I can remember it well; there was a time at university when professors and lecturers would bring their real-life experience to young students like me. I lived through the transition of these classes, where professors would directly share their experiences with patients. At that time, everyone used the term ‘patient’ rather than ‘client’, and this was before the invention of slides. Then the slides came along, which might be fine for other fields, but for psychology, even as a young student, I wondered whether I could have just stayed at home or in a library and learned directly from the source — the book — rather than from a representation of it in slides. In those days, caught between firsthand experience and spontaneity, and the mechanical reliance on slides, I was employed by the University of Palermo in Italy. As part of my administrative role, I was co-responsible for organising an international conference. It was at this event that I met Daniel Stern, a renowned American psychoanalyst and developmental psychologist, best known for his work on infant development and his influential theories on the formation of the self. I was just a graduate, there to support the conference with practical aspects, so I couldn’t focus on everything he was saying. Later on, I heard he needed a taxi to return to the US.

My boss, in a gesture of generosity but also as an extension of her ego, suggested we drive him and his wife to the airport. Although I knew this wasn’t part of my very underpaid and exploited job description, I promptly seized the opportunity. I was fascinated by his research and his presentation. The drive to the airport wasn’t what I had anticipated; instead of gaining deeper insights into his life, thoughts, or research, we simply enjoyed a casual conversation. They were a lovely couple, sharing how much they loved Italy, especially Sicily, and even trying to impress me with a few sentences in Italian. We didn’t end up discussing his presentation, but he did recommend I read A Felicitous Meeting of Attachment and Relational Psychotherapy.

I have since summarised some of the most salient aspects, which also ties into one of the longest close psychological follow-up studies of an animal in the literature (Original paper: ‘On the Evolution of Attachment-Disordered Behaviour’ by Hedge Fisher-Mamblona, 2000). At a certain point, one of his patients, Anna, asked him, ‘Can I be a good mother?’ He replied, ‘Can I tell you a story? Can you listen to it now?’ She nodded, and I proceeded to tell her the following story:

I would tell Feli’s story like this:

Feli was born into an environment where the basic needs for attachment were denied from the very beginning. She hatched in isolation, completely cut off from any living being, not even another goose or a human to bond with. From the start, she was a subject of scientific curiosity, but what really matters here is the impact of that isolation. You see, for any creature, especially in its early stages, connection is crucial. In Feli’s case, her world was limited to mechanical feeding and the sound of a thermostat clicking, the only stimulus she had. When she heard that sound, she would run towards it, seeking something familiar, but then fear would take over, and she’d run away. Torn between the instinct to connect and the fear that came from not knowing how to, Feli developed a deep pattern of conflicted attachment.

As Feli missed the critical window for imprinting — the moment when geese naturally attach to their mothers — she was left without the innate capacity to form normal bonds. When she was finally released among other geese, it became clear how deeply that early isolation had affected her. She couldn’t relate to the other geese, who had all imprinted on their mothers and were comfortable in their relationships. Feli stayed on the edge of the flock, unsure of how to interact, not knowing how to be part of the group. She became a misfit, always on the periphery. Her aggression was misplaced — when another goose approached, she reacted as if it were a predator, unable to differentiate between a threat and a peer. Feli’s confusion, her inability to connect in the way she should have, was a direct result of that early deprivation.

As she grew older, pieces of normal goose behaviour started to emerge, but they were fragmented. She tried to build nests, she responded to male courting, but when it came time to fully engage in these social tasks, her old pattern of confusion kicked in. She’d wag her head, a repetitive, anxious behaviour, and run away. When given goose eggs to hatch, she instinctively sat on them, but not long enough — again, her fragmented capacity for care showed. The goslings never had a chance.

But then, something changed. Feli was given duck eggs. Ducklings, you see, are far less demanding than goslings. They don’t need as much from their mothers, and this difference mattered. The ducklings hatched, and for the first time, Feli didn’t run away completely. She didn’t nurture them fully, but she allowed them to exist alongside her. The turning point came during a storm, when the ducklings, terrified, sought her warmth and protection. For the first time, she let them under her wing. That night, she allowed herself to provide the comfort they needed, and in the morning, she followed them to the water. In a way, this reversed the normal imprinting process. The ducklings led, and Feli followed.

This moment marks a significant shift. Feli began to heal, albeit slowly and incompletely. The damage from her early trauma wasn’t erased, but in those small moments, she found a way to connect. She continued to live on the edge of the flock, but slightly more harmoniously. Then, an outsider goose arrived. Like Feli, he didn’t fit in perfectly, but together they found companionship. They formed a bond, and for a time, Feli experienced what had been so difficult for her: attachment.

But trauma leaves deep wounds, and Feli’s story doesn’t end on a perfectly happy note. Her mate was shot, and Feli, in her grief, sank into a depression. The loss was too great for her to bear. She had finally learned to connect, but when that connection was severed, it brought back all the pain of her early isolation. Not long after, she died.

I would now like to offer my interpretation of Feli’s story, particularly focusing on the concept of trauma in relation to attachment. Additionally, I’d like to revisit the analogy I presented in the article ‘Are therapists aware of their own attachment styles? #3.’ In that analogy, I describe attachment style as being like WiFi:

Secure is stable, anxious is always checking the connection, avoidant says, ‘I don’t need WiFi,’ and disorganised just keeps buffering

What strikes me about Feli’s story is that it speaks to how deeply early experiences of trauma shape our ability to connect. Even when we find healing, the scars remain, and the threat of loss can trigger old wounds. Yet, despite her tragic end, Feli did manage to find moments of connection, even after such a difficult start. Her life, in the end, was fuller than one might have expected given her beginnings.

Attachment styles, like WiFi, are ways in which we stay connected — or struggle to. Secure attachment is like a strong and stable connection, unwavering in its reliability. Anxious attachment, on the other hand, is always checking the connection, fearing it might drop at any moment. Avoidant attachment denies the need for connection altogether, saying, ‘I don’t need WiFi,’ while disorganised attachment struggles the most, constantly buffering and never fully stable. Feli’s story exemplifies how disorganised attachment keeps buffering, caught between a longing for connection and the fear that it might break.

Despite buffering through life, Feli managed to find those fleeting moments of stability, of connection, even amidst her disorganised attachment style.

Feli’s life may have had moments where she struggled to hold a stable connection, where her past trauma caused her to fear or even reject it. Yet she found, even in brief moments, the power of connection and healing. Though she was constantly buffering, her story reminds us that even in the most fragile states, people can still find moments of clarity and love. And as therapists, we must always be aware of our own ‘WiFi signals,’ our attachment styles, as they influence the connection we establish with our clients.

I think Stern was a precursor, as he gave Anna not just hope but also psychoeducation about attachment and the importance of timing in making a connection. He was saying something that is hard to convey these days, when people come in and say:

‘Can I have some quick therapy, please?’
‘Would it be possible to avoid talking about what the problem is?’
‘What do you want me to do to get rid of the anxiety?’
‘I told you what the problem is, now it’s up to you to fix it.’

These are real comments, I’m afraid, but there’s only a certain natural speed at which healing can progress, and it takes patience to develop a stable connection, depending on the wounds that stem from the past. So, Stern was forward-thinking in providing psychoeducation to the client, which I think was quite innovative at the time, and it’s still, in many ways, a new concept compared to our current obsession with diagnosis.

I would also add the importance of setting realistic expectations, dismantling what Heidegger called the ‘technological attitude’ — an approach rooted in ‘calculative thinking,’ where everything is framed in terms of means and ends. This calculative mindset can appear in the client, the therapist, GPs, or agencies that send referrals, driven by external pressures that have nothing to do with the client’s pace. For instance, the belief that a client must feel better within a limited number of sessions or that a client expects to be ‘fixed’ in a certain amount of time. Gosh, isn’t that exactly what evidence-based practice is encouraging? Evidence-based approaches have their place, however, they risk missing the larger, more nuanced picture of human healing, especially when they overlook the emotional, relational, and personal layers that unfold at their own pace. The implications of this ‘calculative thinking’ can be devastating (though I think this is a topic for another article).

There are clients who come spontaneously (not under obligation from family or GPs) who have nothing to say. One client in particular surprised me by spending two sessions in complete silence. I felt guilty, taking her money for what seemed like nothing, and asked if these meetings were helping her. She said they were, although she couldn’t explain exactly why. Neither could I. But then, Feli’s teaching and Stern’s approach came to me, and I understood — she was searching for connection.

What about the clients who arrive late, leave early, or stay for only 10 minutes? Of course, this is what they can tolerate, but without pressure, if they feel unjudged and free to attend even for five minutes, they learn that it’s safe to stay longer. The connection deepens, and they begin to share more, to feel better, often without knowing exactly why. This is because healing can occur on a tacit level, not just through words — while verbal expression is important, it is only one part of the larger process.

This was already understood by the genius of Dostoyevsky, as he described in The Brothers Karamazov, where [clients] ‘need to feel that they are in the room with another person, an old and trusted friend, whom they might call upon in their sick moments merely to look at their face, or perhaps exchange some quite irrelevant words with them’.

I hope you enjoyed this article, whether you’re a psychotherapist seeking insight or a client looking for guidance and psycho-education about attachment.