Episode 3- Mind-Body Dualism-Part 2- The Question of Experience

In the 26th episode of Philosophers in the Therapy Room with Stephan Dietrich, President of the Austrian Daseinsanalytic Institute, we explore what makes Daseinsanalysis distinctive, not simply a different set of techniques, but a different way of meeting another person. In many therapeutic approaches, the therapist enters the room with a framework through which the client’s experience can be assessed, interpreted, or organised. Daseinsanalysis asks for something prior to this. It asks whether the therapist can become open enough to receive the other person before deciding what their experience means. This openness is not passive. It requires a particular kind of discipline: the willingness to suspend judgement, including not only diagnostic or therapeutic judgement, but also what phenomenology would describe as a form of objectifying judgement of knowledge—where experience is approached through logical classification, interpretation, and theoretical explanation, as if what the other person lives could already be fully grasped as an object of knowledge. The therapist is therefore not positioned outside the encounter as a detached observer. They are present within it, affected by it, and made vulnerable through it. To receive another person is to allow their world to reach us without immediately reducing it to a category, symptom, explanation, or theory. This vulnerability does not mean losing clinical responsibility or abandoning professional knowledge. Rather, it means holding knowledge lightly enough that the person before us is not overshadowed by what we think we know about them. In this conversation with Stephan Dietrich, we learn more about this unique therapeutic stance: what it means for the therapist to remain open, to suspend judgement, and to encounter the client not merely as a psychological subject to be understood, but as a human being whose way of existing is gradually disclosed within the therapeutic relationship. Perhaps the distinctive question of Daseinsanalysis is not simply, “What is happening inside this person?” but rather: “How is the world opening or failing to open for this person, and what becomes possible when we are willing to meet them there?”

In contemporary discourse, the term lived experience is present everywhere; it appears in therapy rooms, political spaces, academic institutions, activist movements, and mental health frameworks. It often arrives carrying an ethical demand: to listen to those who have lived through suffering, marginalisation, trauma, displacement, or exclusion. And perhaps rightly so. But what do we actually mean when we speak of lived experience? In this episode of Philosophers in the Therapy Room, Dr Sammema and I return to the phenomenological roots of the concept through thinkers such as Maurice Merleau-Ponty and Eugene Gendlin: discussing lived experience not as a static identity or personal possession, but as an embodied way of being-in-the-world. For Merleau-Ponty, experience is never detached cognition observing reality from outside. We encounter the world through the lived body through movement, perception, memory, affect, and relation. And for Gendlin, the body is not separate from its world but already intertwined with it, much like the foot that knows the ground as it walks upon it. Experience is not merely inside us; it is the ongoing dialogue between body and world. But we also ask a difficult question: What happens when the language of lived experience becomes institutionalised? Can a concept originally intended to illuminate embodied existence become another mechanism of classification? Another border between those whose experiences are recognised and those whose suffering remains unintelligible? When lived experience hardens into identity categories alone, something of its phenomenological depth may be lost. The fluidity, ambiguity, and openness of existence risk being reduced to administrative labels, social credentials, or fixed positions from which one is permitted or forbidden to speak. In this conversation, we explore the ethical and philosophical tensions surrounding lived experience: as embodiment, as situated existence, as intersubjective meaning, and as a concept vulnerable to appropriation, reduction, and exclusion. Because perhaps lived experience was never meant to close the conversation. Perhaps it was meant to deepen our capacity to encounter the world and one another more carefully.

Compassion is one of the most familiar words in our moral vocabulary. We are encouraged to practise it, to cultivate it, to extend it—to others, and to ourselves. And yet, in the therapy room, compassion often arrives… confused. In this episode of Philosophers in the Therapy Room, we turn to compassion not as a moral ideal, but as a lived experience. Drawing on phenomenology and the philosophy of moral emotions, we explore compassion as a movement of the heart—a response that emerges when another’s suffering is no longer neutral to us. But what happens when this movement cannot find its way into action? When we cannot fix, cannot relieve, cannot change what we witness? In the therapy room, in caregiving, and in our shared world, we are often confronted with suffering that resists intervention.

There is a particular kind of exhaustion that does not come from overwork alone: It comes from holding a world together. In this episode of Philosophers in the Therapy Room, we turn to burnout not simply as a stress response, not merely as nervous system depletion but as a lived experience of alienation. Drawing on the thought of Karl Marx, we explore the idea that burnout may not always signal personal fragility, but a deeper structural condition: the reduction of the human being to function. But our focus today is not only on the corporate worker. It is the carer; The mother who has not slept properly in years.The partner caring for a spouse with dementia, the adult child navigating the slow disappearance of a parent. Carers often live in a strange and painful in-between. The loved one is present and yet not fully present. The relationship continues, but not as it once was. To care, in such circumstances, is to inhabit a world where presence and absence coexist. And living in that ambiguity carries an ontological strain. So we ask: When someone comes to therapy burned out, are we treating a nervous system or a political condition? What does therapy risk doing if it simply restores the worker or the carer to the machine of obligation? And how do we differentiate burnout from depression, from moral injury, from existential crisis? This episode is an invitation to think more deeply about exhaustion and to consider whether therapy can become a space not of re-optimisation, but of re-humanisation.

Hope is often spoken of as reassurance — a promise that things will improve, that suffering will ease, that the future will be kinder than the present. But in this episode of Philosophers in the Therapy Room, we pause before such promises. We ask instead: what kind of thing is hope, when certainty has already fallen away? Our guest today is Dr Denis O'Hara, whose work invites us to think of hope not as a single feeling, but as something that moves through different layers of human life. In our conversation, Denis describes three modes of hope as they appear in psychology. There is a general form of hope, often rooted in our earliest experiences — a quiet, bodily sense that the world can be met, that life might carry us rather than abandon us. There is also a more particular hope, directed toward tasks and goals, the kind of hope that leans toward outcomes and effort. And then there is transformative hope: a form of hope that does not simply aim for improvement, but gestures toward becoming otherwise. In this episode, I re-enter these three modes through a phenomenological and existential lens, guided by the work of Ernst Bloch and Byung-Chul Han. When seen this way, general hope reveals itself as ontological — not something we possess, but something we find ourselves within. It is an attunement to the world as unfinished, to life as still underway. Bloch names this openness the not-yet, and it is here that hope becomes the condition for the future to appear at all. Goal-oriented hope, then, belongs to lived experience. It is phenomenological. It shows itself not as certainty, but as movement — as motivation, as enthusiasm, as a subtle leaning toward what has not yet taken shape. As Han reminds us, hope does not banish uncertainty; it needs it. Where everything is secured, hope has no breath. Transformative hope moves even deeper. It is existential. It arises when one remains with uncertainty without rushing toward closure — when one finds the courage to stay open to what is still forming. This is not hope as comfort, but hope as exposure. Hope as the willingness to be changed. Throughout this conversation, we reflect on how these different modes of hope appear in the therapy room — and how therapy itself might become a space that protects hope without demanding it, that holds open the future without prescribing its shape. This episode is an invitation to listen for hope where it is quietest: not as a promise of outcomes, but as the courage of the not-yet.