The countertransference struggle then becomes not the end but the beginning of the therapeutic process. Now, as in the example above, the therapist and the patient are in it together. As was quoted in Chapter 2, "The patient now means something to him [the therapist] personally, and this provides the most favorable basis for treatment" (Jung 1946, p. 177). In other words, for a patient to "matter" to a therapist, the therapist must have a countertransference.
— David Sedgwick
Jung's 1946 formulation is quietly radical: the therapist who has managed to remain above the fray, untouched, professionally contained, is not the most effective but the least. What looks like competence — the steady, unruffled presence — can be a form of invulnerability, and invulnerability is not neutrality. It is a specific refusal, the clinician's version of the same logic the patient brings through the door: if I am armored enough, composed enough, technically skilled enough, I will not have to suffer alongside this person.
Sedgwick's point, following Jung, is that this refusal forecloses the very thing therapy requires. For the patient to matter — not as a case, not as a clinical challenge, but as a human being whose suffering has actually landed somewhere — the therapist must have been moved. Countertransference, in this reading, is not a technical problem to be managed before the real work begins. It is the sign that contact has been made. The struggle with it is the beginning precisely because it means the two people in the room are no longer on opposite sides of an invisible pane of glass. That crossing is irreversible, and its difficulty is not incidental — it is the mechanism.
David Sedgwick·An Introduction to Jungian Psychotherapy: The Therapeutic Relationship·2001