What is existential therapy?

To understand existential therapy, it helps to start with the idea underneath it—a single, unsettling, freeing claim: existence precedes essence.

The phrase is Sartre's, and it marks a break from a very old assumption. For most of Western thought, essence came first: the idea that we arrive with a fixed nature, a core self, a design we spend our lives expressing or discovering. Existentialism turns that around. There is no blueprint. We are not born as someone and then sent out to live it. We come into existence first—unfinished—and become who we are in the living. The self, though "self" is almost too solid a word for something still in motion, is not a thing we have. It's something we're always making, in each choice, small and large. Being is becoming.

And yet, we do not begin with a blank slate. We find ourselves thrown into lives we did not choose (what Heidegger calls thrownness): into particular bodies, families, cultures, systems, histories, and circumstances that shape us before we have any say in them. We inhabit a world already in motion, and we must find our way within it.

Here is where existential thought makes its quietly radical turn. We cannot always choose our circumstances, but we can often discover some freedom in how we respond to them. Viktor Frankl, writing from the experience of surviving concentration camps, identified it as the one freedom that cannot be taken: the freedom to decide who we will be in the face of what we are given. And in those responses—the everyday ones and the life-shaping ones—we don't just build a life. We become a self. Which means the self is never sealed. "This is just how I am" is itself a kind of choice, one we can look at, question, and make differently. Nothing about who you've been is final.

We don't do this alone, or in a vacuum. We are always already in the world, and with others—woven in from the start. We become who we are not in isolation but in relationship: through our circumstances, our histories, and the people among whom we find ourselves. There is no separate self on one side and world on the other. We are made in the meeting of the two.

The paradox of existential freedom

If this is beginning to sound more freeing than frightening, hold on, because the freedom has a weight to it. If who you are is yours to make, then it is also yours to answer for. That responsibility can be dizzying. And so, understandably, we flee it. We hand the authorship of our lives to other people, to roles and expectations, to "that's just how things are," to the scripts we inherited before we could question them. We live as though we were not free, because the freedom weighs on us. This is what existentialists call inauthenticity, and it's rarely dramatic. Most often it looks like a life that works on paper but quietly doesn't feel like your own: capable, functioning, arranged—and somehow unchosen.

That gap is where the work begins.

What happens in existential therapy?

Less than you might expect in the way of fixing, and more in the way of looking. Together we pay close attention to how you're actually living—the choices you're making, including the ones you don't experience as choices at all. I ask a lot of questions, many of them turning gently back toward authorship: not what should you do, but who you want to be, and what a given path would open or foreclose in you. The aim isn't advice. It's to hand you back the pen.

Part of the work is sorting out what is genuinely yours to carry from what you've piled on top of it. Some of what weighs on you is real: the actual limits and losses of a life, the realities you never chose but must still meet. But we tend to add to it: the self-blame, the inherited stories, the private conviction that we should have managed a better outcome with the hand we were dealt. Naming what's truly given can be a relief. It lets you set down what was never yours to hold.

Your symptoms and old patterns aren't evidence of brokenness. They are forms of intelligence. The anxiety, the coping, the role you learned to play—these once made sense. They were clever adaptations to the situation you were in, and understanding what a pattern was for is where the freedom to do something else begins. Often the pattern leads somewhere older, too: back to childhood, to the values and roles you absorbed before you had any say in them, to the places where who you are first took shape.

The question of meaning

Questions of meaning and value are never far off: what actually matters to you, as opposed to what you were told should matter, or what you've never paused to question. Existential work takes seriously that a life can be materially fine and still feel empty. And it treats the ache of meaninglessness not as a symptom to eliminate but as a question worth sitting with, one that tends to point, eventually, toward what you value.

Some of the work happens in the present tense: attending to what's arising right here, in the moment, including in what unfolds between us. The relationship in the room becomes a place where your patterns can be noticed live rather than only recounted. None of this lives only in the head, either. What you carry shows up in the body and between people, and the work makes room for that.

Along the way, I tend to think out loud with you, drawing on whatever helps something come into focus: a bit of neuroscience, a thread from literature or history, a piece of philosophy, an old story that suddenly fits. (My clients get the occasional mini-lecture; I've made my peace with this.) It's all in service of the same thing: helping you see your life clearly enough, and hold yourself gently enough, to live it more deliberately.

There's a paradox worth admitting: existential therapy resists tidy definition. Its very nature—relational, responsive, free of rigid protocol—means that pinning it down too precisely betrays something essential about it. That openness isn't vagueness. It's the point.

In the end, that's what existential therapy is for. Not to relieve a symptom and send you on your way (though relief often does come), but to help you become—more fully and more freely—the person you're in the midst of becoming. You don't need to be in crisis to begin. You only need the sense that there's more underneath, and the desire to look.