Blog 1 in series of rereading Carl Rogers’ seminal work ‘A Way of Being’
Ahead of the Inner Journeys retreat I am holding in September, I am rereading Carl Rogers’ A Way of Being for the third time.
I treasure revisiting this seminal book. Each reading feels like a different conversation. As I change, so too does what I notice. Ideas that once sat quietly in the background now seem to call for my attention.
Rogers was influenced by the humanistic tradition’s interest in phenomenology — the recognition that each of us encounters the world through our own unique lens, shaped by everything we have lived and by how we are experiencing this moment. It is more than seeing something differently. It is the whole embodied experience of it: the sensations, emotions, meanings and impressions that arise within us.
So, for the first blog in this series, I want to begin with the opening chapter. In it, Rogers revisits a talk he had previously given on communication. Rather than delivering a dry lecture from the position of an expert who supposedly knew best, he chose to speak from his own experience. He shared what had worked well for him, what had not, and what he had learned along the way.
As I read this, I was struck by how congruent this feels with the values that underpin his work. Rather than presenting a polished set of answers, Rogers trusted that there was value in honestly exploring his own experience and inviting others to reflect on theirs.
Beyond “Talk Therapy”: Rogers and Experiential Knowing
When I reread the following quote, it saddens me that people reduce the Person-Centred Approach to simply “talk therapy”.
“There is a decided surge of experiential knowing, or knowing at a gut level, which has to do with a human being. At this level of knowing, we are in a realm where we are not simply talking of cognitive and intellectual learnings, which can nearly always be rather readily communicated in verbal terms. Instead we are speaking of something more experiential, something having to do with the whole person, visceral reactions and feelings as well as thoughts and words.” (Rogers, 1980, p. 6)
For me, Rogers is describing something far richer than a conversation about thoughts and feelings. He is pointing towards a way of knowing that is embodied, immediate and deeply human. It includes words, but it is not confined to them. It encompasses the tightening in the chest, the tears that arrive before understanding, the sense of expansion when something feels true, and the subtle shifts that occur when we feel genuinely met by another person.
Perhaps this is one of the great misconceptions about the Person-Centred Approach. Because there is no technique to observe and no intervention to demonstrate, it can appear to be “just talking”. Yet Rogers repeatedly writes about experience as something that is lived through the whole organism. The therapeutic encounter is not merely an exchange of ideas; it is a meeting of persons in which something new can be felt, discovered and integrated.
As someone who works with breathwork, Brainspotting and other experiential approaches, I find myself returning to Rogers and recognising how deeply embodied his philosophy really was. Long before contemporary psychotherapy became interested in the body, Rogers was already pointing towards the wisdom of the whole person.
Embodiment, Psychedelics and Integration
Reading Rogers in 2026, I am also struck by how relevant these ideas feel to contemporary conversations about psychedelic-assisted therapy. One of the reasons many people describe psychedelic experiences as profoundly meaningful is that they often move beyond intellectual insight into something directly felt and known. People frequently speak of encountering emotions, memories, relationships and aspects of themselves in a way that is visceral, embodied and difficult to fully capture in words.
Of course, the experience itself is not the same as therapy, and insight alone does not guarantee change. In fact, Rogers might well have been more interested in what happens afterwards than in the experience itself. Throughout his work, he emphasised the importance of becoming aware of experience, symbolising it, and integrating it into one’s sense of self. The transformative potential lies not simply in what is encountered, but in how that encounter is received, understood and woven into the ongoing story of who we are.
Seen through this lens, Rogers’ description of “experiential knowing” feels remarkably resonant with contemporary discussions of psychedelic integration. Whether profound insights emerge through therapy, contemplative practice, breathwork, psychedelic experiences or significant life events, the challenge remains much the same: how do we stay in relationship with what has been revealed? How do we allow it to inform our lives rather than become simply another interesting memory?
There seems to be a common thread running through all of these approaches: a movement from thinking about ourselves towards experiencing ourselves more fully, and from experience itself towards meaningful integration and growth.
Humility, Power and Misattunement
Another theme that caught my attention in this chapter was Rogers’ humility. He beautifully speaks openly about what has not worked, where he has been mistaken, and the occasions when he has found himself out of tune with others. As I read this, I notice a warmth enfolding through my body and a sense that I can feel his presence in the room with me.
Yet as I read, I also find myself wondering about context. Rogers was writing as a highly respected white, middle-class man whose work had already transformed the field of psychotherapy. I am curious about how much easier it might be to acknowledge one’s mistakes when one’s authority is already well established. The risks associated with vulnerability are not evenly distributed.
As I prepare to lead the Inner Journeys retreat, I notice this question becoming personal. What does it mean to speak about my own misattunements, uncertainties and limitations? At what point does transparency deepen connection, and at what point does it become a burden for those I am seeking to support? Rogers seems to suggest that authenticity matters more than expertise. I find myself agreeing, whilst also recognising that authenticity is rarely simple. It asks us to remain open to our imperfections without making them the centre of the room.
Perhaps what I most admire is not that Rogers had the answers, but that he was willing to keep questioning himself. Reading this chapter, I am reminded that congruence is not a destination we arrive at but an ongoing practice of noticing where we are in tune, where we are not, and having the courage to meet both with honesty.
Congruence and the Dual Attunement Frame
This question of attunement feels particularly alive when I place it alongside the philosophy of Brainspotting. The dual attunement frame — the therapist’s attunement to both the client’s internal process and their own internal experience — offers a contemporary language for something Rogers was already circling: the therapist is not a neutral observer, but part of the relational field. In Brainspotting, we are invited to stay aware of what is happening in ourselves while simultaneously staying with the client’s processing, tracking both without collapsing into either. In this sense, misattunement is not a failure to eliminate, but something to notice, tolerate, and often work with.
Seen this way, my earlier question about speaking from a place of authority or misattunement shifts slightly. The issue is not whether I can be perfectly attuned or entirely transparent, but whether I can remain present to the ongoing fluctuations of the relational moment. Rogers’ emphasis on congruence begins to feel less like a fixed state of authenticity and more like a living process of returning to alignment. Brainspotting extends this into a finely tuned attentional practice: a disciplined openness to both self and other, held within the same field of awareness.
Holding the Group: Attunement in Practice
When I bring this into my own experience of holding groups, it becomes less abstract and much more immediate. There are moments when I can feel the subtle pull to “hold it together”, to appear settled, clear and confidently in tune. And then there are other moments where I notice myself slightly out of rhythm with what is happening in the room, unsure, adjusting, internally searching for ground. Neither of these states feels like a failure of practice. Instead, they seem to be part of the ongoing relational field that I am also included within.
In those moments, I can begin to sense what Brainspotting invites: not a correction of experience, but an awareness of it. A willingness to notice my own internal responses while continuing to stay in contact with the group as a whole. Sometimes that means gently acknowledging a misattunement; sometimes it means simply staying quietly present and allowing the moment to shift without intervention. What matters is not perfection, but the capacity to remain in relationship with what is happening, both within me and between us.
In this way, Rogers’ idea of congruence, and Brainspotting’s dual attunement frame, begin to converge in lived practice. They ask something similar of me as a facilitator: not to transcend my own subjectivity, but to include it, and to let that inclusion become part of the field of connection rather than an interruption to it.
Trusting the Process
David Grand often embodies a humility that feels resonant with Rogers. He speaks of having “noticed” Brainspotting rather than discovered it, and consistently pays homage to Eastern traditions that long predate anything he advocates within Brainspotting. Rogers too acknowledges the influence of Eastern philosophy when he writes:
“One of the most satisfying feelings I know — and also one of the most growth-promoting experiences for the other person — comes from my appreciating this individual in the same way that I appreciate a sunset. People are just as wonderful as sunsets if I can let them be… I don’t try to control a sunset. I watch it with awe as it unfolds… I believe this is a somewhat Oriental attitude; for me it is a most satisfying one.” (Rogers, 1980, pp. 22-23)
What particularly catches my attention here is Rogers’ recognition that this way of being did not arise in isolation. Like David Grand after him, he acknowledges a debt to Eastern traditions that had been exploring presence, acceptance and non-interference long before either man put pen to paper. There is a humility in this acknowledgement that I find refreshing. Neither claims ownership of a truth; instead, both seem willing to position themselves as students of something larger.
As I read these words, I notice myself exhale. There is something deeply relieving in being reminded that growth is not something I have to manufacture, either in myself or in others.
Looking back over this chapter, I find myself returning again and again to the theme of trust. Trust in experience. Trust in the wisdom of the organism. Trust in the actualising tendency. Trust that meaningful change emerges not from control but from relationship. Even Rogers’ humility seems rooted in this trust: a willingness to admit when he has been mistaken because he believes that remaining open to experience is ultimately more valuable than appearing certain.
As I prepare for the Inner Journeys retreat, this feels like an important reminder. My role is not to determine what participants should discover, believe, or become. Rather, it is to help create the conditions in which each person’s own process can emerge and be met with curiosity, respect and care. The dual attunement frame of Brainspotting supports this beautifully. It asks me to remain present to my own experience whilst staying connected to the experience of others, trusting the relational field rather than trying to control it.
Some participants may leave feeling drawn towards psychedelic-assisted therapy. Others may discover that breathwork, Brainspotting, meditation, movement or relationship itself provides a sufficiently profound encounter with altered states and deeper ways of knowing. Many may leave with something entirely unexpected. Rogers reminds me that growth is not something we impose upon another person. Like the sunset, it unfolds according to its own wisdom.
Closing Reflections
Perhaps this is the thread that connects Rogers, Brainspotting, contemplative traditions and my hopes for this retreat: a trust that when people are offered safety, presence and freedom, they often find their own way towards what is most needed.
References
Rogers, C. R., 1980. A Way of Being. New York: Houghton Mifflin.
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