I Used to Think Being an Amputee Would Make Me a Better Therapist

Throughout my career, I’ve spent a lot of time thinking that if I were an amputee myself, I’d probably be a better therapist.

I would better understand the pain, frustration, fear, and exhaustion that come with limb loss. I’d understand what the prosthesis actually feels like instead of relying on someone else trying to describe it to me.

Early on in my career, when I was still trying to make sense of everything that comes with amputee rehabilitation and fully understand what my patients were experiencing, I started having recurring dreams that I was an amputee. Usually the dream involved me getting a prosthesis for the first time or learning how to walk with it. Some variation of that scenario. It happened frequently for years, and honestly, I still have that dream every once in a while.

I think part of that came from spending so much time trying to mentally put myself in my patient’s position.

I’ve also spent years listening carefully. Hundreds of patients describing pain, socket pressure, fear, frustration, setbacks, and successes in detail. Over time, you start recognizing patterns across those experiences, even if you never fully experience them yourself.

There’s another side to that as well. If I had personally gone through limb loss, there’s a good chance I would naturally filter everything through my own experience. What things felt like to me. What worked for me. What my recovery looked like.

One of the biggest things you learn in amputee rehabilitation is how different the experience can be from person to person.

Since I don’t have my own lived experience anchoring me to one version of the process, I think it’s allowed me to stay more open to the wide range of ways patients experience pain, adaptation, and recovery.

The more I’ve thought about it, the more I’ve wondered if the fact that I’m not an amputee may actually give me an advantage in some ways as a therapist.

When a patient says, “You have no idea what I’m going through,” they’re right. I don’t.

At the same time, not carrying that same emotional and physical weight sometimes allows me to continue expecting more when the patient has already started lowering the ceiling on themselves.

I’m honestly not sure I’d hold those same expectations as firmly if I had personally experienced all of this myself. I might back off sooner because I would understand more directly how difficult the process really is.

There’s value in being slightly removed from it.

Sometimes patients need someone who isn’t fully consumed by the frustration, fear, or pain of the current moment and can still see beyond it. Someone willing to keep pushing toward the bigger goal when the patient has started questioning whether that goal is still realistic.

There were definitely patients who got irritated with me because I kept pushing when they wanted me to back off, but I’ve seen how quickly people start lowering expectations for themselves once discomfort, fear, or frustration take over. If nobody pushes back against that, those lowered expectations can become permanent.

Part of the job is understanding the struggle while still anchoring the patient to what may still be possible when they’ve temporarily lost sight of it themselves.