The Resonant Clients | Internal Family Systems Therapy (12)

This article was originally written in English by the author Qin Xiaojie (Counselor, Psychotherapist) and later translated into Chinese by DeepSeek, adhering to the original intent of the writing and the ethical principles of writing about client experiences.

文章由作者秦小杰（心理咨询师，心理治疗师）用英文文写作，后经Deepseek翻译成中文（向下滑动到后半部分可见），秉持：写作初心和来访咨询故事写作伦理原则。

Author: Xiaojie Qin

Time: March 2026

Over the course of eleven chapters, I have offered a comprehensive introduction to the core concepts and my practical applications of Internal Family Systems (IFS) therapy, illustrated through the therapy journeys of two clients, Rose and Xuanxuan.

In this chapter, I want to take a step back and offer my broader perspective on what makes IFS distinctive—its strengths, its unique qualities. In shaping this chapter, I hold a particular question close, one I believe may also be on many readers' minds:

Who, exactly, is IFS best suited for?

I have never believed that any one therapeutic approach belongs to a specific type of person—a good therapy, in its own way, can touch almost anyone. But I have also come to see that when a therapy’s underlying philosophy meets a person’s inner landscape, healing can unfold more deeply, more smoothly, more naturally.

What sets IFS apart is its radical trust in human nature—the belief that within every person lies a core Self that is whole, wise, and compassionate. This foundational assumption resonates deeply with humanistic psychology, yet it also moves beyond it. Humanistic therapy gives us direction; it tells us there is a trustworthy center within. IFS gives us a map—a step-by-step guide for how to get there, how to work with the “parts” that obscure the Self, how to make our way, slowly, back home.

Through my own practice and reflection, I have found that IFS speaks particularly clearly to certain kinds of clients.

High Achievers and Those with a Strong Need for Control

They may present as perfectionistic, highly rational, and accustomed to being in control. Many who carry these traits are also what we call "high achievers." If you've read the earlier chapters, you'll recognize Xuanxuan as someone with these typical characteristics.

Unlike Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT)—which can sometimes feel direct, even blunt—CBT identifies "cognitive distortions," and the therapist's goal is to help the client be aware of these distortions, challenge and reconstructuring them, as if knowing what's wrong is enough to fix it, and fixing it will make everything better. It's a clean, straight line on paper. But in real practice, the immediate results CBT can show often begin to reveal their limitations as therapy moves into the middle stage. That's where the deep trauma hides—at the threshold of "I know, but I still can't do it." In Chapter 2 of Xuanxuan's story, I wrote about this very dilemma that challenged our work together. The standard CBT model does not, in fact, delve deeply into trauma memory. (Of course, trauma-focused variations like TF-CBT have since been developed.)

IFS takes a different path. It invites the client to turn toward the part that says "I can't," to listen to it, to witness it, to help it release what it has been carrying—and then, naturally, let the Self take the lead. In Chapter 6 of Xuanxuan's story, "The Waiting Room," I walk through a concrete counseling scene where this process unfolds in dialogue. This approach—one that does not dismantle defenses—is precisely what allows the protector to willingly step back.

This gentleness, to me, is IFS's greatest strength. Rooted deeply in the humanistic tradition of acceptance and non-judgment, it invites you into conversation with your own parts. It is precisely this quality of gentleness and acceptance that allows the long-tense protectors to finally pause, to be willing to "unblend." IFS does not seek to "fix" you. It helps you create coherence—a kind of inner harmony—within your system.

Clients Who Have Experienced Deep Trauma

While everyone experiences some degree of hardship in life, not everyone has endured what we might call "deep trauma." In my practice, I sometimes invite certain clients to complete a simple questionnaire to help me understand their early experiences—the Adverse Childhood Experiences (ACE) questionnaire. It covers traumas such as physical abuse, sexual abuse, emotional neglect, domestic violence, parental divorce or loss, and household members struggling with incarceration or mental illness.

The clients I've worked with—those navigating alcohol dependence, sex addiction, compulsive shopping, bipolar disorder, self-harm, or suicidal ideation—have often carried profound wounds. Among those struggling with severe anxiety and depression, some survived childhood sexual abuse. In 2021, when I co-founded Project A with Megan Purvis—an initiative focused on group and individual therapy for women recovering from domestic violence—I witnessed firsthand the brutal reality of physical and emotional abuse within intimate relationships. (If you're interested in learning more about group counseling, domestic violence recovery, or trauma-related work, please refer to the compiled resource on this topic: Healing from Domestic Violence).

Trauma is delicate ground in therapy. Handled poorly, it can wound again. During the years I facilitated community mental health support groups, I often heard people say: "Every time I switch therapists, I have to retell my whole childhood trauma story. It's exhausting." Some had given up on therapy altogether. It seemed those therapists, eager to gather information, pushed forward too quickly—without fully considering where the client was in that moment, how to stabilize them, or how to pace the work.

Let's begin with a foundational question: Who leads in therapy?

Different schools answer differently. In psychoanalysis, the therapist, as interpreter, takes a strongly guiding role. Humanistic therapy hands the lead back to the client, trusting in their innate capacity for growth. CBT falls somewhere in between—the therapist acts as an "expert of the process of change", collaborating with the client to set the agenda.

But when we narrow the question—who leads when working with clients carrying severe trauma?

In the trauma field, there is a core principle I've heard echoed in supervision again and again, one colleagues remind each other of constantly: The client leads in pace and depth; the therapist leads in structure.

Why? Because trauma, at its heart, is about loss of control. In the moment it happened, the client lost agency over their body and their environment. Healing, then, requires that they reclaim that sense of control. If a therapist pushes forward—even with the best intentions—they risk recreating, in form if not in content, the very experience of being controlled by another.

I remember working with a teenage client. Months into our sessions, they still spent most of our time recounting recent events—the same themes circling back, again and again. There were cognitive patterns that needed attention, but we never seemed to reach that "problem-solving" stage. One day, I decided to interrupt. For most clients, an interruption is fine—therapy is, after all, a dialogue. But for this young person—so alone, so hungry for control—that interruption reopened an old wound: No one wants to hear me. They slipped into a hypo-aroused state, grew foggy, leaned back down and drifted into sleep.

This wasn't an isolated incident. In my work with Xuanxuan (Chapter 5 of her story), a similar moment arose—though by then, my skills had matured, and I was better able to hold her when she became overwhelmed.

That session taught me something indelible: as therapists, we don't know, at first glance, where trauma lives. Looking back, I see now that for that young client, simply being heard was the therapeutic work. What I should have done was not redirect the conversation, but gently guide them to notice the part that kept circling—and get curious about it.

I've also been on the other side of the room. Once, during my own therapy, my therapist asked directly about a major trauma in my life—and then pressed for details. I didn't want to go there. It didn't feel like the right time. But I trusted them, so I answered, question after question. I was led, step by step, through the telling of a deep wound. When I left, my scalp tingled. Inside, I felt numb. It was not a good session.

Trauma memories are stored in the nonverbal regions of the brain. When clients are asked to "narrate" their trauma without controlling the pace or depth, they can easily slip into a stress response—the language centers of the brain essentially go offline. This doesn't just fail to support healing; it can cause real harm.

What makes IFS different is this: it does not ask clients to dredge up childhood memories or recount traumatic events again and again. Instead, it invites them, in the present moment, to turn toward the wounded exile—the part that carries the pain. That part may have been born in childhood, but it lives here now, in the body, in the emotions. We listen to the voice that has never been heard. We let it know: You are no longer that age. You are safe now.

None of this means the therapist is passive. We hold the container. We watch the protectors. We help the client return to the present when they begin to drown. And beneath it all lies a crucial technical foundation—the "Waiting Room." Only when the client's protectors are ready can we safely approach the trauma. This is a practice of patient waiting—and a form of profound guardianship.

Clients Who Resist Being Defined by Traditional Diagnostic Labels

If you've read my writing principles and intentions, you'll notice that throughout my work, I consciously try avoiding reducing clients to their diagnostic labels.

Labels are a double-edged sword. As a therapist who once lived under the weight of a "bipolar disorder" label myself, I carry a deep, personal understanding of what labels can do. For some, receiving a diagnosis for the first time brings a sense of relief—it offers explanation, accommodation, even a certain kind of protection. But there is another side. Unconsciously, when maintaining the label becomes tied to preserving those benefits, a person can find themselves trapped within its description. And that, I believe, can profoundly hinder the unfolding of one's potential—the kind of self-actualization Maslow placed at the very peak of human development.

Real healing and growth, to me, is ultimately a process of shedding the label. It is about coming to terms with one's uniqueness and finding a way to live alongside it—recognizing that the very traits hidden behind the struggle can, in other contexts, become invaluable resources.

This is where IFS's foundational logic shines. Its core premise, in the words of founder Dr. Richard Schwartz, is simple: There are no bad parts. In an IFS introduction video I watched on YouTube, he put it this way:

"There are no bad parts. It’s the nature of mind to be multiple. People with the diagnosis of DID (Dissociative Identity Disorder) are of no difference than anybody in this workshop, except that their system got blown up more by the horrific trauma that they suffer every day. The alters called in DID are what I call parts. It’s the nature of the mind to be multiple, it isn’t the product of trauma. that’s the mistake of the DID world makes is to say that the nature of the mind is unitary. And the parts are pathological. There are no bad parts as a core thing! the main part of IFS treatment is having conversations with the parts, letting the parts talk, rather than silence and blame the parts."

In his book No Bad Parts, Dr. Schwartz emphasizes again and again: the heart of IFS work is not to silence parts or blame them, but to enter into dialogue with them—to let them speak. Healing becomes possible only when we stop treating parts as "problems to be eliminated" and begin seeing them as "presences worthy of being heard."

Clients on a Spiritual Path or Seeking Meaning and Purpose

In reflecting on which clients have responded most deeply to IFS in my practice, I've noticed a common thread. They tend to be people who engage in some form of inner exploration—those who meditate, who are willing to sit with difficult emotions, who hold a relatively open stance toward life and its questions.

IFS, as a bottom-up therapeutic modality, largely bypasses the prefrontal cortex. It works through sensory awareness, through direct engagement with the subconscious. In Chapter 2 of Xuanxuan's story, I described how some of these techniques might strike certain people as a little "woo-woo"—and if you're curious what that actually looks like in a session, I invite you to read it. But it is precisely this willingness to step outside rigid scientific formalism that allows us to touch the territories where empirical methods have no answers—the ultimate questions, the ineffable.

Clients with Somatic Symptoms

Some clients arrive with physical complaints that medicine cannot explain—chronic pain, chest tightness, digestive issues. IFS understands these symptoms as parts of the psyche speaking through the body. As a bottom-up therapy, it guides clients to listen—really listen—to what lies beneath the physical sensation. And when they do, something shifts. The symptoms themselves often begin to change.

This is a gentle path of mind-body integration. And here, IFS overlaps significantly with somatic therapy. Both traditions share a fundamental conviction: the body holds what has not been fully felt, what has not yet found its way into words.

IFS is not yet a widely known modality. When I was writing this series, I searched across major websites in China and found very limited resources available. Whether you are a client seeking a healing path that truly fits you, or a therapist exploring new approaches to bring into your practice, I hope this chapter offers you a clear and grounded reference.

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作者：秦小杰

时间：2026年3月

至此，我已通过十一章的篇幅，借助蕊芬和璇璇两位来访者的咨询案例，完整地介绍了内在家庭系统疗法（IFS）的核心理论与实践应用。

在这一章，我想从整体视角来谈谈IFS的特色与优势。而在组织这一章时，我有一个特别的关切——我相信这也是读者们最迫切想知道的问题：

究竟哪类人群适合内在家庭系统疗法？

我从不认为某种疗法只适用于某一类人——好的疗法总能以某种方式触及人心。但我也看到，当疗法的底层逻辑与一个人的内在特质相遇时，疗愈会来得更深、更顺、更自然。IFS的独特之处在于，它对人性持有一种根本性的信任——相信每个人内在都有一个完整、智慧、充满慈悲的“真我”。这种底层逻辑与人本主义心理学深度呼应，却又超越了它：人本主义为我们指明了方向，告诉我们每个人都有一个值得信任的内在核心；而IFS则提供了一张具体的路线图，告诉我们如何抵达那里，如何与那些遮挡真我的“部分”工作，如何一步步‘回家’。

在我的实践和反思中，我发现IFS尤其能够回应以下几类来访者的需求。

高成就者与有较强控制需求的来访者

他们可能表现为完美主义、高度理性、习惯掌控一切，很多具有这些特征的人也是“高成就者”。如果你读过我之前的章节，会发现来访者璇璇 (第一章：高功能外表下的双相风暴与咨询困局) 就是一个具有这些典型特征的人。

与认知行为疗法（CBT）不同——CBT有时会显得直接，它会界定哪些是“认知扭曲”，咨询师的工作目标就是帮助来访者纠正这些扭曲，仿佛只要知道哪里错了，就能改好，改好了就一切都好了。这是一条很理想的直线图。真实的咨询中，CBT的立竿见影的效果，当跟来访咨询进入到中期，就会显现出局限性，因为创伤深处藏着的就是，我知道但是我做不到的那个关卡，在璇璇的咨询故事第二章中，我也写出了我们咨询的一个大的困扰。CBT的标准模式确实较少直接处理创伤记忆。当然，后来发展出了针对创伤的CBT变式（如Trauma-Focused CBT）。

IFS邀请来访去那个“我做不到”的部分，去聆听去见证去释放掉包袱，然后由“真我”自然接管。我在撰写来访璇璇咨询故事的第六章等候室，就用具体的咨询场景描述了这部分是如何在对话中展开的。这种不强行解除防御的方式，恰恰让控制者愿意退后一步。

IFS的这种温和，在我看来，是它巨大的优势。它深刻地带着人本主义式的接纳、不评判的态度，邀请你与自己的部分对话。正因为这份温和与接纳，那些长期紧绷的保护者才愿意停下来，才愿意“去融合”。它不试图“修正”你，而是帮助你创造一个内在系统的“ 和谐 ”。

经历过深度创伤的来访者

尽管所有人一生中都会经历一定程度的创伤，但并非所有人都经历过“深度的创伤”。在我咨询中，部分来访我会让他们做一个简单的问卷，帮助我了解他们的童年经历——儿童期不良经历问卷。这份问卷涉及的创伤包括：身体虐待、性虐待、情感忽视、家庭暴力、父母离异或丧失、家庭成员入狱或患有精神疾病等。

我接触过的来访者，从酗酒者、性成瘾、购物成瘾到、双相情感障碍患者，到有自伤历史、自杀倾向的个体，很多都经历过严重的创伤。有着严重特定焦虑和抑郁的来访中，有些在童年也遭受过性侵。2021年，在我与Megan Purvis合作创立Project A——专注为家暴女性康复提供团体和个体咨询时，我更是目睹了亲密关系中极为严重的肢体暴力和情感暴力。（如果你有兴趣了解团体咨询、家暴康复、创伤等相关信息，请打开收藏这篇关于此话题的总汇：家暴康复）.

创伤在咨询中是一个需要小心处理的主题，因为处理不当确实有可能让来访者再次受伤。我记得，在我引导社区心理健康互助小组的那几年，不止一次听到大家说：换了咨询师后，又要重新讲述童年的悲惨遭遇，身心疲惫，也有人因此放弃了咨询。听起来，那些咨询师从一开始就有较强的引导，急于收集资料、了解来访，却对来访当下的状态、如何稳定情绪、如何推进咨询过程，考虑得不够周全。

先问一个基础问题：在咨询工作中，谁来主导？

不同流派对这个问题的回答各不相同。精神分析取向中，咨询师作为诠释者，承担着较强的引导角色；人本主义则将主导权交还给来访，相信来访者自身有成长的动力；而CBT介于两者之间，咨询师作为“专家”，与来访合作制定议程。

但当我们把问题进一步聚焦——在跟有严重创伤的来访工作时，谁来主导？

在创伤领域，有一个基本原则，是我在督导过程中反复听到的，也是同行交流时常用来提醒彼此的：来访者主导节奏和深度，咨询师主导安全和框架。

为什么？因为创伤的本质是“失控”——在创伤发生的瞬间，来访者失去了对自己身体和环境的掌控。治疗的修复过程，恰恰需要让来访者重新体验“掌控感”。如果咨询师强行推进，即使内容正确，也可能在形式上重复“被他人掌控”的创伤体验。

我记得跟一个青少年来访工作了几个月后，ta仍然乐此不疲地讲述最近发生的事情，同样的话题反复出现，而ta的认知有部分需要调整，但咨询似乎很难进入“解决问题”的环节。终于有一次，我决定打断ta。对于大部分来访，打断是可以接受的，咨询本就是两个人交流的过程。但对于这个孤单、又需要很多掌控感的小来访来说，那次的打断让ta再次体验到了创伤——那种没有人愿意听我讲话的创伤。ta当下就进入到低唤起状态，整个人开始浑浑噩噩，居然睡了过去；来访瞬间混沌要入睡的情况在咨询室里并非孤例。在跟人到中年的璇璇咨询时（见璇璇咨询故事第五章），也出现过类似的情形——好在那个时候我的咨询技术更成熟了一些，在她应激时，我能够更好地托举住她。

那次咨询给我留下很深的印象：创伤在哪里，作为咨询师，我们不是见到来访的那一刻就知道的。现在回想起来，对于这个来访而言，能有人听ta讲话，本身就是有效的咨询过程。当时我不该转移话题，而应该引导ta去关注那个不断重复的部分，去了解它。

我自己在接受心理咨询时，也有过一次不好的体验。有一次，咨询师直接问到我生命中一个非常大的创伤，追问了很多细节。我当时并不想聊这些，并不觉得是时候。但我本着对咨询师的信任，回答了每一个问题。整个过程就是一问一答，我被牵着去描述一个很大的创伤。离开咨询室时，我头皮发麻，内心有一种麻痹的感受。

创伤记忆存储在大脑的非语言区域。当来访者被要求“讲述”创伤时，如果节奏和深度不由他们控制，很容易触发应激反应，导致大脑的语言中枢基本离线——这不仅无法进行有效的治疗性加工，还可能造成二次创伤。

IFS的独特之处在于，它不要求我们去大量回忆童年细节，更不需要反复讲述创伤事件，而是邀请我们在当下与那个受伤的流放者对话——它可能来自童年，但此刻它就活在我们的身体和情绪里。我们去体会它从未能被听见的声音，让它知道：它已经不是当时的那个年纪了，它已经脱离危险了。

当然，咨询师并非完全被动。我们负责提供稳定的容器、观察保护者的状态、在来访者被淹没时帮助ta回到当下。这背后有一个关键的技术支撑——“等候室”。只有来访的保护者部分准备好了，我们才能与创伤对话。这是一场需要耐心的等待，也是一份值得的守护。

不想被传统诊断标签束缚的来访

大家如果读了我的来访故事写作原则和初心，就能看到，我在写作中会尽量弱化对来访症状的标签化。标签是一把双刃剑。做为一个心理咨询师，我曾经也背负着“双相情感障碍”生活过，我对标签有着深刻的体验。一方面，一些人在拿到诊断后，会有某种释然的感受。它可能带来理解、特殊安排甚至某种程度的保护；另一方面，潜意识若在维持这些利益往往需要保留标签，于是人便不得不在标签的描述下继续生活，而这会严重阻碍一个人自我潜力的发展和马斯洛理论顶层的自我实现。

我相信，真正的康复以及自我成长，最终都是一个撕掉标签的过程，去正视自己的独特、并找到方式与之共存，那些问题后背的特质，往往在另一些时候，是宝贵的资源。而IFS的底层逻辑，恰好能够很好地做到这一点。IFS的核心前提，用创始人理查德·施瓦茨博士的话来说，就是“没有坏的部分”。我曾在油管的一个IFS介绍视频中，听到他这样的描述：

“心智的本质就是多元的。被诊断为分离型人格障碍（也曾被称为多重人格障碍）的人，和这个工作坊（当时他在现场教学）里的其他人没有任何不同，只不过他们的系统被每天经历的可怕创伤冲击得更严重而已。DID中所称的‘人格’，就是我所说的‘部分’。心智的多元性不是创伤的产物，而是心智本来的样子。DID 领域的误区在于认为心智的本质是单一的，而‘部分’是病态的。”

施瓦茨博士在《没有坏部分》一书中反复强调：IFS 治疗的核心，不是让部分沉默，也不是指责它们，而是与各个部分对话，让它们说话。当我们不再把部分视为“需要消灭的问题”，而是“值得倾听的存在”，疗愈才有了真正的可能。

灵性追寻者与探索人生意义以及困境的来访

在我的工作中，当我反思哪几个来访对IFS的反应非常好的时候，他们都有共同的特质，一是都会日常做深心灵的探索，会做冥想，愿意去体验自己的负面情绪，对人生已经保持相对较开放的态度。

作为一个由下至少的心理咨询流派，咨询过程本身就大量饶过大脑前额叶，通过感官察觉，来跟潜意识工作。璇璇咨询故事的第二章，我就提到了咨询过程，部分人也许会觉得一些工作手法有点“神叨叨”的，具体在咨询中是如何体验的，请大家阅读。但就是这种仿佛不严谨的过程，让我们得以去触碰科学方法没有答案的终极领域。

躯体化症状人群

一些来访者带着医院查不出原因的身体症状而来——慢性疼痛、胸闷、肠胃不适。IFS将这些症状理解为“部分”在通过身体说话。作为一个“自下而上”的治疗方法，咨询师会引导来访者学会倾听这些身体感受背后的“部分”，症状往往会发生变化。这是一种温和的身心整合路径。在这一点上，IFS和躯体化疗法重合度极高，两者都相信身体承载着未被处理的情绪与记忆。

IFS并不是一个常见的流派，我写这一系列文章时，在我中国国内的主要网站上做过搜索，有的资源非常少。无论你是一位正在寻找适合自己疗愈方式的来访者，还是一位正在探索新疗法的咨询师，我都希望通过这一章的梳理，为你提供一份清晰的参照。