Final Reflections | Internal Family Systems Therapy (13)
- Apr 20
- 14 min read
Updated: Jul 13
Author: Xiaojie Qin
Time: April 2026
In June 2025, after finishing my yoga practice, I would sling my mat over my shoulder and arrive at the same cafe by 8 a.m. to write. The process turned out to be far harder than I had imagined. I thought I already knew the material, but as I wrote, questions kept surfacing in my mind. What I had planned as a single chapter stretched into two or three. Sometimes I set a timer for myself—because when I hit a difficult spot, I tend to dig in obsessively, slipping into a state where I should stop but can't. My shoulders and neck would ache, yet I still wanted to untangle every last thread. More than once, I hit snooze.
And so, the writing continued, all the way into Beijing's winter. By then, I was bundled in my heaviest coat—still writing about Internal Family System Therapy (IFS). I switched to a different café, one where I could sit in the sun even during the coldest days.
Xiaojie, from summer to winter 2025-2026
My goal was never to produce pure theory (there is enough of that). I wanted to document my practice—the moments of application, the reflections, the realizations. Writing this series pushed me to revisit two clients' journeys in depth (you can read Rose’s therapy story, and Xuan’s therapy story). I paged through my session notes and replayed those therapeutic moments in my mind. Looking back from a kind of bird's-eye view, I saw myself clearly: a therapist doing my best for my clients, yes, but also one who felt frustration and discouragement at times. And I also saw how IFS helped me break through those stuck places—bringing growth, and with it, a quiet joy.
I believe that writing with real client cases is the most honest approach, and it is also the best way to help readers understand how theory actually lands in practice. But when real cases are involved, ethical considerations and safeguards must be taken seriously. This is not always an easy balance to strike. Throughout the writing process, I have constantly reflected on what information about a client can be shared and what should be left out of the story.
I hold deep respect for every client I have worked with. They chose to walk into the therapy room—a place where they bravely lay down their armor. What we built together was one of the most precious resources of all: trust. And that trust allowed me to influence them. This profession grants us a unique kind of connection, and I hope that even after therapy has ended, that connection continues to offer them confidence and warmth.
When I send a draft to a client for final review and informed consent, I always hope that the process remains a continued healing experience for them.
So throughout this writing journey, I have reminded myself again and again of my original intention. My writing principles have gradually taken shape through this ongoing reflection. I have recorded them all, and I will continue to revisit and refine them. They are collected in this article:
That brings me to April 2026. A full year has passed since I started writing about Internal Family Systems Therapy. There are still a few scattered reflections left—bits and pieces that never quite found a home in the earlier chapters. I can't bear to leave them out. So I'm placing them here, at the very end, as a closing note to this writing journey.
The IFS process places relatively high demands on the therapy environment.
Of course, the ideal scenario—what any form of therapy ideally requires—is a space that is private, safe, and quiet. But in real life, this condition is becoming harder and harder to meet. These days, more and more clients choose online sessions, and not always that they are in a quiet place. It's not that they don't want a quiet place—it's that they genuinely don't have the time. Life is packed: work, picking up the kids, caring for aging parents, managing the household… squeezing out fifty minutes is already a feat. Who has the energy to add commuting on top of that?
So I've had clients log on from their cars, adjusting the seat into a position that might, just barely, allow for some relaxation. I've seen them in the corner of a roadside cafe, talking while glancing over their shoulder to see if anyone is coming. I've seen them in a company meeting room—the only place they could close a door. And I've seen them in the bathroom of their master bedroom, the furthest spot from the rest of the family, speaking in a hushed voice.
In moments like these, I know: the subconscious is on alert. It will not fully relax in an environment it doesn't trust. If the body is constantly bracing for someone to knock, someone to walk by, someone to overhear, the deeper emotions struggle to surface.
So when this happens, I adjust the pace. I rely less on deep, immersive experiential work. It's not that such work is impossible—it's that I need to shift to a different approach: lighter, slower, more attuned to the part that cannot let its guard down. It's not ideal. But this is what real therapy looks like. In real life, no one can wait until everything is perfectly in place before they begin to heal.
Does IFS Require a Certain Level of Inner Observation Ability and Willingness?
IFS carries an implicit assumption about the client: they need to be able to develop a certain willingness for inner observation—a readiness to notice what is happening inside themselves, to become aware of their "parts."
If you watch IFS demonstrations online, most of the time you'll see clients sitting with their eyes closed, describing what they see and feel. There isn't much back-and-forth. The therapist, in particular, isn't engaged in deep, rigorous verbal reasoning or dialogue. It seems, in some ways, to share a certain resonance with hypnotherapy.
For this reason, I've long felt that IFS requires a certain level of inner observation ability and willingness from the client. And yet, I've always suspected that this isn't entirely correct.
With the global spread of meditation and mindfulness practices, some clients come to therapy already in the habit of inner observation. This is generally good news—especially when it comes to how well they match with IFS. With clients who already have a mindfulness practice, I find IFS flows more smoothly.
But I've also encountered clients who try using inner observation during sessions, only to find that it backfires. Some don't find it useful. Others bring their own ideas and standards about what mindfulness should look like, constantly feeling they're doing it wrong. This generates strong feelings of frustration and inadequacy—which immediately activates the "firefighters," and the whole process of inner observation shuts down.
The therapist doesn't need to push. When the client isn't ready to move forward, simply stay with them where they are. The therapist can still use the IFS framework to observe which parts are showing up and under what circumstances. IFS can still be applied.
And if this premise isn't entirely solid—that IFS requires a certain inner observation ability—then IFS also has no fixed relationship to "short-term, medium-term, or long-term" therapy. It can show up as a moment of sudden insight in brief work, or as a steady companion over the long haul. What truly determines the pace is never the modality itself. It's the person sitting across from you—how far they want to go today, and how far they are able to go.
IFS Helps Therapists Work with Their Own Countertransference
A few years ago, after a Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu class, I was stretching on the mats with a friend who was also in therapy themselves. They suddenly asked me, "Do you have clients you like and clients you don't?"
I smiled and said, "Yes, I do."
This is the difference between a human therapist and an AI therapist. Human beings have their own emotions, habits, and worldviews. We have preferences. The therapeutic relationship is, after all, a form of human relationship—even if it exists only within the four walls of the consulting room, it is still charged with tension.
Every therapist has emotional reactions to their clients. That's normal. Even negative feelings toward a client are part of the process. Recently, I had a dream about a client I find particularly challenging to work with. In the dream, I saw them in what looked like a stadium bleacher. This client, usually so reserved and gentle, suddenly turned and attacked me. I froze. Then they ran off. After some time, I went looking for them—to make sure they were okay.
In that dream, I was processing the confusion, frustration, and discouragement that had come up in my work. And I also saw something else: my own unwavering care for this client, the fact that I would not walk away.
This work inevitably stirs up difficult emotions in the therapist. The task is not to avoid them, but to feel them, to work with them, and together with the client, recalibrate where the two of you are and how you relate. That dynamic process is itself healing.
When I wrote Xuanxuan's story, I talked many times about my own countertransference (see Chapter 3 of Xuanxuan's story). With the help of my own "Self," I was able to connect more deeply with something she had never been able to put into words—the trauma of growing up with domestic violence. Slowly, I found a new way forward through the frustration and confusion that had become a bottleneck in our work.
The IFS approach requires the therapist to continually stay in touch with their own Self. And this process, in itself, protects the therapist—helping them continuously regulate their own emotions and the tension that arises in the room.
Healing is about being seen, being met with empathy. But when a therapist and client come from different backgrounds, hold different views, and still the therapist chooses to walk toward them—to hold them, to lift them—that act of reaching out is what gives healing its deepest meaning.
The Highest Level of Therapy: No Form Beats Formlessness
I am not a certified IFS therapist. Not having paid for a certification doesn't mean I cannot learn, cannot think, cannot reflect. I have never written this series as someone speaking from the authority of "IFS certification." I write as a therapist who encountered IFS in practice, was deeply moved by it, and has been continuously integrating it into my work—sharing what I have seen, what I have thought, and what I remain uncertain about.
My foundational training—during my graduate studies in counseling at Monash University—was rooted in Cognitive Behavioral Therapy. Since then, I have studied a range of different modalities, and I am currently completing my training in Ericksonian hypnosis. My interest in different approaches does not come from a desire to collect them. It comes from a growing conviction:
Any good therapy is tailored to the client.
The longer I practice, the harder it becomes to answer the question, "Which modality do you belong to?" Because that question assumes a premise—that a therapist should belong to a school. But real therapy does not work that way. Real therapy looks like this: In this moment, with this client, what do they need? What can I offer? Maybe IFS language fits. Maybe hypnotic visualization works better. Maybe a CBT framework is more direct. And sometimes, I offer nothing at all—just quiet presence.
I believe that in any profession, this kind of freedom is only possible after reaching a certain level of mastery. I am still on that path, still moving toward that freedom.
So please do not take what I have written as a "standard IFS textbook." This is simply me—a therapist who started with CBT, and along the way encountered IFS, EMDR, hypnosis, and many other things—recording and reflecting on where I am at this stage of the journey.
As a psychotherapist who also practices martial arts, I know firsthand the importance of learning every technique in a Jiu-Jitsu class. But real fighting has always been about borrowing and blending across different styles. When the moment of actual combat arrives, you need to forget the techniques and fully merge into the present exchange with your opponent—trusting that your body knows the best response.
Isn't this also true for psychotherapy? And isn't it true for life itself?
So this final thought is for you, whether you are walking the path of a therapist or simply a lover of psychology:
No form is the highest form.
作者：秦小杰
时间：2026年4月
2025年6月，我做完瑜伽，总是背着瑜伽垫，早上8点就到同一个咖啡厅，开始写作。写作的过程比我想象难很多，本以为自己已经知道的知识，在写的时候头脑里蹦出很多问题，于是原以为一章可以写完的，用了两三章才写完。有时候，我会给自己定一个闹钟，写作的时候难免遇到难题就开始转牛角尖，偶尔会进入到该停却停不下来的状态，肩颈不舒服了也想把那些没理清楚的头绪整理出来，闹钟不止一次的按下。
就这样，进入到北京的冬天，我已经穿着最厚实的大衣了，依然再写IFS。我换了一个咖啡厅，这里我可以在严冬晒着太阳。
2025-2026年小杰写作IFS之时
我希望写作出来的不是纯纯的理论，而是记录我的实践、以及在应用时候的反思和领悟。因为写作，我去深度回顾了两个来访的咨询过程 (请阅读蕊芬咨询故事，以及璇璇咨询故事系列)，去翻阅咨询笔记，回忆当时的咨询情景，这个过程让我站在了上帝视角去看自己的工作，我看到了自己作为咨询师、对来访尽心尽力的心、也有挫败和沮丧，也看到了IFS帮助我突破瓶颈的成长和喜悦。
我相信，写作时使用真实的个案是最真诚的方式，也是最能够帮助大家理解理论如何在实践中真实落地的途径。既然用到了个案，就必须做好伦理方面的考量与把关。这其实是一个不太容易平衡的过程。在写作的过程中，我一直在反思：来访的哪些信息可以写，哪些不适合纳入故事中。对于我的每一位来访，我都怀有深深的敬意。他们选择走进咨询室，那是他们勇敢卸下盔甲的地方，我们建立起一份最珍贵的资源：信任，这允许我去影响他们。这份职业赋予了我们一种特殊的联结，而我希望，即便咨询已经结束，这份联结依然能持续带给他们信心与温暖。当我将稿件发给来访做最后的阅读和知情同意时，我始终希望，这个过程对他们而言依然是一段持续的疗愈体验。
因此，在整个写作过程中，我也时时提醒自己当初的写作初心。我的写作原则也在这样反复的思考中逐渐成形，我都将它们记录了下来，并会持续反思与更新，收录在这篇文章中：
这一写到就到了2026年4月，内在家庭系统疗法(IFS)的写作，没想到进行了为期一年。最后还有一些零碎的对IFS的反思，在写作过程中没有地方到的都留在最后，又舍不得扔，那就作为本次写作的末章吧。
IFS的过程对咨询环境的要求比较高
当然，最理想的状态——任何咨询都需要的状态——是独立、安全、安静的空间。但在现实生活中，这个条件越来越难满足。特别是现在，越来越多的来访选择线上咨询。不是他们不想找个安静的地方，而是他们真的没有时间。生活被挤压得太满了：上班、接送孩子、照顾老人、处理家务……能挤出50分钟已经不容易，哪还有功夫在路上来回折腾？
于是，我见过来访者在车里上线，把座椅调到一个勉强能放松的姿势；见过他们在路边咖啡厅的角落，一边说话一边瞄着有没有人走近；见过他们在公司的会议室里，那是唯一能关上门的地方；也见过他们坐在主卧室的洗手间里——离家人最远的那个——压低声音跟我说话。
每当这种时候，我都知道：潜意识是警觉的。 它不会在一个不安全的环境里完全放松。如果身体随时准备着有人敲门、有人路过、有人听见，那深层的情绪就很难真正浮现。
所以，遇到这种情况，我通常会调整节奏，少用那些大量的、沉浸式的体验式工作。不是不能做，而是要换一种方式——更轻、更缓、更照顾到那个无法放松的部分。这不算理想，但这就是真实的咨询。真实的生活里，没有人能等到一切都准备好了才开始疗愈。
需要来访有一定的内关能力和意愿（吗？）
IFS对来访者有一个隐性的前提：需要能够发展出一定的内观意愿——愿意去观察自己内在发生了什么，能对”部分”有所觉察。
你在网上去看IFS的演示，大部分的时候，会看到咨询中，来访眼睛闭着，描述着自己看到的、感受到的，咨询过程话语并不多，特别是咨询师，没有很深刻严谨的言语思考和对话。似乎，这个过程和催眠有点异曲同工。
所以，这是我一直以来觉得IFS是需要来访有一定的内关意愿和能力的，但我总觉得它又不太正确。
随着冥想内关在全球范围的推广，一部分人在来咨询前就有内观的习惯了，通常这是一个好消息，特别是对IFS对这类来访的匹配性来讲,确实有内关练习的来访，我在应用IFS感觉更加得心应手。而我也遇见一部分来访，会尝试咨询中用内关的方式去觉察自我，但适得其反。他们不喜欢这种方式，一部分人并不觉得有用，一部分人对内关有自己的想法和标准，总觉得自己没有做对，产生强烈的厌倦和挫败感。这会直接激发“消防员”开始工作，中断内关过程。
咨询师不需要勉强。不想往前的时候，就陪ta在现在的位置多待一会儿，咨询师任然可以用IFS的框架去看到这个过程中，来访都是哪些部分、在什么情况下会被激发，依旧可以应用IFS。
那既然这个前提不完全成立，那么，IFS跟“短程中程长程”没有必然的关系。它可以是短程的顿悟，也可以是长程的陪伴。真正决定节奏的，从来不是疗法本身，而是对面的那个人——ta今天想走多远，ta今天能走多远。
IFS能很好地帮助咨询师处理自己的反移情
几年前，一次巴西柔术课结束后，我和一个正在做心理咨询的朋友在地垫上拉伸。ta突然问我：“你有喜欢和不喜欢的来访吗？”
我笑了笑，说：“有啊。”
人类咨询师和AI咨询师的差别就在这里——人类有自己的情绪、习惯和世界观，有对人的偏好。咨询关系说到底也是一种人际关系，哪怕它只存在于咨询室里，也同样充满张力。
每个咨询师对来访都会有自己的情感反应，这很正常。对来访产生负面情绪，也是咨询过程中的一部分。我最近还做了一个梦，我的一个来访，一个咨询起来我也感觉吃力的来访。梦里，我在类似体育场看台的地方见到了ta，一向很内敛亲和的ta突然起来攻击我，我愣住了，后来ta跑走了，过了一段时间，我去找ta，想确认ta是不是一切都好。在梦境里，我在处理工作中出现的困惑、沮丧和挫败感，我也看到了我自己对来访不弃不离的关心。咨询师的这个工作，避免不了这些常见情绪，而是去感受它们、调整它们，在咨询中和来访一起去校准两个人的位置和相处模式。这个动态的过程，本身就是疗愈。
我在写璇璇的故事时，多次谈到自己的反移情（请阅读璇璇咨询故事第三章）。在“真我”的帮助下，也让我更真切的接触到她内心难以用言语表达的，在成长过程受到家暴，形成的创伤，我慢慢从咨询瓶颈中的沮丧、困惑里，找到了一条新的路。IFS的工作方法，需要咨询师不断的和自己的“真我”接触，这个过程本身就在保护咨询师，不断的调节自己的情绪和咨询室里的张力。
疗愈本身，是被看见、被共情。但当咨询师和来访有着不同的经历、不同的观点时，依然选择走向ta，去托举ta——这样的托举，才更有意义。
咨询最高境界：无招胜有招
我并不是一名认证的IFS咨询师，没有付费认证，不代表不能学习、不能思考。我写这一系列文章，从来不是以“IFS认证”的咨询师身份在说话，而是一个在实践中接触了IFS、被它深深触动、并且在持续整合它进入自己工作的咨询师，在分享我的所见、所思、所惑。
我入行时的培训，也就是我在莫纳西大学的心理咨询研究生学习中，根基在认知行为治疗（CBT）。之后，我学习过大量不同的流派，目前正在完成艾瑞克森催眠的培训。我喜欢不同的流派，不是因为我贪多，而是因为我越来越相信一件事：
任何好的咨询，都是给来访者量身定制的。
当我咨询的时间越久，就越难以回答“你到底是哪个流派的”。因为这个问题本身假设了一个前提——咨询师应该属于某个流派。但真实的咨询不是这样的。真实的咨询是：今天这一刻，面对这个来访者，ta需要什么？我能给ta什么？我用IFS的语言可能合适，用催眠的意想化可能更好，用CBT的框架可能更直接，有时候什么都不用，只是安静地陪着。
我相信，任何一个行业，专业到了一定程度之后，才敢有的自由。我也在这个通向这个自由的路上前进。
所以，请不要把我写的这些当作“IFS标准教程”。这只是我——一个从CBT出发、在路上遇到了IFS、EMDR、催眠和各种其他东西的咨询师——在某个阶段的记录和反思。
作为一个喜欢和习练格斗的心理咨询师，我深知在柔术课堂上学习每一个招数的重要性。但真正的格斗，从来都是在不同流派之间相互借鉴、融合。到了实战的那一刻，你需要忘记招式，完全融入与对手较量的当下——相信你的身体知道最好的应对是什么。
这何尝不是心理咨询？又何尝不是生活本身？
所以最后这句话，送给在咨询师道路上、又或许只是心理学爱好者的你我：
无招胜有招。
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