Should physical therapists aim to make themselves redundant?

When I walked away from the Army, I thought I had the next chapter of my life locked down. I’d seen the worst of myself out there, worn thin, pushed past the breaking point, and dropped into something that didn’t feel like living anymore. And out of that came one clear thing: I was going to be a physical therapist. It was a plan I clawed together from the wreckage that was my life. The deployment broke my body in ways I couldn’t sleep off or medicate away. Every day after that felt like its own small war. Getting upright, moving without pain, doing the splits again, kicking a bag without seeing stars... it all came back slowly and painfully. But each inch gained meant something. The grind of physical therapy gave shape to the formless mess I’d become. I held on tight. If it could drag me out of that pit, maybe I could turn around and pull someone else out too. That thought stuck. I aimed at becoming a Doctor of Physical Therapy, because back then, it looked like the next piece of solid ground.

As I sank further into that world, the cracks started to show. They didn’t scream for attention at first. Just small shifts at the edges, quiet murmurs in the background. Easy to ignore until they weren’t. The APTA had rules that didn’t sit right with me. Something in them felt wrong. There was a fixation on control, on locking people into a system that demanded everything and gave nothing back. It wore you down. Not just your wallet, but your mind, your body, and your sense of self. They sold “work-life balance” like it meant something. Smiling faces on brochures, soft words in policy handbooks. But when you stepped inside, the truth snapped shut around you. And the further I went, the more I could feel the tightening up around me. Burnout was a question of when, not if. So when I finished my bachelor’s in kinesiology (the science of human movement), I pivoted. I went after a master’s in the same field, chasing something different before the weight dragged me under.

I don’t regret that decision. It led me to earn my qualifications as a sports therapist in the UK (like a physio, but aimed at musculoskeletal health). Let me make one thing absolutely clear: I have deep respect and real affection for my friends and readers who chose physical therapy. You’re doing essential work. You’re the reason people move again. Heal again. Live again, after surgery, illness, or injury. What you do demands skill, patience, and an honest understanding of what it means to be human. You walk in every day, face people at their lowest, and offer them something real. You help them avoid the knife, dodge the pills, and hold onto what matters. Most of all, you give them a shot at getting their lives back. I didn’t take that path. I’m not one of you. But I see you, and I respect the hell out of what you do.

Back when I was at university, fully committed to the path of becoming a physical therapist, I floated an idea to one of my professors that earned a raised eyebrow and a long pause. I told him, “I think a truly great physical therapist should aim to make themselves obsolete with every patient.” At first glance, it sounds like a strange way to frame a profession. “Let me help you so completely that you never need me again.” It reads like I was investing in something destined to collapse the moment it succeeded, like I believed the measure of success was its own undoing.

I wasn’t chasing cleverness. That wasn’t the point. I meant every word, believed in it without hesitation. What I wanted was to give people real strength, not just in their bodies, but in their minds. I wanted to give them the kind of self-confidence that's still there even when no one’s watching. The basic idea was about never making anyone dependent. A physical therapist shouldn’t be a constant presence in someone’s life. They should be like a compass you consult when you’re lost. I viewed them aa someone who helps you regain your balance, point you in the right direction (or at least a better one), and then walks away so you can walk on your own.

To me, success never looked like someone staying on the books for good. It looked like them walking out of the clinic, head high and shoulders squared, ready to take the world in whatever way it came. Not tethered to us. Not tied to the same treatment room, the same words, over and over. We weren’t there to build habits they clung to like a life raft. We were there to smash the raft to splinters and teach them how to swim. If I’d done the job right, they’d leave as soon as they were independent enough to continue the hard work on their own.

There’s a kind of poetry in the idea of a physical therapist whose goal is to become obsolete. And no, it’s not surrender or detachment. It’s the opposite. It’s total commitment to being there, day after day, putting in the sweat and time with someone, shoulder to shoulder, until they don’t need you anymore. Not because you’ve walked away, but because they’ve taken the next step on their own. Because you trust them to carry on after you’ve helped build them up so they're strong enough to stand without you.

Great physical therapy doesn’t come from ticking off a checklist. It’s built from one moment to the next, shaped by real bodies that defy the neat logic of diagrams and biomechanical models. It makes you pay attention, to listen beyond the aches and pains to hear what the person's body is trying to say beneath all that noise. You help patients learn to move better, stop bracing against pain, and start understanding where it comes from and why it’s there. Every stretch, every breath, and every inch gained is a quiet fight to reclaim what’s been lost. It won’t come easy, and it sure as hell won’t come fast. But it’s worth every step.

I’ve had this conversation more times than I can count, with all kinds of people, in every setting imaginable. What always gets me is how the sharpest pushback almost always comes from people in healthcare whose whole operation depends on insurance payments just to stay afloat. They come at me with, “You’re not a physical therapist, so you don’t get a vote.” As if that shuts the whole thing down. Like the second those words leave their mouth, I’m supposed to shrink back and nod along. It’s funny, really. Because most of the time, I’ve got more letters behind my name and double their experience actually on the floor, coaching and treating patients. But that’s not why I make the case I do. I’m not trading on my resumé or leaning on war stories. My point doesn’t need that. It stands on its own because it’s right.

Letting go when someone’s ready isn’t walking away. It’s standing firm while telling them, “You’ve got this. I’m here if it goes sideways, but I won’t carry you.” That’s how you build self-efficacy. Real change like that only happens when you help someone understand their body like it’s a car they can finally drive without an instructor in the seat next to them. It happens when you make them believe that if they crash, they'll be okay, and you've given them the tools and know-how to get back up on their own. That’s what it means to support someone with backbone and purpose.

Keeping people tied down forever, like far too many in healthcare still do, isn’t care. It’s control in clean scrubs and warm smiles, hiding behind soft words and empty reassurances. It’s ego painted up to look like compassion. A quiet betrayal sold as help. Every one of us, whether we're physical therapists, chiropractors, personal trainers, or yoga instructors, didn’t step into this line of work to build dependence. We chose it (or should have chosen it) because we believe people can stand on their own again. We chose it because we wanted to hand strength back to those who thought they'd lost it. That’s the oath we made, whether we spoke it out loud or not.

Our job is to help them move forward, to carry themselves even after they realise the ground beneath them was never as stable as they thought it was. We give them tools so when life hits them again (and it will) they’ll know they can take the impact and get back up. And if they can’t? If they hit the floor too hard? We’re still here. Not as crutches, but as a hand held out to help pull them back up just long enough to help them find their footing again. That’s what it means to show up for someone as a true health and fitness professional.