As a professional, when does sharing lived experience help – and when does it harm?

A guest blog by Student Social Worker, Megan Martin

“Why do you want to be a social worker?”

When Richard asked me why I chose this profession, I surprised myself. I told the truth, the more complicated truth.

I wasn’t expecting to share so much in that first supervision session.

It’s a question I’ve been asked more times than I can count, and I had become accustomed to providing a superficial answer.

On the surface, it sounds routine: Why do you want to be a Social Worker? 

I usually stick to the safe version, growing up around social care, with a grandad who ran residential homes for adults with learning difficulties. If I’m feeling playful, I’ll add, “I wanted to help people, but don’t do too well with blood,” which usually gets a laugh.

But during the supervision, I spoke about parts of my childhood that were messy, complex, and traumatic. Parts that even some of my closest friends don’t know. I shared things I don’t talk about lightly.

The vulnerability hit me hard afterwards.

I left the session feeling exposed and uneasy, like I’d taken off armour I didn’t even realise I was wearing.

I regretted being so raw with someone I barely knew, especially someone I’d be seeing regularly for the next six months, and who would be formally assessing me.

But in our next supervision, Richard shared parts of his own journey. It wasn’t performative or intrusive – it was thoughtful, measured, and offered with care.

The dynamic shifted. The playing field levelled. I no longer felt so alone-or so “studied.”

That moment has stayed with me.

Self-Disclosure: A Tool, Not a Confession

That early supervision sparked a deeper reflection about the role of self-disclosure in social work.

In supervision, we often talk about “the use of self” as a professional tool, but it’s not always clear what that really means in practice.

How much of ourselves should we bring into the room? What parts are helpful, and what parts are self-indulgent?

I’ve seen all sides of this.

I’ve watched practitioners and fellow students disclose too much, too soon, where their personal story becomes the centrepiece, and the service user becomes an audience member.

I’ve seen disclosure used strategically and compassionately to build trust and show understanding.

I’ve also worked with professionals who remain completely guarded, offering no glimpse into who they are beyond the badge.

All of these approaches carry risks and rewards.

As a student, I’m still figuring out where I sit. In one of my first direct observations with Richard, I mentioned to a service user that my favourite colour was orange. At the time, I thought nothing of it; it was just small talk.

However, when Richard sent me his feedback, he noted it as “a good use of self-disclosure.” That surprised me. I hadn’t thought of something so minor as a professional technique. But thinking back, that small comment helped ease the tension.

The interaction became less clinical and more human.

It’s made me realise that disclosure isn’t always about revealing trauma. Sometimes, it’s about offering enough of yourself to make the space feel safe.

It’s about connection, not confession.

I currently struggle to see how disclosing personal trauma to a service user could be beneficial to them, and therefore make the conscious decision to keep my trauma out of the conversation.

This could be due to my ability to face my trauma and my inability to talk about this professionally, or because it is simply not useful.

A Moment of Connection

One person from my second-year placement stays with me.

He was a man who had struggled to engage with support. He’d been in and out of services, dealt with long-term addiction to ketamine, hoarding, and self-neglect. He lived with pain in his back from a historic motorbike accident and was reliant on PIP payments. He wasn’t someone who trusted easily.

When we had to fill out a PIP renewal form, a process I wouldn’t wish on anyone, I was nervous.

He couldn’t write himself, and I was essentially a stranger asking him to disclose deeply personal information.

As I noted his birthday, I casually said, “Oh, our birthdays are a week apart!”

That tiny, spontaneous comment turned into a twenty-minute chat about horoscopes (which, admittedly, I know nothing about). But it broke the ice. From that point on, he let me in.

We filled out the forms together, and he eventually accepted support he’d previously refused.

It was such a small thing, but it opened a door.

From there, he got support from the damp and mould team, accepted 1:1 therapy, and I was able to make a successful referral to adult social services.

It reminded me that relationship-building isn’t always about big conversations. Sometimes, it starts with birthdays, colours, and safe little disclosures that say, “I’m a person, too. You can trust me.”

The Lived Experience Dilemma

In a recent essay, I wrote that I believe lived experience is both a strength and a responsibility. When I asked a friend to proofread it, she paused. “I’m not sure what you mean,” she said. But to me, the meaning is clear and critical.

Having lived through something yourself can give you a unique perspective. It can allow for empathy that’s not just learned, but felt.

You may recognise subtleties in behaviour or context that someone without that background might miss.

But – and this is crucial – it also comes with significant risk. There’s the danger of over-identification.

The temptation to project your own story onto someone else’s life.

The false confidence that comes from assuming that because you’ve experienced something similar, you already understand. And you don’t.

No two experiences are ever truly the same.

Our identities, circumstances, culture, support networks, and coping mechanisms all influence how we experience hardship or trauma.

If I enter a home and assume I already “get it” because I went through something “like that,” I may miss what’s really happening for the person in front of me.

This is something Child and Young Persons Psychotherapist,  John Radoux, explored in his article The Fetishisation of Lived Experience. He challenges the idea that personal history alone qualifies someone to be a support to others.

He argues that lived experience is often placed on a pedestal, as though surviving something automatically grants wisdom, authority, or moral superiority.

But without reflection, processing, and context, lived experience is just that: an experience.

It is not a tool, not a strategy, and certainly not a substitute for professional boundaries.

This has made me think more critically about what I bring into the room as a future practitioner. Lived experience isn’t just something you “have”; you must constantly work with it.

It requires scrutiny, self-awareness, and supervision. Otherwise, it risks doing harm.

The Wounded Healer

Carl Jung introduced the idea of the “wounded healer,” the notion that those who have suffered are uniquely positioned to help others heal.

There’s something romantic about this idea, and I understand why people are drawn to it. But I’ve come to see it with more caution.

We must be careful not to turn our wounds into our qualifications. The drive to help can come from a good place, but if we haven’t properly tended to our own wounds, we risk bleeding into the work.

Jung recognised this and argued that our inner wounds only become a potential source of healing when we acknowledge and integrate them.

It is not our trauma that helps others – it’s our deep and deliberate reflection on that trauma.

Richard once asked me if I’d considered therapy again. I told him I’d had a few sessions at fourteen that didn’t help much, so I hadn’t gone back. He said gently, “It’s okay not to, but at some point, it might help. There will be things to address.”

That conversation sits with me. Not because I felt judged, but because I felt seen.

It was an invitation, not an instruction.

It helped me realise that we don’t just grow by helping others but by allowing ourselves to be helped.

It also brought to mind Adrienne Maree Brown’s idea of ‘moving at the speed of trust’, a principle of her emergent strategy that reminds us sustainable change happens through relationship, patience, and consent, not pressure or urgency.

When we become aware of our journey of change – how non-linear, vulnerable, and slow it can be – we become more able to empathise with parents.

We can meet them where they are, with realistic expectations about the time, trust, and support required for meaningful transformation.

Still Learning

As a student, I know I’m at the beginning of a long journey.

There’s so much I don’t know yet, about theory, about practice, about myself. But I’m learning that empathy and objectivity don’t have to be opposites. That it’s okay to bring yourself into the work, as long as you do so with intention.

Lived experience can be powerful, but only when used with humility.

Self-disclosure can build bridges, but only when done with care.

And the “use of self” isn’t about how interesting your story is, it’s about how thoughtfully you use your presence.

I’m learning how to be a professional without becoming impersonal, how to offer compassion without assumption, and how to use my own history not as a roadmap but as a guidepost, one of many, that helps me walk alongside others with care.

By Student Social Worker, Megan Martin (16.05.2025)