This Being Human

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This Being Human

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I offer counselling to clients over the age of 18, with experience working with a range of issues, but especially topics related to trauma, grief, and neurodivergence.

17/07/2025

You know when someone tells you, "You’re so strong. I don’t know how you do it."

And you smile politely, while thinking, “If by strong you mean emotionally constipated and surviving on hobnobs, then yeah—spot on.”

It sounds like a compliment. But sometimes it just means, “You look like you’re fine, so we’ll leave you to it.”

If you’re the one holding everything together - the fixer, the calm in the chaos, the one everyone leans on - people tend to forget to check in with you.

But “looking like you’re coping” isn’t the same as actually being okay. Strength is brilliant, but if you don’t leave space to flex, you risk breaking.

So if you’re quietly running on empty, still juggling everyone else’s mess…
If you’re the one who says, “I’ve got this,” even when you don’t…
If you know exactly what everyone else needs but can’t remember the last time anyone asked how you’re doing—this is for you.

You’re allowed to fall apart for a while.
You’re allowed to ask for help, even when you’re not sure what kind.
You’re allowed to be messy, vulnerable, and beautifully human.

If you’re worn out from carrying it all, there’s room here to set it down for a while.

You don’t need the right words.
You don’t need a brave face.
You can be messy.
You can be quiet.
You can just be.

Let’s make some room for you for once and see what comes of it.

You can bring the Hobnobs if you want.

07/07/2025

“It is what it is.”

I often trotted out this line in my own therapy. With a wry shrug meant to say, “I’m a tough cookie, I’ll cope”, but that didn’t quite hide the hopelessness.

One session, mid “nothing will ever change” spiral, my therapist said:
“It is what it is… until it isn’t.”

Excuse me? What does that even mean?

I wanted to roll my eyes. It sounded like something printed on a T-shirt against a sunset background. But it stuck — like a song lyric you didn’t ask for.

Back then, everything felt immovable. Emotional cement. The idea that things might one day shift felt both laughable and mildly offensive — “you just don’t get it.”

And yet, that phrase cracked open the tiniest door to possibility.

Because what she was really saying was: yeah, this might feel unmovable now. But nothing is actually permanent — not feelings, not situations, not even the stories we tell ourselves about who we are.

I hear those same words now, from my own clients:
“I’ve always been this way.”
“I don’t think I can change.”
“It’s just how things are.”
“It’s never going to get better.”

And I get it. When you’re deep in it, change feels like a ridiculous suggestion. A luxury for other people.

But change doesn’t always kick the door down. Sometimes it sneaks in.
One day, you react 5% less.
You say no to something small.
You hear your inner critic and don’t spiral.

That’s the “until it isn’t” bit.
It’s not overnight. But it’s movement. Take the win.

One of the strange privileges of being a therapist is holding hope — even (especially) when someone else has none. Not “good vibes only” hope. But grounded, earned, “I’ve seen this before” hope.

Because people shift. Circumstances shift. We aren’t as stuck as we think.

It is what it is, until it isn’t.

If you’re in a “this will never get better” phase — I see you.

You don’t need to feel hopeful. You just have to show up.

I’ll hold the “until it isn’t” part for you.

02/07/2025

I used to think I was just a bit rubbish at coping. Now I know I was never given much to work with.

A lot of us don’t realise how few coping tools we have… until the bottom drops out of our world. You’re going through hell — grief, loss, heartbreak, burnout — and you reach for something to help you get through it. And what do you find in your toolkit?

A sad, solitary, broken plastic fork.

And you’re expected to dig yourself out with that?

The truth is: most of us weren’t taught how to deal with big feelings. We were taught to be “brave” (ie. suppress it), to “stay positive” (ie. pretend it’s fine), or to numb out and push on. But when life gets real — and it will — those old standbys don’t hold up.

If you’re in that place — staring at your broken fork, frustrated, overwhelmed, or just plain exhausted — you don’t have to figure it out on your own.

Therapy is where we start building a better set of tools. Real ones. Ones that don’t snap in half the second things get hard.

If you’ve ever felt like you were handed a broken fork when you needed a full toolbox, you’re not alone. And you don’t have to figure it out alone either.

I'm currently taking on new clients — if you’re ready to build your toolkit, I’m here to help.

30/06/2025

It’s a weird job, really—being a human who sits in a room with other humans while they unravel. (Luckily, I love being weird, I lean into weird every day.)

And speaking of weird: I bet you didn't know they teach therapists how to sit in a chair - apparently that's SUPER important (but it's okay that in several years of training, less than a day was spent on grief?).

Sit squarely
Open posture (no crossed arms or legs, please!)
Lean in (but not too much)
Eye contact (but not too much)
Relax (but not too, well, you get the idea...)

We were given lots of other rules too:

✨ Don’t wear jeans (too casual).
✨ Don’t ask too many questions (too directive).
✨ Don’t self-disclose (too human).
✨ Don’t be funny (too… irreverent?)
✨ Wear “non-distracting” clothing—read: neutral tones, low-key everything, ideally looking like a sentient waiting room chair.

Yeah, no.

Here’s what I’ve learned - it's all about connection.

If someone is offended that I'm wearing t-shirt and jeans, we're not a good fit (and that's okay).
Connection doesn’t crumble because I sometimes sit like a pretzel (that's all part of my wonderful weirdness).
And clients can tell when you're playing the role of therapist, instead of being the real deal.

That's not my style.

I’m a therapist who shows up authentically. I wear jeans. I laugh. I ask questions. Sometimes I don't know what to say (and I'll tell you that). I’m not afraid to go deep, get real, and walk with you through the dark stuff. Not as a blank slate—but as a trained, compassionate, curious, very human person.

At the end of the day, therapy is a conversation between two humans. That’s it.
Not a performance. Not a hierarchy. Just presence, curiosity, and courage—on both sides of the room.

If you’re tired of therapy that feels like a scripted performance, I’m currently accepting new clients. Come as you are. Because I will.

27/06/2025

Think all therapists wear cardigans and say “how does that make you feel?” Think again.

Therapy clichés I will not be subjecting you to:
• “let’s unpack that” (you’re not a suitcase)
• “trust the process” (cool, so basically do nothing and cry on repeat until further notice)
• “everything happens for a reason” (does it though? really?)
• “let’s tap into your inner child” (she’s feral and she bites)
• “can we hold space for that” (what does that even mean?)

I don’t have a five-step plan for “navigating change.”
I won’t tell you to reframe it, find the silver lining, or trust the universe.

I do wear cardigans, but with a band tee and Doc Martens. I do real talk, and sometimes that gets a little sweary.

Forget “holding space” and “finding your inner child”—I’ll meet you in the actual chaos.

You can show up angry, numb, sarcastic, hungover, hopeless, resentful, grieving someone who’s gone, or someone who’s still here but not the same.

Therapy isn’t about “healing” into some shiny version of yourself. It’s about showing up – in all your messiness - and slowly finding your way back to something that feels like you.

No healing vibes.
No “just feel your feelings.”
No buzzwords. No bulls**t.

We’ll talk like humans.
We’ll sit in the chaos.
And we’ll take it one honest, unfiltered, non-clichéd conversation at a time.

Are you in?

25/06/2025

Life doesn’t come with a manual, and being human can be seriously hard sometimes. Therapy isn’t about fixing you — because you’re not broken. It’s about having a space where you can talk honestly, be seen, and start figuring out what you actually need.

A big part of my work is supporting people through grief and loss. That might mean the death of someone close, or it might be a different kind of loss — the end of a relationship, a shift in identity, the life you thought you’d have. Grief isn’t just one thing, and it doesn’t follow neat stages. It can be messy, lonely, and full of contradictions. I hold space for all of that. I’m not here to rush you through it or make it “better” — I’m here to sit with you in it, to help you make sense of what’s changed, and to find your way forward, so you can start to thrive, not just survive.

Whether you’re in the middle of a big life shift, dealing with anxiety or grief, or just feeling a bit disconnected from yourself — I’m here for that. No judgment. No pressure. Just real conversation, at your pace.

We can talk, sit with the messy stuff, and find some kind of way through. Not perfectly. Not all at once. But step by step, in a way that feels doable.

If this sounds like something you - or someone you care about - needs right now, drop me a message. First chat’s free — just a chance to see if it feels like a good fit.

Address

Chesterfield
S419QD

Website

https://thisbeinghuman.co.uk/

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