Non-Newtonian psychotherapy: The paradox of slowing down

A few years ago, I visited an exhibition featuring the works of a renowned animator, accompanied by excerpts from his writings. One particular phrase deeply resonated with me: “No force can make honey flow faster.”

I frequently returned to this metaphor in my psychotherapeutic practice. Clients often wish to accelerate their psychological progress – to swiftly understand, experience, overcome, or “work through” their issues. However, certain processes simply require time to mature. No amount of willpower or urgency can force these processes to unfold any faster.

Eventually, I noticed an even more radical manifestation of this phenomenon. There are psychological processes that not only resist acceleration but actively stiffen, seize up, or paralyse when rushed. Here, a different metaphor is more fitting – not honey, but what physicists refer to as a non-Newtonian fluid.

Non-Newtonian fluids have an intriguing property: the harder and more abruptly you press against them, the more viscous and resistant they become. A classic example is cornstarch dissolved in water. Move your hand gently and slowly across its surface, and the fluid is yielding and responsive. But make abrupt movements, and it instantly stiffens, resisting motion completely.

Although such behaviour may seem rare or paradoxical, similar phenomena are encountered in everyday life:

• A tangled rope: Pull sharply, and the knots only tighten further.
• The body: Stretch abruptly, and muscles can cramp; release the tension slowly, and movement happens naturally.
• Sleep: The more determinedly one tries to fall asleep, the more elusive sleep becomes.
• Sexual pleasure: The more pressure one feels to experience it, the less present and available it becomes.

Indeed, this principle is not just observable in passive systems; it is foundational in disciplines focused on effectively navigating resistance, most notably, martial arts. During one of my initial Jiu-Jitsu classes, I had the privilege of sparring with the black belt instructor. After a few exhausting minutes, he paused the session. I was breathing heavily, utterly drained and helpless against his effortless defence. He asked, gently but firmly, “Do you know what ‘Jiu-Jitsu’ translates to?”

Still catching my breath, I admitted, “I don’t.”

“‘Gentle art,’” he replied. He explained that my attempts to “muscle through” created rigidity in my body. Not only did this increase my risk of injury and cause exhaustion, it also gave my opponent a distinct advantage, as he could effortlessly exploit my imbalance. Success in Jiu-Jitsu, he emphasised, stems from flowing around resistance, identifying openings, and leveraging softness – a truly gentle yet powerful approach. This physical demonstration perfectly illustrated the non-Newtonian principle: the harder I pushed, the more unyielding the situation became – not just for my opponent but, crucially, for myself.

In psychotherapy, this principle frequently surfaces across varying levels of therapeutic interaction. The urge – felt by both client and therapist – to swiftly “solve” a problem can cause the very essence of the issue to slip away, replaced by tension and urgency. Attempts to rapidly confront intense or traumatic emotions often lead instead to dissociation. When faced with silence, clients (and sometimes therapists) instinctively rush to fill it, perceiving silence as inefficient or wasted time. Yet often, intentionally slowing down and giving oneself room to breathe can be the most effective therapeutic step.

One particular episode from a psychotherapy training workshop beautifully illustrated the wisdom within this paradox. A highly experienced therapist, a globally renowned master, was conducting a demonstration session with a trainee psychotherapist as the client. The session was brief, just thirty minutes, typical for educational contexts. The client appeared visibly rushed, attempting to convey the full complexity of his situation in the limited time available. The therapist gently interrupted him, offering words that have since stayed vividly with me:

“Unfortunately, we have very little time, so I suggest we slow down.”

That deliberate deceleration, precisely because time was scarce, created space for what truly mattered to surface, rather than becoming lost in hurried descriptions.