López-Pedraza is pointing at something most therapeutic language quietly avoids: transformation does not begin with what is elevated or chosen, but with what is sorely afflicted, dominant without our consent, hidden precisely because we could not afford to look. Hermes does not arrive to lift us out of the wound; he touches it. The touch is the connection — and the connection is the revaluation.

What makes Hermes the appropriate god here is that he is a god of margins, of thresholds, of what moves between registers. The affliction that has been running unconsciously has been running because it could not find its way into meaning-making circulation. Hermes does not cure it; he makes it visible inside the psychic economy, gives it a face, and in doing so reveals that it was never merely pathology. It was also value — hidden value, "what had not seemed relevant." The relevance was always there; the connection was missing.

There is something important in the word "transformation" placed here at the sentence's end, almost quietly, after all the movement of touch and connection and revelation. The transformation is not the stated aim of the god's approach. It is the outcome of genuine contact. That sequence — contact first, meaning second, transformation as consequence rather than goal — is the whole argument of depth work compressed into a single sentence.