Luke Row is a BACP registered psychodynamic therapist in Croydon, South London, with advanced training at Tavistock Relationships. He offers therapy in-person and online worldwide, and writes about the psychodynamics behind popular shows. More about Luke →
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Adam Scott in Severance, now streaming on Apple TV+
In the TV series Severance, workers undergo surgery to split their consciousness: an "innie" exists solely at work, an "outtie" lives outside, neither aware of the other. It's meant as dystopian horror, but it captures something true about the phenomenon of transference in therapy: the peculiar separation that makes depth work possible. In my practice with tech workers, I see this split constantly - the performing professional versus the struggling human beneath.
When you enter a therapist's office, you both undergo a kind of severance. The relationship exists in its own container, separate from normal life, governed by different rules.
You'll never know your therapist's "outtie" - who they are at dinner parties, what makes them laugh at home, their own struggles and joys. They know you primarily through what emerges in that room: your patterns, your stories, the way you fill silences.
This isn't a flaw in the design. It's what makes it work.
Within the most deliberately structured relationship you'll ever have, you often become most authentically yourself. Released from the exhausting work of being socially acceptable, parts that stay hidden everywhere else can finally emerge. The desperate neediness. The inconvenient rage. The particular loneliness you can't name.
Yet this freedom comes with its own discomfort. Your therapist remains essentially unknown. You wonder: Who is this person when they're not sitting across from me? Do they think about our conversations? Would they actually like me if we met somewhere else?
These aren't idle questions. They're your mind trying to solve an impossible equation: How do I relate to someone who knows my deepest shame but whose favourite film I couldn't guess?
This complaint, voiced by countless clients, captures the deliberate asymmetry of therapy. While your therapist knows intimate details of your life, you encounter mainly their professional presence: their attention, their responses, their boundaries.
The imbalance can feel maddening. But it serves a function that reciprocal relationships can't: it turns the therapist into a surface where your unconscious patterns become visible.
When you feel dismissed by a therapist who simply asked a question, or desperately attached to one who showed basic empathy, these reactions rarely reflect who they actually are. They illuminate your internal templates - the emotional blueprints formed through every significant relationship you've had.
Because therapists don't respond as people do socially (with self-disclosure, reciprocal vulnerability, social pleasantries), your reactions take on heightened significance. The therapy room becomes a laboratory where relationship patterns can be observed under controlled conditions.
That inexplicable anger after their silence? The way you feel like a scolded child when they make an observation? The desperate need to make them laugh? These responses are rarely about the therapist. They're about the emotional software running in the background of all your relationships.
This is why therapy works differently than friendship or mentorship. Those relationships, however healing, are still governed by social reciprocity. Therapy's deliberate constraints create something else: a relationship where your patterns have nowhere to hide.
If you work in tech, this kind of examination can be particularly powerful. The industry demands its own severance: the capable professional who ships code while the struggling human stays hidden. I work specifically with developers navigating this split.
The partial unknowability between therapist and client isn't a limitation. It's the mechanism that makes change possible. This boundary creates a container where psychological exploration can occur without the complications that derail it everywhere else.
The therapist's relative anonymity doesn't prevent authentic connection; it enables a different kind of knowing. One focused on emotional truth rather than biographical detail. You come to know yourself not through learning about them, but through discovering what you project onto them.
The goal isn't to maintain this separation forever. As you develop insight into your reactions, you begin distinguishing between projection and reality, between past relationships and present ones. The insights gained in the contained safety of therapy gradually transform your outside relationships.
You start noticing the same patterns that played out with your therapist appearing with your partner, your boss, your friends. But now you can see them. The observing part of yourself, developed through examining your reactions to someone who remained essentially unknown, becomes part of how you navigate the world.
The client who once raged at their therapist's boundaries might recognise the same rage with a friend who can't always be available. But instead of acting it out unconsciously, they can pause: "Is this about them, or about my terror of being abandoned?"
What makes this process powerful is that it doesn't just address symptoms. It addresses the underlying patterns that create them. The therapeutic relationship, existing in its own psychological space, becomes a bridge between fragmented aspects of yourself.
Within this container, you encounter parts that have been exiled by social necessity. The needy part. The angry part. The part that wants to be special. The part that expects disappointment. These aspects, so carefully managed in daily life, can finally be felt, understood, and integrated rather than split off.
You don't just learn about your patterns. You live them, examine them, and gradually transform them. The deliberate severance of therapy creates conditions for authentic integration.
Perhaps that's the deepest paradox: the most controlled, boundaried, deliberately constrained relationship you'll ever have might be the one that finally sets you free.
Not because it gives you what normal relationships can't, but because it deliberately withholds what normal relationships provide. In that withholding, in that strange severance, something becomes visible that was always there but never seen.
The therapist you'll never really know becomes the person who helps you finally know yourself. Not through their revelations about themselves, but through what gets revealed in their deliberate unknowing.
The separation isn't a barrier to the work. It is the work. And in that peculiar distance, a different kind of closeness becomes possible: not with the therapist, but with yourself.
What I do: Therapy & Counselling in Croydon
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