted to make a difference. And it was so, so hard to—not just with the PhD but as a young person struggling through their 20s who didn’t quite fit into the social structures. And it makes me think about how much of that energy gets wasted in our young people: so much passion, drive, and creativity that is blocked, that doesn’t have an outlet. It’s such a burning frustration for those young people, and such a waste for our society as a whole.

Concluding Thoughts

I still feel shaky, and then some relief, reflecting on this time. I’ve never written about it before and perhaps there’s still more to process in therapy. Just that sheer, pounding, devastating sense of failure and shame. But there’s also something profoundly uplifting about it. How you can be right at the very bottom of things, utterly hopeless, but if you stick with things and keep going despite then it can get better and amazing things can happen. I’d love to say ‘trust the process’ or that, in some way, that failure led to subsequent successes; but in many ways I think I was just incredibly, incredibly lucky that things worked out ok. Part of me, maybe that 1996 part, believes (or, perhaps, knows) I could still be struggling away. And I do feel like I’ve been amazingly lucky and blessed in my career and in my life: more than anything, four beautiful, gorgeous children.

Out of the storm, chaos, and anguish of life, there’s still the possibility of some incredible things emerging. Things can change. Even when we’ve totally given up on hope, hope and possibility may still hold out for us.

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Acknowledgements

I am deeply indebted to Helen Cruthers, James Sanderson, and the friends and colleagues who helped me through that time in my life.

Very special thanks to Christine Aubrey—I will always be so grateful.

Thanks also to Yannis Fronimos for feedback and encouragement on this article.

A condensed version of this article was published in the BACP publication Therapy Today and can be downloaded here. Thanks to Sally Brown for her superb editing and condensing of the post.

Applying for a PhD in Counselling and Psychotherapy: Some Pointers

I’m sometimes asked about the process of applying for a PhD in counselling and psychotherapy and whether it’s worth doing, so I wanted to put together some pointers. Just to say, this blog is written from a personal perspective, for study within a UK context, and the focus is on research-based PhDs rather than professional doctorates. More on that distinction below.

Why should I want to do a PhD?

There’s probably a good chance that you shouldn’t. Yes, it’s pretty cool being able to write ‘Dr’ before your name when you fill in forms (at least for the first few times) but a PhD is nearly always a long, hard slog of 3 to 4 years or more (mine took about eight!): moments of insight, excitement, and achievement interspersed with long periods of boredom, frustration, and sheer hard work. Then there’s the emotional toil; and, like your original counselling or psychotherapy training, it can play havoc with your relationships. So don’t ask yourself whether you want to do a PhD when you’re feeling inspired, eager, and motivated. Ask yourself after a long, hard day’s work when all you want to do is pour yourself a glass of wine and flop down, mindlessly, in front of The Great British Bake Off. And, if you are going to try and do a PhD, make sure you really know why. I’d say that doing a PhD makes sense if you:

• Want to go into academia/teaching as a career.

• Want to go into research as a career (though there are very limited options here).

• Really, really love research and want to spend a long period of time immersed in it.

• Have a specific area of interest that you are really committed to making an original and significant contribution to.

I’m sure there are other reasons, but they need to be really good ones, and ones that are going to sustain you over the course of the programme. If your reason for applying is just that you’re not really sure what to do next, there’s a good chance that the hard slog of a PhD is not for you.

So what actually is a PhD in Counselling/Psychotherapy?

A PhD is generally a series of research studies, culminating in the writing of a dissertation (or ‘thesis’) of 80,000 words or so. Essentially, you’re writing a book, but one based on some systematic research process. Before you do anything else, have a look at some counselling or psychotherapy PhD theses to get a feel for what you’ll need to do: for instance, Adam Gibson’s Shared decision-making in counselling and psychotherapy (2019, University of Roehampton) or Katie McArthur’s Effectiveness, process and outcomes in school-based humanistic counselling (2013, University of Strathclyde).

A PhD programme doesn’t generally have a clinical component, and there’s often only a small amount of structured teaching—usually around research methods. Generally, the bulk of the work is self-study, alongside regular meetings with your supervisor(s) (perhaps 1-2 hours, once a month or so). PhDs can usually be undertaken on a full time basis (taking around 3 to 5 years) or part-time basis (4 to 6 years, and sometimes more).

A ‘PhD’ is generally a wholly research-based program of study, and is different from a ‘professional doctorate’, which tends to have a more clinical, professional, and/or reflective element (see, for example, the Metanoia Institute Doctorate in Psychotherapy by Professional Studies, or the University of Chester Doctor of Professional Studies in Counselling and Psychotherapy). These latter courses offer a more holistic programme of development for qualified counsellors or psychotherapists and often make more sense to undertake—unless your interest is solely on the research side of things.

A PhD is also very different from a doctorate in counselling psychology or clinical psychology, like our PsychD in Counselling Psychology at the University of Roehampton. These courses are for graduates in psychology and offer a full professional training from start to finish.

What should i focus on?

Generally, it’s good to start the process of exploring PhDs with some idea of what you want to look at (pointers on choosing a research topic can be found here). This doesn’t need to be fully formed—indeed, it’s important that you’re open to input from prospective supervisors—but having some sense of the field that you want to look at, the kinds of questions that you want to ask (and, perhaps, the method you might adopt) is important in being able to take things forward. So, for instance, you might want to look at something like, ‘Autistic children’s experiences of counselling,’ or ‘The role of empathy in psychotherapy with older adults,’ or ‘A phenomenological analysis of transference.’ Ideally, it’s good to write this up as maybe a page or so of ideas, so that it’s something you can send out to prospective supervisors to start a discussion about your ideas.

Should I approach potential supervisors?

Yes. You don’t have to, but I would generally suggest you find the leading academics in your subject area, or the particular method you’re wanting to adopt, and email them to find out if it’s something that they might, potentially, be interested in supervising. When you do that, it’s important to have some idea of what it is that you want to do; and the brief, one page sketch, as detailed above, is the kind of thing you can send them to let them know more. That’s the kind of thing that works for me if someone approaches me in this regard: if it’s very vague and open (‘I’m thinking of doing a PhD, sort of, maybe, what do you think?’) it can be a bit frustrating; if someone sends through screeds and screeds of an extremely detailed proposal, it can feel a bit overwhelming and like there’s not much flexibility there (but better the latter than the former).

Bear in mind that, generally, academics will only take on a small number of PhD students, so for them to want to work with you it has to be very much in their subject area. For instance, I’d be interested in PhD proposals on subjects like relational depth, or humanistic counselling in schools, or existential therapy; but if someone approached me with a PhD proposal for Transactional Analysis, even if I might think it was a great idea, I wouldn’t feel able to take it on. If you approach someone, though, you can always ask them to let you know other potential supervisors who might be more appropriate.

Can I Apply Directly to a University?

Yes, you can do it that way too. For instance, you could directly apply to the University of Roehampton here. (In fact, even if you have spoken to an academic who’s expressed interest in working with you, you would still need to formally apply through such channels.) If you’ve got a strong PhD application a university will probably give it close consideration whether or not they’ve got a specialist in the specific area. However, the advantage of approaching an academic first is it gives you some time to refine your proposal in line with what they may see as the key, or best, questions in that area. Often, there’s an iterative process of some initial informal discussion with an academic, maybe a refining of the research question, then a formal application—after which, of course, there’s further refinement and development of the research plan.

Where should I apply to?

There’s lot of different universities where you can do PhDs on counselling and psychotherapy topics. Sometimes that will be in a department of psychology, sometimes within a particular counselling or psychotherapy unit. Sometimes as part of an educational degree. In theory, pretty much any university should allow you to apply there for a PhD in the counselling and psychotherapy field.

Given that research meetings often aren’t that frequent, and can often be conducted online, geographical proximity needn’t be a major consideration. For instance, I’ve worked well with PhD students at the other end of the UK, as well as in mainland Europe. PhD programmes that have some taught elements will require some face-to-face attendance though. Also, at least a little face to face meetings with a supervisor—even if it’s only once a year or so—is generally a good idea (excepting COVID-19!).

So I’d tend to say apply to a university based on where the best supervisor(s) is going to be. That is, someone who knows the areas (or methods) you’re interested in and has published in it, has shown interest and motivation if you’ve approached them, and feels able to support you in your research programme. One thing you really don’t want is to end up with a supervisor allocated to you who feels that they’re having to take you on. That’s rare: but being proactive in identifying the right supervisor, liaising with them, and then applying to the respective university is generally the best way of ensuring you’ll get the support you need.

Also, there may be advantages in applying to a university which has a group of students doing PhDs in related areas, so that you have a community around you to discuss your work with, learn from others, and get support. That’s something you can find out from the academics there, or ask on interview. If the university has an active culture of psychotherapy and counselling research, that’s also probable good sign. Do they have a research centre in this area, for instance (like our CREST Research Centre at the University of Roehampton), or seminars, or do academics and students from this university regularly attend conferences like the annual BACP Research Conference? Having that active, engaged community around you may be really important in sustaining your interest and motivation over the course of the programme. You really don’t want to do this all on your own.

What qualifications do I need?

In most instances, the main thing to show is that you have experience of research, ideally in the counselling and psychotherapy field. So a Master’s in the area (for instance, an MSc in Research Methods) would be ideal, or a Master’s in counselling or psychotherapy which involved some significant research component. If you don’t have that, then experience of research in the workplace could count: for instance, if you have been working for several years in an evaluation capacity. Demonstrating motivation and interest in research, as well as a viable research proposal, is also very important. For the institution and supervisors, taking on a PhD student is a big commitment, so they really need to feel that you will be in it for the full long haul.

who’s going to pay me to do it?

Probably yourself. Unfortunately, there’s very little funding available for PhDs in the counselling and psychotherapy field, and most students do pay for it themselves. There are some exceptions—for instance, universities may have scholarships that they award on an intermittent basis, and there are grant funding bodies like the ESRC—but it’s generally extremely competitive and if you go down these routes you may have to do your PhD about a particular topic that the institution is interested in.

What happens once I’ve applied?

The academics at the university you’ve applied to will consider your application, in the light of the kinds of criteria discussed above, and may well invite you for interview to discuss your application further. If you’re accepted, you can then get going with refining your research project, and preparing to run your study.

In conclusion

I wouldn’t want to put anyone off applying for a PhD in counselling or psychotherapy. It’s got the potential to be an amazing journey: with discovery, in depth engagement with your topic, and the opportunity to make a unique contribution to the counselling and psychotherapy field. Relationally, too, it can be a unique opportunity to engage with peers, academics, and participants. You become a world-leading expert in your field; and if you want to go into academia or a research job, it’s pretty much essential. But it is a massive commitment, and you really need to be realistic about what you are letting yourself in for before you embark on it. As a PhD student recently said to me:

The ideal position to do a PhD is one where you know the route is hard, less than ideal, uncertain, but it is also the necessary route.

Very best of luck with it.

Further Reading

Hayton, J. (2015) PhD: An uncommon guide to research, writing and PhD life. James Hayton PhD. Suggested by a PhD student as very realistic and enjoyable.

Acknowledgement

Thanks for the guidance from current and former PhD students on the content here.

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Disclaimer

The information, materials, opinions or other content (collectively Content) contained in this blog have been prepared for general information purposes. Whilst I’ve endeavoured to ensure the Content is current and accurate, the Content in this blog is not intended to constitute professional advice and should not be relied on or treated as a substitute for specific advice relevant to particular circumstances. That means that I am not responsible for, nor will be liable for any losses incurred as a result of anyone relying on the Content contained in this blog, on this website, or any external internet sites referenced in or linked in this blog.

Just to add, no liability will attach to the University of Roehampton as a result of the training and consultancy work presented on this website, which I am carrying out in a private capacity.

Online Counselling: A Review of Two Brief CPD Training Courses

With COVID-19 and social distancing, online counselling has become much more of a consideration for counsellors and psychotherapists—and sometimes a necessity. Fortunately, quite soon into the pandemic, professionals in this field made freely available (or at low cost) CPD programmes to support therapists working in this modality. This blog gives a brief review of two of the main provisions now available for therapists in the UK. Just to say, it is an entirely personal review of the programmes, and based on a ‘looking over’ rather than a full and in-depth engagement with either.

Three important things to note. First, both programmes indicate that they are for qualified therapists rather than those in training. Second, they are also for therapists transferring their work with clients online, rather than commencing with new clients in online therapy. Third, both make it clear that they are not offering a full or qualified online therapy training (some suggestions for that are at the bottom of this blog).

How to do Counselling Online: A Coronavirus Primer

This programme was jointly developed by The Open University (OU) and the BACP as a response to the coronavirus (COVID-19) pandemic. It was written by Naomi Moller and Andreas Vossler who, for me, are amongst the most trustworthy and informed voices in the counselling field in the UK (both academics at the OU).

The programme is estimated to take six hours of study, and you can gain a ‘digital badge’ and ‘statement of participation’ on completion.

On the positive side, the programme gives some clear, useful, and evidence-based tips on the different forms of online therapy. It’s experiential as well as didactic, with lots of quizzes, exercises, and space for open reflection. I found it, in general, put together in a very professional way. A number of transcripts of online counselling are provided to concretely ground what is being presented. I found it generally quite helpful and learnt from it, both around practical areas like GDPR consideration and skills, like the online disinhibition effect. There’s a wide range of useful resources that it links to, like online client information sheets. Feedback I’m seeing suggests that many counsellors have found it very helpful as a basic introduction to the area.

Some of the issues I had with it, a number of which are generic to online training:

• I found the registration quite challenging, which wasn’t a great start, and ended up somewhere on the OU site trying to register for their university. In the end it was very simple but I did get lost along the way.

• Some of the open-ended reflective activities, to me, felt a bit ‘empty’, in that I wasn’t really sure what to say or what was being asked, and ended up completing them with just a few lines. From what I could work out also, there also wasn’t any way of downloading what I had written (I was expecting to be presented with it all at the end, and wasn’t), so my reflections all seemed lost in cyberspace somewhere.

• With the quizzes, some of the answers seemed a bit simplistic or random, and I wasn’t entirely sure that the ‘right’ ones were right. Having said that, I remember, when working on the Counselling MindEd e-learning programme that there were similar challenges, so this is not an easy one to get right.

• If someone wanted to, they could zip through the programme pretty quickly. There’s no way of telling how long someone’s been on it, and it’s pretty easy to ‘game’ the answers on a number of the quizzes and exercises. So there’s the possibility of people saying that they’ve completed it and getting the certificate without having really engaged, though there is a quiz at the end which does require some engagement with the course to successfully complete.
  

COVID-19 Telehealth course

This programme was developed by Kate Anthony, probably the foremost figure in the online therapy field in the UK for many years, and colleagues in the Online Therapy Institute. It’s indicated as 8 hours CPD. The programme can be freely undertaken (and they indicate that students, volunteers and unwaged do not need to pay); but otherwise it requests a contribution from users: up to £110 for full time/waged, and £10-25 for part time/low waged. Whereas the BACP/OU programme focuses on a range of non-face-to-face counselling methods (e.g., text-based asynchronous counselling, phone counselling) the focus of this programme is primarily on video conferencing-based therapy. 

The strengths of this programme is that it gives very clear and helpful guidance on a range of contractual, ethical, and practical issues when working online rather than face-to-face. It’s all very directly applicable to therapeutic work. There’s a specific section on working with children and young people, which is great to see.

Some of the issues I had with it, though:

• The programme is very text based/didactic, with long screens of writing: to a great extent, it felt more like reading a book than engaging with a mulitmodal, interactive online programme. Compared with the OU/BACP programme, there are only a small number of reflective exercises and limited case examples—though there is an extended video discussing online work with young people.

• Again, there’s no way to record how long someone has been on the programme, and here there’s no test at the end to assess engagement.

• In a few instances, some of the content seemed to be dated, or badly laid out, and some of it seemed a bit confusing.

Conclusion

It’s fantastic that both the Online Therapy Training Institute, and the BACP/OU team, have been so generous in making these programmes available. Both give essential information for qualified counsellors who are moving work with clients online. If you have had to do so, and you haven’t engaged with one of these programmes yet, I would definitely suggest you do. There’s a wealth of information on both programmes that can help to ensure ethical, effective, and informed online practice. Between the two programmes, if you like something more interactive (and don’t mind some of the over-simplification that that can involve), and if you are working online in ways other than video conferencing, then the BACP/OU programme may be more suitable. But if you prefer text-based learning, and particularly if you are moving to video conferencing rather than other forms of digital contact, then the Online Therapy Institute course may be more suited.

There are a number of more extended courses for a comprehensive training in online therapy. Ones that I am aware of are:

• Counselling Tutor’s Online and Telephone Counselling Course: 80 hours, and I’m receiving lots of incredibly positive feedback from people who have done it;

• Online Therapy Institute’s Certified Cyber Therapist Training;

• The Academy for Online Counselling and Psychotherapy’s Diploma in Online Counselling and Psychotherapy;

• Online Training for Counsellors’ Diploma in E-Counselling Theory and Practice.

You can find out about these and other training programmes at the website of the Association for Counselling and Therapy Online (ACTO). Needless to say, I am just listing the programmes above and am not endorsing them in any way. Having said that, I’d love to know what other people think of these programmes, or other one that might be out there that support this move from face-to-face to online. Do write in the comments below.

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[Image: Vector Background CC BY (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0)]

Non-Directivity: Some Critical Reflections

The concept of non-directivity emerged in Carl Rogers’s work in the 1930s and 1940s as an alternative to the therapist-led counselling of his day. There, the clinician defined the interview situation, asked questions, diagnosed, and proposed particular activities (if you’re interested in its origins, do get hold of a copy of Rogers’s early work, Counseling and Psychotherapy). Rogers’s ‘non-directive’ approach was a radical innovation, which aimed to put the client’s own goals and understandings at the very centre of the therapeutic work. Underlying this was a humanistic ethic that placed ‘a high value on the right of every individual to be psychologically independent and to maintain his [or her] psychological integrity’ (p. 127).

Looked at today, it seems to me that there is still enormous value in emphasising the client’s right to direct their own therapy. Just as one example, for instance, when I’ve analysed interviews with young people in person-centred school counselling, it is clear that some really value not being told what to do by the counsellor. They say things like, ‘The counsellor asked me questions, but she didn’t push me. That felt calm and relaxed (and much better than the person I had before who was just talking all the time/getting me to do things).’ ‘Non-directivity’, then, can clearly be helpful for at least some clients some of the time; and, even without that, there would be an ethical argument for starting therapy with the client’s own directions. That’s why, perhaps, a ‘person-centred’ approach is becoming increasingly dominant in the health and social care fields. That doesn’t mean a strictly Rogerian practice, but one that aims to put the client right at the heart of the decision-making process. Health Education England, for instance, write:

Being person-centred is about focusing care on the needs of individual. Ensuring that people's preferences, needs and values guide clinical decisions, and providing care that is respectful of and responsive to them.

So, in that sense, Rogers’s basic principle of ‘non-directivity’ has been accepted as a starting point for the whole care field, and is, in many ways, incontrovertible. I think that’s great. I also think that it’s really important that, on counselling and psychotherapy training courses (pretty much of any orientation), trainees are taught the discipline of being able to recognise their own particular directions and agendas, and to try and de-prioritise these in favour of the client’s.

However, it’s worth noting the change in terminology — from ‘non-directivity’ to ‘person-centred’ — and to a great extent that is evident in Rogers’s work too. In his later books he uses the term ‘non-directive’ a lot less: indeed, it’s not even there in the index of his 1961 classic: On becoming a person. Personally, I think that’s a good thing: for me, while the ethos of non-directivity is incredibly important, the term is problematic for a few inter-related reasons.

First, from an intersubjective standpoint, it doesn’t make much sense to talk about being ‘non-directive’. Intersubjectivity is the philosophy that human beings only exist in relation to each other; and, if that’s the case, then simply being in the room with another person will have some influence on them. Here, then, we can never not direct another, and that’s what comes through in the research. For instance, some of the young people whose interviews I’ve looked at find it really awkward when the counsellor doesn’t say much, and particularly when there’s silence. I’m sure the counsellors, here, are trying to be non-directive and not leading but, actually, it has a very powerful effect on the client. So there’s no ‘neutral’ when it comes to counselling, no pure reflection; and it’s probably important that therapist know that so that they can think about the impact that their behaviours are having, whatever they do. If they try to direct, it will influence the client in certain ways; but if they try not to direct, it will also influence the client in certain ways. The term ‘non-directive’ seems to imply that we can act without influence, and that, I think, occludes rather than clarifies what happens in the counselling room.

Second, I think that the term ‘non-directivity’ can lead to a particularly passive understanding of person-centred practices — especially for trainees who are new to the field. What we see with young people is that, although most do really love their counselling, there is a significant minority (maybe 15% or so) who experience their person-centred counsellor as too passive: too quiet, too purely reflective — not offering enough input or advice. Again and again, too, when I ask my adult clients about their previous therapies I hear things like, ‘She was really nice, but she just didn’t do anything, and I am not sure I got much out of it.’ So I think that person-centred therapists need to be wary about ‘sitting back’ too much — at least with some clients. Person-centred therapy, per se, can be incredibly active and dynamic — the therapist fully present and immediate in the room. But I think the term ‘non-directive’, all too easily, points away from that: it infers not-doing, not-acting, not-taking initiative. ‘Person-centred’ or ‘client-centred’ or ‘client-oriented’ seem much better terms to me: that emphasise that the therapy is based around the client but don’t position the therapist as, inherently, non-active in that.

Third, the concept of ‘non-directivity’ throws up a paradox: because what does it mean to be non-directive with a client who wants direction? And it’s certainly the case that that’s what some clients wants. Take the graph below, for instance, from some research we recently conducted on individuals’ preferences for therapy. Respondents were asked to say what they would want a therapist to do, from a scale of 3 (Allow the therapy to be unstructured) to 3 in the other direction (Give structure to the therapy). Here, around 65% of respondents were saying that they wanted a structured, therapist-led approach; compared with around 15% wanting an unstructured approach: and that was similar on all our other therapist directiveness dimensions.

So, if a client is scoring a ‘3’ for wanting structure in their therapy, what is the ‘non-directive’ thing to do? You could say, ‘Well they’re asking for structure, but really they need to learn to live without structure and find their own direction,’ but that seems to be putting the therapist’s perspective before the client’s — hardly non-directive! So a more non-directive approach, it seems to me, is to try and accommodate the client’s preference and provide some structure (if we can and if we genuinely think it might be helpful for the client) — and this is what we’ve tended to advocate in pluralistic therapy (see here). But then the term ‘non-directive’ doesn’t seem to particularly fit any more. Not unless we say that being ‘non-directive’ can include such therapist-led activities as providing structure, activities, and guidance — but that’s really not what the term would seem to suggest. So, again, I think terms like ‘person-centred’ or ‘client-oriented’ are much better ways of expressing that desire to actively align ourselves with the client’s own directions: to put their wants and preferences right at the heart of the therapeutic work.

Finally, I think the term ‘non-directivity’ implies that, as therapists, we can act without directions when, actually, directions are inherent to all our actions. That’s something I’ve particularly focused on in my most recent book, which argues that ‘directionality’ is an essential quality of human being: that forward-moving, agentic thrust of being that can exist unconsciously as well as consciously. This means that, as therapists, we are never not trying to do something. We might want to be conveying empathy to our clients, or understanding them, or facilitating their own self-empowerment; but these are all directions in themselves, and recognising what these directions are is probably more important — in terms of our own self-awareness — than assuming (or hoping) that we’re acting without direction. This links to the earlier point that we’re always going to influence another, whether we like it or not.

I guess, in conclusion, what I am saying is that, although the thinking and ethics behind the term ‘non-directivity’ are of critical importance, the term, itself, is not always a helpful one. It’s good in reminding therapists to recognise, and de-prioritise, their own agenda; but it can imply an individualistic understanding of human being, and it points towards an interpretation of person-centred practice which is too passive and too non-engaged for some clients. In fact, I would say that it’s maybe time to drop the term from our training and literature, and instead to focus on being ‘client-’ or ‘person-’ centred, and what that really means. Or maybe we think about person-centred therapy as an approach which, fundamentally, strives to align itself with the direction of the client and to facilitate that. So not ‘non-directive’ but ‘client direction-centred’. Person-centred therapy, ultimately, isn’t about lack. It’s about dynamism, responsiveness, presence. And I think there are better terms that convey that deep engagement with clients. We’re not non-something. We are something. And emphasising what we are is, I think, a more constructive and positive way forward for the person-centred approach.

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[Image by Agnieszka Zapart: see https://www.facebook.com/PsychoterapiaGestaltAgnieszkaZapart/ for her wonderful illustrations]

[Spanish translation of this blog post]

How to Record a Lecture in Powerpoint

With the sudden urgent need to deliver non-face-to-face teaching due to the coronavirus crisis, it’s an opportunity to learn how to develop online teaching resources. Developing a Powerpoint lecture, with audio, is actually incredibly simple (see my first video here). Below is how I did it. What you’ll need for this is a web camera, or something plugged in to your computer to record audio; and then a YouTube (or other video platform) account (see Step 13).

1. Open the Powerpoint slideset you want to turn into a video.

2. Go to the ‘Slide Show’ tab.

3. Click on ‘Record Slide Show’, then ‘Start Recording from beginning’.

4. Click on ‘Start Recording’…

5. …And there you go. Talk through your presentation as you would to a group of students, moving through the slides as you go. You can pause recording if you want—there’s a little box that comes up to click on.

6. Woah… Actually, maybe before you do the whole thing, just do one or two slides to make sure it’s all working. You use the ‘Esc’ button to get out of it. Then click on ‘From Beginning’ in the Slide Show menu to check that what you’re doing is all OK (if you can’t hear any audio, check your speakers are on. If they are, and you can’t hear audio when you play the presentation, you may need to fix your recording device). And assuming all OK, off you go again (from the start).

7. One thing I learnt is that you should give a little bit of time before you end talking on a slide, then go on to the next slide, then give a little time, then start talking again. Otherwise, if you talk too close to moving between slides, your audio seems to get a bit cut off.

8. When you’ve finished your talk, click on the ‘Esc’ button on your keyboard. You’ll now see that there is a little speaker sign in the bottom corner of each of your slides. So the software has recorded your talk per slide. If you click on it, you can hear the audio for that slide (and re-record it if you want).

9. Now go to the ‘File’ menu, click on ‘Export’, then ‘Create a Video’. The default settings there seem to be fine so you can then just click on ‘Create Video’.

10. It will ask you where you want to Save the video. Just put it somewhere you can remember, like in the folder where your talk is. Saving it in the default MPEG-4 format seems fine.

11. The next stage may take some time, maybe 20 minutes or so, so get yourself a cup of tea and sit back, relax, read BBC News online.

12. Now you’ve got your video in the folder you saved it in. Fab. You might want to click on it just to make sure it’s all OK.

13. Now’s the slightly trickier bit, if you don’t have a YouTube channel or other place to upload your video. YouTube, I think, is easiest, though bear in mind that it will be publicly available (and therefore not appropriate for confidential material). So what you need to do is to set up a YouTube channel, and you can do that by going to https://www.youtube.com/ and then using your Google Account (and set one of those up if you don’t have one)

14. Once you’ve got a YouTube account, you just click on the camera sign in the top right hand corner to ‘create a video or post’. Then you click on ‘upload video’, access your file, and it’ll be uploaded to YouTube. Again, this step might take a few minutes so another cup of tea (try a mix of Assam, Darjeeling, and Lapsang Souchong… gorgeous).

15. Then it’s there, and you’ve got a YouTube video. Just click on the address now and you can send it to your students, or embed the video in Moodle or other learning platform.

Probably the only downside I can see to doing videos this way, aside from confidentiality issues (but at Step 13 you can always upload the video to somewhere secure) is that students don’t get to see you talking. They just see the slides. So it’s a bit impersonal and probably less interesting than it could be if they were seeing you. There’s certainly other software out there that can do that, like Panopto. But if you’re used to Powerpoint, and want to do something relatively straightforward, the steps above seem ideal to create an online learning resource that students can access as part of non-face-to-face learning. It might be a substitute for a lecture or, even better, you could ask students to watch the video, then discuss it with them (for instance, via Zoom video conferencing, or Skype).

Good luck with it. Let me know if there’s anything here I should add or change.

So you Want to be a 'Pluralistic Therapist'...

Say you’re applying for accreditation to a counselling or psychotherapy body (like the British Association for Counselling and Psychotherapy) or writing an essay on your model of therapy, and want to say that you’re ‘pluralistic’. What are the things that could help you put together a compelling and coherent case?

1. Be clear about the methods and ideas that your pluralistic work is based on. Pluralism is like the bread in a sandwich. It’s the framework within which you practice is based. But what’s the filling? Do you, for instance, offer person-centred methods of listening and reflection, or Gestalt two-chair work? And, obviously, what you offer needs to be what you’re trained in—so be clear where that knowledge and expertise comes from.

2. A ‘pluralistic perspective’ or a ‘pluralistic practice’? In the pluralistic field, we’ve distinguished between pluralism as a way of thinking about therapy as a whole (that lots of different approaches can be of value), and pluralism as a specific practice (where different therapeutic methods and ideas are drawn together to accommodate the preferences of the individual client). Both can be written about in any description of your therapy, but be clear about which one, and what you mean, when.

3. Understand the philosophical underpinning. Pluralism, either as a perspective or as a practice, isn’t just about chucking together lots of things and hoping for the best. It’s rooted in a deep, ethically-founded philosophy of how to relate to others and the world. Some of this philosophy is tough going but it’s essential to really understanding, in depth, what pluralism is about. Try, for instance, Connolly’s Pluralism or, for a really tough read, try some of Levinas’s work, like Totality and Infinity. There’s also some great stuff on the web, and a good place to start is with Wikipedia’s description of value pluralism, or the Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy’s entry on Isaiah Berlin.

4. Difference and diversity. Don’t leave it to last. At the heart of a pluralistic approach is a welcoming and celebration of diversity, so how do you address that in your own work: for instance, being aware of your own cultural background or positions of privilege? Some other questions: How do you actively strive to help clients from marginalised groups feel welcomed in your work, and how do you address power as a therapist? Pluralism welcomes everyone’s voice, but it also understands that some voices get more silenced than others. So how can we work to make sure that everyone feels really, genuinely heard in our work.

5. Why ‘pluralism’ rather than ‘integration’ or ‘eclecticism’? One of the first questions any assessor is likely to ask is why you’re describing your approach as ‘pluralistic’ rather than ‘integrative’ or ‘eclectic’, so you need to be clear about the differences (and the similarities). If you’re talking about pluralism as a practice, then you can describe it as a form of psychotherapy integration that orientates itself around clients’ particular needs and wants. Different integrative approaches do that, but it’s not inherent to integration, per se. ‘Integration’ can also refer to specific combinations of approaches, like cognitive analytic therapy, or mindfulness-based existential therapy, whereas pluralism as a practice isn’t aligned with any one model (combined or not). If you can get your head around the different forms of psychotherapy integration—like ‘theoretical integration’, ‘assimilative integration’, ‘common factors,’ and ‘eclecticism’—and where your pluralism sits with each one, that would really help (see the excellent Handbook of Psychotherapy Integration—pricey, but hopefully in your library). And remember that your approach doesn’t need to be one or the other: for instance, you might, ‘hold a common factors view of change, but practice pluralistically drawing on methods and ideas from specific theoretically integrative psychotherapies. If you’re writing about pluralism as a perspective, the differences are clearer as there’s isn’t really any integrative or eclectic equivalent. It wouldn’t really make sense to say, for instance, that you ‘practice as a person-centred therapist within an integrative worldview’, but saying that you do so within a pluralistic one makes total sense. And what, after all of this thinking, you decide that you’re maybe ‘assimiliative integrative’ or ‘common factors’ rather than ‘pluralistic’? Great, at the end of the day, what’s important is what you do with your clients, and being coherent in that, rather than what label you give to it all, per se.

6. Describe how, why, and when you make decisions about what you do in therapy. So right into the heart of pluralistic practice: How do you come to adopt certain ideas and methods? Yes, of course, it’s in collaboration with the client, but when do you talk about what you are going to do (for instance, at assessment sessions, the start of each session, review points); and what kinds of things do you talk about (for instance, goals, methods, formulations)? Are there, perhaps, some specific methods that you use to help identify what might be useful for the client, like timelines (see McLeod and McLeod in the Handbook of Pluralistic Counselling and Psychotherapy) or the Inventory of Preferences? And how, for instance, do you handle situations when a client wants something that you don’t think is best for them? Personally, I’d suggest emphasising dialogue, dialogue, dialogue (and, again read some in-depth texts on dialogue, like the paper here, so that your position is rich and philosophically-informed). Then, critically, you need to say something about why you are using the methods you do and the theories underpinning them (see, for instance BACP’s criterion 8.1, ‘Describe a rationale for your client work with reference to the theory or theories that inform your practice’). So, for instance, if a lot of what you can offer clients is a space to talk through their problems, why might that be helpful? What’s the theoretical and psychological basis for doing so? Here, for instance, you might draw on person-centred theory to say that, with space to talk, clients can connect more with their ‘organismic valuing potential’ and work out for themselves what is best for them to do. Or, if you work with clients to challenge their patterns of thinking, you might talk about cognitive theories of maladaptive thoughts. But, really importantly, make sure it’s logically consistent. If you say, for instance, that you trust in a client’s organismic valuing, you can’t then just describe their thinking as maladaptive. How can they be both? My latest book on an underlying integrative theory of directionality might be helpful here; or you could talk about the way that, from a pluralistic standpoint, different theories are ‘working narratives’ that suit some clients some of the time, rather than immutable truths.

7. Cite the evidence. There’s lots of empirical research related to pluralistic practices, and these can help to inform a critical exploration of your work. For instance, if you’re writing about accommodating clients’ preferences, you could cite the Swift et al. meta-analysis to show that preference accommodation is associated with reduced drop out and slightly improved outcomes. Or, if you’re writing about goals, have a look at the paper by Di Malta et al., which gives a rich, in-depth exploration of how clients experience goal-oriented practices: both the positives and the negatives. And, for evidence that a pluralistic approach to practice has decent enough outcomes, you can cite the paper here.

8. What about the problems? Pluralism is all about holding a reflective, self-critical stance towards the way that we work, so it’s essential to talk about some of the limitations of this way of working and thinking too. How much, for instance, can we really trust clients’ own assessments of what they want and need? So make sure you read some critiques of pluralism, for instance the recent paper by Ong et al from the person-centred field, or on our pluralisticpractice blog from Erin Stevens and Jay Beichman. Of course, you may well find things here that you disagree with; but what’s important is to be able to see pluralism from, well, a plurality of perspectives, and to be able to appreciate its limitations as well as the strengths.

9. Talk to us. And finally, do talk to us about how you’re getting on, and join in the debates. We have a website with regular blogs, and a Facebook page where some of these issues get discussed. Then, if you can make it, come along to our annual conferences which is the ideal place to talk to welcoming and like-minded people striving to develop new, open-minded ways of thinking about counselling and psychotherapy.

Just as a disclaimer, what’s here is obviously only suggestions and, if things do go ‘pear-shaped’, I’m sorry that I can’t take responsibility for that. On any application of assignment, the key thing is always to attend to the criteria set and, for instance, the BACP have some very valuable guidelines for their own accreditation process. Tutors, also, will have a much better idea of what you need to be saying; and any advice from them should over-ride what’s here.

Finally, we’d love to hear how you’re getting on: stories both of passing as pluralistic therapists, and any bumps along the way. Perhaps we can work together to iron them out. So do also share any advice you have from your own experiences of defining yourself as a ‘pluralistic therapist’. Good luck with it.

Personal Therapy: A Reflexive Account

What have I, as a client, found helpful in therapy? What have I found unhelpful? And, What, for me, has been the process of change?

We're currently working on an analysis of young people's experiences of school-based counselling in our ETHOS trial and, as part of the preparation for that, we wanted to look at our own. This reflexivity is an essential part of good qualitative research: the more we can be aware of our own experiences, the more we can bracket it and ensure that we don't impose it on what our participants are telling us.

So below is my summary based on those episodes of therapy, with therapists from a variety of orientations: person-centred , existential, psychodynamic, and cognitive-behavioural. Of course, this is just my experiences and perceptions, and someone else may experience therapy in entirely different ways (indeed, that's the whole point of the exercise).

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I have had 12 episodes of therapy over the last 38 years, from 12 different therapists. These have practiced from a variety of orientations: person-centred, existential, psychodynamic, and cognitive-behavioural.

Helpful

In terms of the person of the therapist, I’ve found it most helpful when they’ve been warm, friendly, and showing genuine care and interest.  It’s been important to me that I feel respected by them: on a human-to-human, adult-to-adult level.  At the same time, I have appreciated some professional ‘distance’ rather than over-familiarity.  So someone who achieves a balance of being open and ‘human’, but at the same time capable of—and focused on—doing their job.  Not too ‘sloppy’ or unstructured or laid back.  Along these lines, therapy has been most helpful to me when I’ve felt that the therapist is someone who I can learn from, who ‘knows’ more than me in some area.  Not necessarily ‘sorted’ or without their own problems, but someone who can help me discover things I didn’t already know.

It’s been helpful for me when therapists give me space to talk through, at my own pace, my problems.  Also, it’s been really important to me that the therapist understands, deeply and fairly easily, how I experience the world.  That they ‘get’ what life is like for me—as it actually is—and that they can help me (for instance, through reflections or questions) go more deeply into my experiences: talking about areas that I might only be dimly aware of.

Sometimes, insights from the therapist have been helpful to me (for instance, in relation to my past): particularly where put tentatively, and where I’m given space to work out their meaning for myself.

I have sometimes found psycho-education, or information from the therapist, very helpful.  However, although this has often taken the form of specific guidance or exercises, it is generally the overall message that has been most helpful to me.

Unhelpful

In terms of the person of the therapist, I’ve found it least helpful when they show coldness, indifference, and a lack of care; and worse when they relate in ways that are aloof, arrogant, condescending, dismissive, and critical.  I have also found it unhelpful when therapists engage in mechanistic and ‘by rote’ ways.  Another thing I find very unhelpful is when the therapist seems to be making assumptions about who I am or how I experience the world, or wants to ‘impose’ their perceptions over my actual lived-experiencing.  Along these lines, I really react when therapists, through interpretation or guidance, seem more interested in ‘proving’ the truth of their particular therapeutic model or dogma, rather than listening to how I experience my world, and helping me work out what’s best for me.

 The other side of this is that, if a therapist is too vague, woolly, and ramshackle, I can end up feeling a bit lost in therapy and losing confidence in them.  As above, for therapy to be helpful, I need to feel that the therapist is someone I can learn from—and develop in relation to.

Process of Change

Most of my change in therapy has come through developing insights about what I am doing, why I am doing it, and how I am really feeling; and then finding ‘better’ ways of doing things—ways that are more satisfying, fulfilling, and rewarding.  This has nearly always come about through a two-way dialogue between myself and the therapist: questions, reflections, and gentle insights and interpretations from the therapist; space for me to reflect, process their perceptions, and disclose further; more input and encouragement from the therapist.

Sometimes, particularly when things have felt very difficult, it has been helpful just to have lots of space to talk and put everything ‘out there’.  This has made things feel less overwhelming and tangled up. 

Knowing that there is someone there who I can turn to for help and support—someone ‘solid’, dependable, and knowledgeable—has been really important at times.

Learning, mainly through cognitive and behavioural therapies, that it is better to face fears than avoid them has been very helpful for me. This guidance has been a constant companion throughout my life, and has helped me to live ‘out in the world’ as fully as possible. 

Sometimes, just being given accurate information by a therapist has allayed fears.

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Exploring your own therapeutic experiences: A reflexive exercise

If you're interested in exploring your own experiences of therapy then you might be interested in the steps I used to do this for myself. These are as listed below. (Please bear in mind, of course, that this is at your own risk—it can be painful or upsetting to think back on therapy—and do ensure you keep anything you write down stored safely) :

1. List all the episodes of therapy that you have had (you can include group as well as individual, whatever is meaningful for you).

2. For each one, write down (approximating where you don’t know for sure):

• A title for it that’s meaningful for you (e.g., ‘Gestalt Therapist’, ‘College Counsellor’)

• Who the therapist was

• Dates

• Location

• Number of sessions

• Presenting issue(s) (what you came to address)

• ‘What I experienced as helpful in this therapy’

• ‘What I experienced as unhelpful in this therapy’

• ‘The process of change in this therapy, if any’

• A rating of overall helpfulness from 1 (Not at all helpful) to 10 (Extremely helpful).

3. Now go through your answers for the three penultimate questions (i.e., helpful, unhelpful, and change process) and try to summarise in a few paragraphs for each. So what, across therapists, you have experienced as helpful and unhelpful in therapy for you, and any change processes you went through.

As with reflexivity in research, perhaps a final step is then to consider how much your own perceptions might get ‘projected’ onto clients. The more we know what it is that we want and don't want from therapy ourselves, the more we may be able to step back from that and allow the genuine 'otherness' of the client to come through. For instance, if what we found was helpful was lots of space to talk, do we assume that all of our clients want that too? Are we open to the possibility that some clients may want something very different, for instance practical guidance? That doesn’t mean we then have to offer that, but it may be important to talk through with our clients what they do actually want (and not want), and what we can actually offer them: a process of metatherapeutic communication.

All the things I hate about watching myself do counselling practice (and a few I can just about bear)

Some years ago, I posted a video of myself demonstrating some counselling skills (the original video has now been taken down, but other videos are available here and here). I always think there’s a dearth of videos out there demonstrating real counselling practice, so I wanted to post something of what it can really look like (even if it was with an actor). Problem is, reviewing it, I had to watch myself a few times, and like most of us it was a pretty unbearable experience:

1. I’m wearing a winter jacket when I open the door inside the house. Doh!

2. Why do I always look so serious? I look like I’m frowning, or sitting on spike. Jeez, lighten up!

3. ‘It sounds like…’ ‘It sounds like…’ It sounds like I’ve got about four phrases I repeat over and over again.

4. Profile view definitely not my best angle.

5. ‘So…’ Is it possible for me to start a sentence without ‘so’?

6. So can I ever actually finish a sentence without changing tack half way through.

7. It’s a bit cognitive, isn’t it. I wish I could have given more space for feelings to emerge, or find ways of helping the client go deeper into his emotions.

8. Stomach. I was pretty chubby as a kid, and still get shudders at the sight of it.

9. I can’t even get my pronouns right on the captions: ‘Rob’… ‘they’re…’ ???

10. ‘It feels like…’ another stock phrase I just seem to repeat incessantly.

11. Is it too meandering? Or perhaps not meandering enough?

12. I’ve got so many cables behind me. Looks like I’m sitting in an electric chair.

And a few things I do quite like:

1. Black polo shirt.

2. I smile sometimes.

3. I think I’m listening, pretty intensely, and conveying that understanding back.

4. I guess a few of the summaries draw together things pretty well.

5. Nice watch. I never wear a watch, just for this video.

6. Bringing it into the ‘here and now’ [26.02]

7. My silver chain. Bought that for myself a few years ago and stopped wearing it. Shiny.

8. We get somewhere in the sessions. I think. It’s only a demonstration, but does illustrate a few things that seem to be helpful in therapy.

Having said that, if there’s one thing more depressing than seeing myself on video, it’s seeing how narcissistic and superficial my comments on seeing myself on video are!

Anyhow, if you’re on a training counselling or psychotherapy course, and cringing as you listen to—or watch—yourself for practice recordings, it may be reassuring to know you are definitely not alone.