Psychotherapy, Buddhism, and the Predictive Mind

“Between stimulus and response, there is a space. In that space is our power to choose our response. In our response lies our growth and our freedom.” — Viktor E. Frankl

As a teenager, I felt lost. The world seemed chaotic and meaningless to me. I was depressed, self-destructive, and gripped by a kind of existential nausea. Though my parents and their friends had all the hallmarks of worldly success — careers, wealth, powerful connections — none of it held appeal. Their lives appeared polished on the outside, but inwardly, I sensed no genuine direction. No true compass.

It wasn’t rebellion that led me away from their world; it was emotional hunger. A longing for coherence, for truth, for something that made sense not just intellectually but experientially. I came across a thread while watching a BBC documentary, “The Buddha Comes to Sussex,” which introduced me to Chithurst Forest Monastery. I wasn’t seeking religion. But when I arrived, I discovered something deeper than belief; I found a holding environment. A place of silence, of ritual, of community. A place where the chaos inside me could begin to settle.

I spent over five years within the Thai Forest Tradition, first as a novice and later as a monk. When I disrobed, it wasn’t because I had rejected the path, but because I needed to explore another: the path of psychotherapy. I trained in Gestalt and psychoanalytic therapy, and gradually began to weave together these two worlds. I explored and am still exploring Buddhism and psychotherapy as a single thread of inquiry.

Both meditation and psychotherapy, at their heart, are methods of inner listening. They ask us not to believe, but to see. Not to follow doctrine, but to experience directly. They ask: what is going on here, inside this body, this mind, this heart?

The Predictive Mind: A Framework for Suffering

Modern neuroscience offers a powerful complement to these ancient and psychodynamic traditions. The brain, we now understand, is not a passive receiver of information. It is a prediction machine. It doesn’t wait for reality to unfold — it tries to guess what’s coming next.

We are not reacting to the world as it is, but to the world as we expect it to be. These expectations, shaped by past experiences, cultural norms, childhood wounds, and unconscious drives, become the filters through which we see everything.

If the model we hold is distorted, we will continue to misread the present. The result? Suffering. Not because life is inherently painful, but because our predictions are off. This is why both therapy and meditation aim to disrupt the habitual loop, making us aware of the models we carry and giving us the space to revise them.

Drives, Emotions, and the Illusion of Object-Based Joy

Freud saw that beneath our conscious awareness lies a system of biological drives. These aren’t just urges for food or sex; they include emotional needs: to be seen, to be safe, to matter. These drives shape our perceptions, fuel our behaviours, and influence our predictions.

Much of our modern malaise stems from the belief that joy is “out there” in relationships, possessions, and status. But these are merely objects we attach to in the hope they will soothe the unrest inside. When they don’t, we chase new ones. This endless seeking is precisely the samsaric cycle the Buddha described.

True joy, however, is endogenous. It arises not from gratification, but from clarity — from understanding and regulating our inner life. Meditation and psychotherapy help us learn to sit with our discomfort, not flee from it. They teach us to inhabit the present without needing to control it.

Listening as a Radical Act

To be truly heard is one of the most healing experiences we can offer each other. Listening with presence, without an agenda, and projection is challenging. Why? Because our predictive minds are always jumping ahead, filling in blanks, and interpreting based on old scripts.

To hear another, we must first listen to ourselves; our fears, our shame, our defensiveness. That’s why therapy is not just about technique; it’s about the cultivation of presence. The therapist must be willing to be affected, to stay connected even when things become messy or painful.

As a client, I’ve felt the radical generosity of being seen. As a therapist, I’ve come to accept that I will never be perfect. I can be honest. I can stay curious. I can create a space that is real.

The Dance of Relationship

Some clients easily attune to the therapy. Others push back, staying in the narrative of blame or victimhood. As a client, I have done both, and this is part of my journey. Resistance is a form of prediction: a strategy developed early in life to protect against vulnerability. My task is not to force insight but to hold the space until a new model becomes possible.

Supervision is vital here — a place to bring my confusions, projections, and blind spots. Sometimes I speak about my feelings with a client, and it opens something vital. Other times, I stay silent, waiting for the right moment that may never come. This is the humility of the work.

And sometimes, it’s the “easy” sessions that lull me into false comfort, when I realise I’ve performed the role of the therapist, but withheld parts of my authentic self. The longing for perfection can be just as limiting as the fear of failure.

The Privilege of This Path

To sit with someone in their pain is a sacred act. To watch them gradually move from confusion to clarity, from shame to self-compassion, is one of the most meaningful experiences. But this journey is never one-sided. The client grows, and so do I.

Together, we unravel the predictive loops that keep us bound. We learn to make new choices. We reclaim authorship over our minds.

Psychotherapy, like meditation, is a training in reality. And reality, when met with presence and compassion, becomes not something to fear, but something to love.

(Rory Singer)