I have always been curious about what lies beneath the surface; be it things, ground, places or people. So if you had asked me a few years ago what I wanted to become, I would have said "an archaeologist.” I was always drawn to history, the old forts, the weathered ruins, the pyramids, ancient temples, and the idea that ground under us has remnants or hold traces of people who lived long before us. Archaeology seemed magical in that way and it drew me to itself because it always felt like a storytelling through fragments. A broken pot, beads, wall foundation, wealth or a tool buried for centuries; each piece whispered something about how people once lived and survived. There is something beautiful about the way the archaoelogists patiently brush off the dust from every piece, to unviel a history, until a forgotten world comes into view.
For a long time I thought that’s what I wanted to do, to understand how civilizations were built, lived and broke. Somewhere along the way, though, I realised that I am still doing something similar. Only difference now is that the stories I help uncover are not the ones buried deep under the layers of earth, but under the layers of emotion, memory and experience.
Psychology, in its own way is an act of excavation. Every person carries a landscape within them which is shaped by time, walls built for safety, fragments of old pain, and foundations of love that are still strong. And so, now when I have conversations with people, which usually begin with hesitation and later unfold into trust, I often feel that I am brushing off the dust around someone’s story; not to expose it, but to understand it. I didn’t know it then, but I wasn’t just drawn to the earth’s ruins — I was drawn to the hidden stories they held. Maybe that’s why, even today, I find myself unearthing something — only now, it’s the human soul.
Over time, my fascination with the uncovering of lost civilizations transformed into something which was more inward. I began realising that what archaeology did for the world outside(physically), psychology is something that did the same for the human mind. Both the fields have the same concept of trying to find out what is buried underneath; in archaelogy its the layers of the earth, and in psychology its the layers of the emotions. And in both the areas, the essence is the same : listening to something that is silent and stored away from a long time, trying to put pieces together, and trying to make sense out of what appears to be broken. And probably, due to this similarity, the shift from archaeology to psychology didn’t feel like a change in direction, instead it felt like a continuity of the same journey; only now I feel that the ruins I explore are human and the artefacts I discover are emotional.
In therapy, I often think about how people are very similar to the archaeological sites. Each person has many layers which are built from the experiences, relationships, and memories that they have. Some layers are of course rich and full of colour, which include the moments of joy, laughter and connection. And some might be intense, and might have pain, defense and silence. And as psychologists, we do not dig hastily; we observe and wait. Just like the archaeologists patiently wait for an artifact to unfurly by slowing dusting them, knowing that under those deep and hardened layers lie stories that have shaped someone to become what they are today. Sometimes, it takes just a single word, a long pause, or the memory of something small to open up an entire world of feeling. Bit by bit, we uncover what lies beneath; not to dig up old pain, but to understand where it comes from and what it’s trying to tell us.
Both archaeology and psychology teach but one simple truth, that we cannot rush into discovery. Be it an archaeological site or an individual’s story, what is buried requires some time and care to come to light. In therapy, I feel that it is the empathy that becomes our brush. It allows the dust to settle, so that the real details like the emotions, the memories and the meaning to every feeling can slowly emerge. Every layer that the client reveals had once protected them in some way and peeling those layers too quickly can cause harm to the client. Hence, my role is not to dig, but to offer that safe space to client where they are ready to gently look at what lies inside them, whenever they are ready.
And what comes out of this gentle excavation is often very fragile, but yet so profound. Beneath pain, people discover resilience. Beneath guilt, they might discover the desire for healing. And beneath silence, a voice that had long been suppressed and waiting to be heard.
Archaelogists often find wonder in the fragments that they discover - a piece of pottery, a corner of a wall painting or mural, a single coin. Even when something is broken, these fragments still tell a complete story. And I think I have learned that humans are no different. Our emotions can come in different pieces - a moment of anger, a wave of sadness or joy, but the whole picture or form of that human being can only be seen when all these parts are put together. A person’s cracks don’t mean they’re damaged; they mean they’ve lived. Every story that surfaces in therapy carries proof of survival of someone who kept going, even when it was hard. There’s a quiet beauty in that, in knowing that even the parts that feel broken still belong to the same heart.
What touches me most about both archaeology and psychology is how they believe in what remains. Civilizations fall apart, yet their essence lingers. People break too, but something within them: some spark, some will always tries to rebuild. The past doesn’t disappear; it becomes part of who we are. In therapy, when a person suddenly sees themselves with new understanding, it feels like uncovering something ancient but familiar, yet full of new meaning. Healing isn’t about wiping away what once was; it’s about recognising that even the ruins have value. Just like archaeologists restore dignity to what time tried to hide, therapy helps people remember their worth, their strength, and their ability to begin again.
I may not have become an archaeologist in the traditional sense, but in many ways, I still spend my days unearthing. Each conversation, each silence, each tear feels like brushing away a little dust from something sacred. Whether it’s a forgotten memory or a moment of clarity, what’s revealed is always deeply human: raw, real, and resilient. And maybe that’s what drew me to both fields after all; the belief that beneath everything, no matter how deeply buried, there is always life waiting to be found.
