Key Takeways
People come to Focusing in different ways. Some have read Eugene Gendlin and want to know what the work actually feels like. Some have noticed their bodies tugging at their thinking and don't know what to do about it. Some have spent years on the surface of their own experience, only to arrive tired. Whatever brings someone in, there's usually a quiet sense that meaning is forming somewhere they can't quite reach yet.
I work as a focusing-oriented therapy practitioner and instructor, based in Vancouver and seeing clients across Canada. This post is for the person who already knows a little about Focusing and wants to know what it's like to actually do it with another person in the room or on the screen. I'll describe how a Focusing turn tends to unfold, the pacing, how I listen, and the small moments when something in the body begins to speak.
What I'm listening for
Most of what I notice in a Focusing session happens before we put things into words. I pay attention when your words speed up, which can mean something deeper wants to be felt. I also listen for when your words lose energy, showing that the simple explanation no longer fits. I notice your breath, your pauses, and when you start a sentence a few different ways before finding the right one. These moments aren’t problems. They show that something important is starting to take shape for you.
Gendlin called this the felt sense. It’s not an emotion you can easily name, and it’s not a body feeling you can describe, like a cramp or a flutter. Instead, it’s your body’s overall sense of a situation—big, unclear, and holding more than you can put into words. When you give it some space, it starts to become clearer. In a session, my main job is to help make that space and be there with you as the felt sense takes shape.
The shape of a Focusing turn
A Focusing turn isn't a procedure I run on you. It's something we move into together when something is ready. It might begin when you say, "I don't know how to put this," or, "there's something here, but I can't quite get to it." That's almost always a good starting place.
I might say something like, "Could we take a moment with that something? See if you can sense where it lives in your body, without trying to know what it is yet."
Then we wait. A felt sense takes a little while to form. Gendlin estimated about thirty seconds. In practice it can take longer, especially the first few times, especially when the body isn't used to being asked.
When something does come, a tightness in the chest, a heaviness behind the sternum, a pulling in at the belly, we don't analyse it. We let a word or an image come from the felt sense itself. Not a label you choose with your mind, but a word that feels like it fits. Heavy. Stuck. Sort-of-jealous. Like a closed door. Then we check the word against the feeling. If it fits, the body lets you know, often a small breath, a small ease. If it doesn't quite fit, we wait for a more accurate word.
This is the part most people are surprised by. The body has its own way of saying yes and no, and it's specific. You can feel the difference between a word that's almost right and a word that's exactly right. The exactly-right word brings what Gendlin called a felt shift, a small bodily release that lets you know more is now available. From there, sometimes a memory comes. Sometimes a clearer picture of what's been carried. Sometimes nothing more than the quiet relief of having been heard inside.
How I work alongside that
My role in a Focusing session is mostly relational and mostly receptive. I try not to add anything you don't need. I'm not interpreting for you, not naming what your felt sense means, not pushing toward a conclusion. I'll reflect what I hear in your words so you can hear them back and check: yes, that's what I meant. Or no, it's slightly different than that. The slightly-different is often where the next step lives.
I'll also notice what's happening between us. When something matters, your face changes, your voice changes, your shoulders change. I might say, "Something just shifted there. Do you want to stay with it?" That kind of noticing is part of how the relationship holds the work. Focusing in my sessions isn't a solo practice; it's something we do together, with care for the protections you've needed in order to get here.
When something doesn't want to come
Not every moment in therapy is a Focusing moment, and you don't get this wrong. There are times when the body has clear protections in place, when getting close to a felt sense is too much, or when a part of you is asking us to stay on the surface for a while. I don't push past that. The presence of a protection is meaningful. It tells us something about what you've been carrying and what you've needed to do with it. We work with it, not through it.
Sometimes the work is to befriend the resistance itself. "Something in me doesn't want to go there." That sentence is often the door, not the wall. When we can be with what's wanting to stay back, often it eases on its own time. People who have lived with a lot of vigilance sometimes find this part of the work the most freeing, because it asks nothing of them they can't yet give.
What can help you arrive ready
If you're new to Focusing or thinking about whether it might fit, a few simple things tend to support the work:
- A quiet room of your own, where you can speak without performing or holding back
- Something soft to sit in or against, so the body has the conditions it needs to soften
- No pressure to come with a topic; sometimes the most useful starting place is "I don't know what I want to look at today"
- Permission to take pauses and not fill silence with words
- A willingness to let the body be slow, even when the mind wants to move quickly
None of this is a prerequisite. People come to first sessions in all kinds of states, and that's fine. But if you have the option, these small conditions can help your nervous system trust that there's enough room for what wants to come.
Why this works online
Focusing translates well to online sessions. The work is paced and inward, which means a quiet room of your own is often easier than a clinical office. Your nervous system has fewer demands to process, which leaves more attention available for sensing inwardly. The materials of your real life, a window, a particular blanket, the chair where you actually live, are right there, which can help integration. I track voice, face, gesture, and silence, and we make room for pauses without making you feel alone in them. For more on the felt sense itself, The International Focusing Institute's introduction to the felt sense is a good companion read. If anything in this post landed, I'd be glad to keep you company while you find this for yourself.
Frequently Asked Questions
Do I need to have read Gendlin or know the six steps before we work together?
No. The six steps are a teaching scaffold, useful for learning the practice on your own. In session, the work is more conversational and more relational. I'll guide what we do, and the felt sense itself will lead. If you want background reading, Gendlin's book Focusing is the classic, but it isn't required.
What happens if a felt sense doesn't come?
That's information, not failure. Sometimes the body is bracing, sometimes a part of you is keeping us on the surface, sometimes a felt sense just needs more time than the moment allows. We don't push for one to arrive. Often we work with what's actually present, including the not-coming itself, and the felt sense forms later, on its own time.
How is this different from sensorimotor or somatic experiencing work?
There's overlap. All three pay close attention to the body. Sensorimotor and somatic experiencing tend to track sensation, posture, and nervous-system states directly. Focusing turns toward the felt sense, which is broader than sensation, and it asks the body to give us a word or an image that fits. In my work, these can weave together when it serves the session.
Can a Focusing turn happen by accident, or does it need to be set up?
Both happen. Sometimes the moment arrives in the middle of a story you're telling, and we slow down and stay with what just stirred. Sometimes we set it up more deliberately because there's a topic you want to bring closer. Either is fine. The body decides what's ready.
What if I cry, or feel overwhelmed mid-session?
Tears and strong feeling are part of the work, not a sign it's gone wrong. If something is more than the moment can hold, we slow down further, name what's happening, and bring more support before going on. The pacing is yours. I won't take you somewhere you can't yet come back from.
