How Psychoanalysis Works (and Why It’s Different): Listening to the Letter

In this article, I describe how psychoanalysis works based on my personal interpretation and clinical practice: a Lacanian-inspired approach where language is central. What follows is not a textbook definition of the entire field, but a personal formulation of the analytic work.

Listening to the unconscious

We often move through life assuming we know exactly why we do what we do, and why we feel what we feel. Yet, almost everyone encounters moments where this certainty crumbles. You might find yourself trapped in a loop of repetitive behaviors, drawn to the same types of unsatisfactory relationships, or burdened by a lingering sense of anxiety that has no obvious cause.

This is where psychoanalysis can help. Psychoanalysis is not merely a treatment but a unique modality of listening, inquiry and understanding. It operates on the premise that the conscious mind—the part of you that is reading this right now—is only the tip of the iceberg. A vast array of desires, memories, and internal logic remains unconscious, yet these unacknowledged narratives actively shape our choices and script much of our lives without us even knowing it.

Beyond symptom management: the symptom as a sentry

When we face a crisis, depression, or a creative block, our instinct is often to find a quick fix—a way to make the bad feeling go away. Most people want a cure. They want to return to who they were before the pain started. While this is an understandable desire, psychoanalysis suggests a different route: a state of malaise is not just an unfortunate accident, and a symptom is not simply a malfunction or the expression of a “disorder”.

They point to something that needs attention, something that—while perhaps illogical to others—holds a specific, unconscious meaning for that person alone, yet remains unacknowledged. In some cases, a symptom might have even represented a sort of solution—albeit a painful one—that the unconscious has invented to solve a problem the conscious mind cannot even articulate.

Consider this: a symptom could be a (painful) compromise created to avoid a potentially even more unpleasant situation: for instance, forgetting an appointment to avoid a dreaded or feared encounter; a fever spiking the day before a scary, important exam; or impotence as a way to avoid the vulnerability of intimacy. Most symptoms appear irrational because we cannot grasp their underlying logic, but they become more intelligible when we access the unspoken assumptions, emotions and desires that drive them.

If we view the symptom as a malfunction, we try to eliminate it. But if we view it as a sentry, we ask: What are you guarding?

A clinical case may help understand better:

A patient suffered from terrible insomnia. She had recently met a fascinating man and envisioned a relationship of deep, almost fusional connection—something both highly desirable and terrifying. Consider the language we use: we fall asleep. We fall in love.

For this woman, “falling” was a catastrophic danger. To sleep was to let go of the clutch of control. To sleep was to fall into the void, just as loving this man felt like a terrifying fall into the abyss. Her insomnia was not a disorder; it was a desperate attempt to stay awake, to stay on guard, to prevent the fall.

The symptom as a pre-text

Your anxiety, your feeling stuck, or your frustration might indicate a truth you have not yet acknowledged. Your difficulties in life might be more than just a ‘lack of will’. Psychoanalysis is an intellectual and creative process that treats them as starting points — as something to be listened to, not simply as deficits. Rather than simply trying to return you to a “normal” state, the process invites you to examine the impasse. It asks: What may be the function of this symptom? What unconscious need might it be serving?

In the quiet of the consulting room, a strange paradox often unfolds. A patient arrives, burdened by a symptom—a panic attack, a depression, a compulsion—and asks to be rid of it. But very quickly, the symptom fades into the background. Unexpected scenarios open up, and the narrative takes over. Sometimes the symptom is almost forgotten, as if it were a sort of pretext—something that presents itself precisely when the narrative comes to a halt.

So far, we’ve looked at symptoms and how psychoanalysis treats them as meaningful rather than as mere malfunctions. But all this rests on a broader idea: that human beings are not just biological organisms, but beings of language.

Beyond biology: how language complicates human experience

We live in an era that loves simplicity. We are often told that for every problem, there is a direct, tangible cause and a standardized solution. If we look at the world through this purely reductionist lens, human behavior can seem deceptively simple.

Consider a common example: a person struggles with their weight. A strictly biological or behavioral perspective might say, “It is simple: they eat because they enjoy food. Or because they don’t have enough information about health and diet. It is a matter of education, calories, and chemistry.” From this viewpoint, there is no need to look further. Why complicate what seems so evident? And in some cases, that may be true.

But when we deal with human beings, the “natural” explanation is never enough. To say someone eats because they “like it” does not answer the question of why they like it, nor does it explain the specific, singular relationship that person has with food and the many paradoxes within it (e.g., anorexia developed in wealthy societies). Humans are not merely biological machines driven by instincts; we are beings of language, narratives, and meaning. And language complicates any supposed natural instinct.

Animals mostly respond to instincts; when it’s the mating season, cats will mate with whatever other cat is nearby. You will rarely find a cat with specific sexual tastes or particular preferences, saying, “I only like ginger cats,” or “I will never go with a tuxedo cat.” This happens in humans, who are immersed in language. It is from language that all fantasies, preferences, and fetishes spring—desires that no longer respond to pure natural instinct and which, furthermore, are not even “rational” from a biological or reproductive standpoint.

How psychoanalysis works: listening to the unsaid

How do we access these unconscious narratives, in practice? The mechanism is deceptively simple: in a psychoanalysis session, you are encouraged to speak freely, without censorship, about whatever comes to mind. As “simple” as that.

Some people ask me if I prescribe medications. When I say I don’t, they ask me if I give advice or solutions. But in psychoanalysis, we generally don’t do that. Consequently, many are left confused, struggling to understand how psychoanalysis works if the analyst doesn’t provide direct answers.

An analyst listens in a peculiar way, distinct from a friend, a counselor, a coach, or a doctor. In our daily lives, we generally listen to gain information, to respond, or to agree. When two people talk, they usually operate on what psychoanalyst Jacques Lacan called the “imaginary axis”—the everyday mode where our egos relate. We tend to assume that when we speak, we share the same dictionary.

Communication is often based on this silent assumption: that we share the same meanings. For instance, when I say “home,” you normally assume you see what I see. But the truth is, when we utter the word “home” (the signifier), we do not really know what image or feeling the other person attaches to it. For one, “home” might be a cozy cottage with a garden; for another, a high-rise city apartment. For some, it signifies warmth and safety; for others, it might evoke suffocation or conflict. You might nod in agreement, but what I meant and what you understood are often two very different things.

In ordinary conversation, we gloss over these differences, guessing the meaning based on our own worldview. We treat the stranger as a familiar reflection of ourselves. An analyst, however, listens for the differences—for the unique, private language that you alone speak.

In ordinary life, or in other therapeutic approaches, the goal is often to find immediate answers or provide explanations. We seek to resolve uncertainty with common sense, empathy, or advice. Psychoanalysis, however, takes a different stance. It is not about explaining your life to you; rather, it is about investigating the often unconscious premises that underpin what you say.

Instead of rushing to “understand” or fix, the analyst listens for what does not immediately fit—the hesitations, the contradictions, the things that “don’t add up.” The aim is not to apply universal rules, but to bring to the surface the specific memories, thoughts, and associations that silently influence your behavior yet are usually taken for granted. Psychoanalysis turns its attention to this unique fabric of your thought, examining the unspoken assumptions that script your life. It is here, rather than in generic explanations or “common sense,” that the work of analysis takes place.

Psychoanalysis introduces a crucial third element into the room: the speech. The work is not an analysis of a person—diagnosing why you are this way or that—but an analysis of a discourse. Everyone finds themselves carrying a discourse, willing or not. The analyst listens to this because, in everything one says, there is always something that escapes, something that remains obscure even to oneself. In the gap between what you mean to say and what is actually heard, the Other emerges.

The unconscious: Not “deep below,” but in your words

In pop culture, the unconscious is often pictured as a basement—a dark place deep “under” our mind where secrets are hidden. However, a more accurate way to understand it is through language. The unconscious is not necessarily hidden below; it is right there, on the surface, living in the gaps of what we say—in the slip of the tongue, the recurring dream, the joke that hides a truth, and the specific words you choose. It is the “Other” of the word — not a mystical entity, but the level at which language says more (and other things) than we consciously intend.

In psychoanalysis, we pay attention to the signifier — the specific words you choose, the exact wording and sound — because words always carry more than one meaning. We listen for the slip of the tongue, the odd choice of word, the repetition that makes no sense to you but insists on being heard. We listen not for what you intend to say, but for what you actually say.

For example, a person might say, “My father is a rock.”
On the conscious level, the intended meaning could be: “He is reliable, solid, a foundation.”
But language is slippery. A rock is also hard. It is cold. It is heavy. It can crush you.

When we speak, we think we are conveying a single message, but the “Other” of the signifier is always present, carrying meanings that diverge from our intentions. Psychoanalysis listens for this “Other” meaning—the truth that slips out when we think we are just making conversation.

An analyst listens to hear a different story unfolding. They listen for the slips of the tongue, the hesitations, contradictions, and the recurring themes that you might not even notice.

The narratives we construct are often partial; they do not tell the whole story. The analyst’s role is to gently disrupt the consistency of your account. By introducing questions that challenge your certainty, the analyst helps you hear your own voice in a new way. You begin to question the beliefs and assumptions you always took for granted. This is not about the analyst giving you advice or judging your choices; it is about creating a space where you can dismantle the “stories” you have told yourself and make your certainties waver. By giving these stories a different outcome and setting the narrative in motion again, you open up the possibility of a different existence.

The equivocity of the signifier: why words matter more than you think

To hear the unconscious, we must stop listening to meanings and start listening to signifiers—the sound and shell of the word. We must listen “to the letter.”

We are often strangers to our own choices. We believe we choose our careers, our partners, and our passions freely, just because “we like them”, or maybe “for no specific reasons at all”. But often, we ignore significant unconscious motives that are driving us precisely in that direction.

I recall a man who came to analysis. He was a structural engineer, specializing in earthquake-proof housing. He spent his days calculating “breaking loads” and “fragility curves.” Why this specific vocation? As he spoke, it became clear. His internal world felt perpetually on the verge of collapse. He was terrified of emotional earthquakes. His profession was an external attempt to solve an internal problem: he was trying to build a structure that could withstand the tremors of his own history.

Similarly, another man—a carpenter by trade—became obsessed during the pandemic with designing a specific type of filter for face masks. He worked on it tirelessly. Why this passion? He was a man who struggled to speak his mind, who felt choked by the fear of conflict. A mask covers the mouth. A filter… filters words. He was building a physical machine to do what he could not do psychologically: filter the dangerous things he wanted to say but felt were also harming him.

Another man, also an engineer, developed a career in eco-sustainability. He developed an expertise in purification systems and the use of materials with low environmental impact. His education was inspired by religious values and a deep respect for the environment and people, which often led him to feel guilty toward others. Little by little, in analysis, the interesting link emerged between a certain ideal of “purity” and, coincidentally, a career in the engineering of purifiers.

These are not coincidences. They are the conscious answers to unconscious questions. But to grasp these links, one must know how to play with signifiers and disconnect them for a moment from their “standard” meanings. It might seem absurd to most, and indeed, these things often provoke laughter; but those who practice psychoanalysis know that these stories are commonplace, and they are by no means simple jokes.

Ultimately, psychoanalysis is not about “fixing” you, because you are not broken. It is about freedom. When we remain unaware of the unconscious scripts directing our lives, we are compelled to repeat the same mistakes, suffer the same anxieties, and stumble over the same obstacles. We are actors reciting lines written by a stranger. Psychoanalysis helps you read that script.

By listening to the letter of your speech, psychoanalysis allows you to have some understanding of your symptoms, so that you can stop repeating them over and over. It offers you the chance to take ownership of your story—not to erase it, but to punctuate it differently. This shift in meaning reveals possibilities and scenarios that were previously unseen, making them available to you now.

 

 

 

Explore Further:

For a concise summary and some introductory videos on how psychoanalysis works click here