Max Littman, LCSW
April 14, 2025
Each morning, I move through a small but cherished ritual: I make myself a cup of coffee and brew tea for my husband. Then I grab my notebook and pen, settle into my favorite recliner in the natural-light-filled common room, and intentionally bring my attention inward. That’s when I begin to check in with my parts.
Most mornings, it doesn’t take long before something starts to stir. A familiar emotion. A vague memory. A flicker of an image. And lately, I’ve noticed how much this experience reminds me of something from the Harry Potter universe: the Pensieve.
In the books, Dumbledore uses the Pensieve to view memories, his own and those of others. These memories swirl like silver vapor, taking on shapes and movement, and when he leans in, he’s drawn into a scene. Not quite in the memory, but also not just observing. It’s immersive. Real, but also elusive. And that’s exactly what it feels like when I’m with a part of me that’s carrying something tender.
Sometimes it starts with a visual, like a room I haven’t thought about in years, or the way the light looked coming through a window at a particular moment in childhood. Other times it’s a felt sense in my chest or gut. Sometimes it’s a sentence, or just a word. I follow it, like dipping into vapor. My attention gently lands, and suddenly I’m with a part.
And just when I feel like I’m about to get it, about to fully understand what the part wants me to know, it all slips away. My system gets distracted. I float back up and out, like being pulled from the basin too soon. The insight was almost there. The connection just beginning. And I’m left with this feeling: Wait. Let me go back. There’s more.
This is the flow of parts work for me: never quite linear. Often foggy. Sometimes clear. Almost always, I’m left with more curiosity than answers. Which, to me, is part of the sacredness of it. These parts are not here to perform. They’re not here to spill everything in one sitting. They’re like smoke. Like vapor. Like stories that want to be known, but only when I’m attuned enough to truly hear them.
It reminds me why I gravitate toward this work, not just as a therapist, but as a living being drawn to connect with my humanity and the universe that can so often be fleeting in the world we live in. Although parts of me want to land at some grand narrative or conquer the past, the real wisdom lies in a willingness to return, over and over again, to the misty edges of what wants to be seen and about holding a quiet reverence for the unfinished.
For feedback and comments, I can be reached at max@maxlittman.com.
I provide private practice mentorship, consultation, and therapist/practitioner part intensives.
