Transitions Counselling

19/11/2025

17/11/2025

Many people assume emotional maturity means being calm, unaffected, or stoic — but that’s not what real maturity looks like.
True maturity isn’t about hiding your emotions; it’s about knowing where they come from and what they’re telling you.

It’s awareness.
It’s owning your triggers and your decisions.
It’s being willing to acknowledge your own patterns instead of blaming someone else’s.

One thing I’ve learned over time is this:
People can only meet you at the depth they’ve reached within themselves.

And that realization can sting.
You’ll find yourself explaining too much, hoping someone finally understands.
You’ll keep showing up for people who aren’t ready to meet you in the middle.

But eventually, you realize that being understood isn’t the true goal — being aligned with yourself is.

Emotional maturity means staying kind without abandoning your boundaries.
It means seeing where someone’s pain ends and where your responsibility begins.
It’s that moment of pause before you rescue, overextend, or make yourself small.

And with that growth often comes grief.
Grief for the relationships that fade when you stop doing all the emotional lifting.
Grief for the past version of you who accepted chaos as love.
But beyond that grief lies something new: Peace. Clarity. And the capacity to love without losing yourself.

17/11/2025

Research shows that many children learn to blame others not because they refuse responsibility, but because they were taught quietly, unknowingly… to fear mistakes.

They’re not being defiant.
They’re not being dishonest.
They’re not “avoiding accountability.”

They’re protecting themselves in the only way their nervous system knows how.

Because here’s the truth:

When a child immediately blames a sibling, a teacher, or “the situation,” their brain isn’t choosing disrespect. It’s choosing safety.

Their mind is learning:

“I get in trouble when I’m wrong.”
“Mistakes mean I’m bad.”
“Someone must be blamed, and it can’t be me.”
“If I admit it, I lose love, approval, or connection.”

And practicing that truth often looks like
quick excuses, finger-pointing,
rushing to defend themselves, or shutting down the moment correction appears.

🧠 According to Rotter’s research (1966), children develop an external locus of control like blaming outside forces, when they aren’t allowed to make mistakes safely or when adults rescue, excuse, or overreact for them.
This doesn’t build responsibility. It builds fear.

And neuroscience adds:

Children take responsibility when the environment feels safe, not shameful.
A young brain learns honesty through relational warmth, gentle correction, and predictable consequences not panic or punishment.

This means:
Their blaming is real.
Their fear of being wrong is real.
Their need for emotional safety is real.
Their avoidance is a signal, not a character flaw.

And here’s the beautiful part:

Every time a child admits a mistake and is met with steadiness instead of shame, their brain wires for accountability. For honesty.
For courage.

🧠 Research on long-term motivation shows that when children experience mistakes as opportunities, not moral failures, they develop stronger resilience, healthier self-worth, and deeper responsibility.

But when we confuse accountability with harshness, or mistake-ownership with humiliation, we teach them to hide instead of grow.

Why does this matter?

Because the way you respond to your child’s mistakes becomes the voice they use on themselves one day.

Will that voice say:

“I must hide my faults.”
“Mistakes make me unlovable.”
“If I’m wrong, I’m in danger.”

Or will it say:

“I can learn from this.”
“It’s safe to be honest.”
“Mistakes don’t define me.”
“I can take responsibility without losing love.”

Responsibility doesn’t grow from fear.
It grows from feeling safe enough to tell the truth.

So instead of:

“Who did this?!”
“Why would you lie?”
“Stop blaming others!”

Try:

→ “Take a deep breath. No one’s in trouble; we’re learning.”
→ “Mistakes happen. Let’s figure this out together.”
→ “Being honest is brave, and I’m proud of you.”
→ “Let’s talk about what we can do differently next time.”

Because you’re not raising a child who hides their truth; you’re raising a child who can face it.

One honest moment, one gentle correction,
one safe space at a time.

Reference:
• Rotter, J. B. (1966). Generalized expectancies for internal versus external control of reinforcement.

16/11/2025

A kindered spirit, an echo of things that sound familar. How deeply does this resonate with you?

She buried her husband on Monday.
Gave birth on Wednesday.
And by Friday, she was knocking on back doors with a newborn strapped to her spine—
because surrender wasn’t in her vocabulary.

Spring, 1887 — Dodge City, Kansas.

Elizabeth Morrow was twenty-two when typhoid tore her world apart in three brutal days.
She was eight months pregnant, had seventeen cents to her name, and knew exactly two people in town—
neither able to help.

Her husband’s funeral was bought on credit she couldn’t pay.
Two days later, in a rented room that smelled of dust and grief, her daughter arrived early—
a tiny infant screaming into a world that expected neither of them to survive the year.

Most women in her situation had three choices:
• marry fast
• return to family
• or starve quietly

Elizabeth had no family.
And she refused to marry for shelter.

So she chose the fourth option—
the one history rarely writes about because it isn’t glamorous:
break every night, rebuild every morning.

She took washing work—
scrubbing strangers’ clothes in a tin basin until her knuckles cracked and bled,
while her newborn slept in a crate lined with flour sacks.

When that wasn’t enough, she cleaned saloons before dawn—
sweeping up spilled whiskey and yesterday’s fights
before “respectable” folks woke.

When that still wasn’t enough, she worked nights at the hotel—
changing sheets, emptying chamber pots—
while her baby cried in a neighbor’s room two blocks away,
a neighbor who charged by the hour.

Hunger lived inside her like a second heartbeat.
Exhaustion like a second spine.

Some nights she stood over her sleeping child, shaking—
from fear, from cold, from the cruel math of survival that never added up.

She wore the same dress for two years.
Survived on stale bread.
Aged a decade in one.

But she never missed rent.
Never let her daughter go hungry.
Never stopped humming lullabies even when her voice was raw from crying.

And slowly—inch by excruciating inch—things changed.

By 1895, she’d saved enough to open a tiny boarding house.
By 1900, she owned the building outright.

Her daughter, Mary, grew up watching her mother turn exhaustion into empire—
one brutal day at a time.

Mary became a teacher. Then a principal.
One of the first women in Kansas to hold the role.

At a 1923 high school graduation, Mary stepped to the podium and said:

“My mother taught me that dignity isn’t what you’re handed.
It’s what you refuse to surrender.
She scrubbed floors so I could stand here today.
That isn’t survival.
That’s revolution in calico and soap.”

Elizabeth lived to 83, long enough to see:
• Her daughter retire with a pension
• Her grandchildren graduate college
• Her great-grandchildren born into a world
she carved open with sheer will

Near the end, someone asked what kept her alive through the impossible years.
She thought for a long moment, then whispered:

“Every morning I looked at Mary and told myself:
This child will never know hunger.
This child will never beg.
And that thought was stronger than any exhaustion.”

Some women survive.
Some women endure.

Elizabeth Morrow built a dynasty out of grief and grit —
with a baby on her back.
And she called it love.
reece ryan

15/11/2025

Parents:
The good news is you have the power to influence your child’s decisions by taking control of yourself, not your child.

Send a message to learn more

15/11/2025

Your Boundaries Deserve Compassion, Not Judgment

If you find yourself oscillating between walls so high no one gets in, or gates so open you lose yourself completely—you're not broken. You're human. And there's a reason your nervous system learned to protect itself this way.

The Three Boundary Patterns:

🧱Rigid Boundaries — You keep others at arm's length. It feels safer when people don't get close. But somewhere deep, you long to be known and loved for who you truly are. The fortress you built was meant to protect you, not imprison you.

🥅Porous Boundaries — You say yes when you mean no. You absorb others' emotions as your own. You feel responsible for their happiness. You've learned that your worth comes from being available to everyone else. But this path leaves you depleted and unseen.

🔓Healthy Boundaries — You've found the balance. You can say no without guilt. You share authentically without over-sharing. You respect yourself and honor others. You choose connection with intention. This isn't coldness—it's wisdom.

ℹ️What I Want You to Know:

If you're stuck in rigid or porous boundaries, it's not a character flaw. It's often a protective strategy learned in environments where closeness felt dangerous, or where your worth was measured by what you gave others.

💚The beautiful truth? You can learn a different way. Healthy boundaries aren't selfish. They're an act of deep self-love that actually strengthens your relationships because they're built on authenticity, not obligation.

You deserve to be close without losing yourself. You deserve to protect your peace without pushing everyone away.
📝Ritu Dahiya

14/11/2025

🌿 The Lymphatic System of a Griever

When Fear After Trauma Changes the Body, the Weight & the Lymph - Post 2/30

There is a kind of fear that goes deeper than emotion.
A fear born from facing death up close — whether it was your own, or someone you love —
a fear so sharp and so catastrophic that it rewires your entire body.

This is the fear of the griever.
A fear that lingers long after the danger is gone.
A fear that settles into your tissues, your breath, your sleep, your weight…
and especially, into your lymphatic system.

Tonight, I want to speak about that fear.
The kind that makes you so broken, so shocked, so emotionally paralysed…
that your own body, health, and weight no longer matter.

🩵 Trauma & Fear: What They Do to the Lymphatic System

Fear — especially the kind tied to grief and life-or-death trauma — is not “just in the mind.”
It becomes a biochemical storm that affects the entire lymphatic network.

1️⃣ The nervous system locks into survival mode

When fear is chronic, the body shifts into a constant sympathetic state.
Heart rate rises. Muscles stiffen. Breath becomes shallow.
And the lymphatic system — which depends on calmness and movement — begins to shut down.

2️⃣ Fascia tightens over the lymphatic vessels

Fascia contracts under stress.
When this happens, the lymphatic vessels underneath become compressed,
preventing lymph from flowing freely.

3️⃣ Cortisol triggers widespread inflammation

High cortisol thickens the lymph, increases fluid retention, and slows detoxification.
Swelling, puffiness, and heaviness become daily companions.

4️⃣ The glymphatic system (brain drainage) slows by up to 60%

This is why grief survivors experience:
• Head pressure
• Brain fog
• Exhaustion
• Poor memory
• Waking up feeling “inflamed”

The brain simply cannot detox while the body is stuck in fear.

🩵 When Fear Steals Your Relationship With Your Body

There is a specific kind of heartbreak in grief where your physical body becomes the least of your worries.

Your weight doesn’t matter.
Your meals don’t matter.
Your inflammation doesn’t matter.
Your sleep doesn’t matter.
Your own well-being becomes invisible.

Not because you don’t care…
but because you are broken.
Because survival is the only thing your nervous system can focus on.

Food becomes escape or comfort.
Sleep becomes fragmented.
Movement feels impossible.
Self-care feels irrelevant.

You are not lazy.
You are not irresponsible.
You are grieving — and your body is trying to keep you alive.

🩵 The Science Behind Weight Gain in Grievers

People underestimate how profoundly grief changes the body.

When trauma and fear collide, weight gain becomes almost unavoidable:

1️⃣ Cortisol blocks lymphatic flow

This leads to swelling, water retention, stubborn weight, and slow metabolism.

2️⃣ Liver overload

Stress hormones + poor sleep + emotional eating overload the liver,
leading to toxin recirculation and lymphatic stagnation.

3️⃣ Emotional eating is a survival response

The brain seeks glucose and dopamine to numb pain.
It is a protective mechanism — not a failure.

4️⃣ Movement decreases drastically

Less movement = less lymph pumping = slowed metabolic rate.

5️⃣ Sleep disruption blocks healing

Without deep sleep, the brain cannot detox and the lymphatic system collapses even more.

Your body is not betraying you.
It is adapting to trauma.

🩵 I Watched My Own Body Change

I don’t speak this only as a practitioner.
I speak this as someone who has lived it — painfully, quietly, and deeply.

I watched my own body change in front of me:

I saw myself slipping into:
• periods of poor mobility
• fatigue that swallowed my days
• insomnia that stole my nights
• severe weight gain
• emotional eating that turned into guilt
• swelling I couldn’t understand
• inflammation everywhere
• a body I no longer recognised

It became a horrible relationship with food —
using it to cope, then punishing myself for it.

Step by step, without realising it,
I was destroying my own lymphatic flow.

Not on purpose.
Not out of neglect.
But because I was shattered.
Because I was terrified.
Because I was trying to survive trauma while still showing up for the world.

Fear had frozen my lymph.
Grief had hijacked my metabolism.
Shock had disconnected me from myself.

And the worst part?
I didn’t even realise it was happening.

🩵 But Healing Begins the Moment Safety Returns

Here is the truth that brought me back to myself:

You are not broken.
Your lymphatic system shut down to protect you.
Your body adapted to keep you alive.

And just as the lymph froze in fear,
it can begin to flow again in safety.

With:
• breath
• movement
• compassion
• faith
• rest
• touch
• connection
• understanding

The body slowly unravels the knots grief tied inside it.

The fascia softens.
The inflammation calms.
The weight begins to shift.
The mind becomes clearer.
And the soul returns to the body.

This is the journey of the griever.
Of coming back home to yourself —
slowly, gently, bravely.

And through it all,
your lymphatic system tells the story
of everything you’ve survived
and everything you are still capable of healing.

11/11/2025

Oh my 🥴. Not easy at all.

This reminder highlights how deeply emotional inconsistency can destabilise trauma survivors. Their sensitivity isn’t overreaction but a protective adaptation to past unpredictability. As a counsellor, it reinforces the need for steady, attuned presence and clear communication, helping clients rebuild safety, trust, and the capacity to tolerate healthy relational fluctuations.

11/11/2025

She didn’t scream. There was no room for that.
Grief would have to wait. Tears would have to wait.
The world was demanding a decision — right now.
With her husband lying still in the snow behind her, and her newborn’s heartbeat fluttering like a dying candle against her chest, she made the choice that would define her entire life.
Wyoming Territory, January 1878.
The sky was white, the ground was white, the world was white — everything swallowed by a storm that erased the horizon and mercy with it.
Catherine “Kate” Morrison watched her husband’s chest rise once more… and fall for the very last time.
She leaned forward, placed her forehead against his, and whispered a sound that was not quite a word, not quite a sob — the sound of a soul splitting open.
The storm did not stop to acknowledge it.
It simply howled.
Her son, only six days old, cried against her skin — a small, desperate sound that pierced deeper than any wind.
He was still alive.
That meant she did not get to die today.
She wrapped him in everything they owned — her husband’s coat, her own shawl, every scrap of warmth she could find — until he was nothing but a small bundle pressed against her heartbeat. She tied him to her chest with leather straps because if she fainted… she needed him to remain against her, where her body heat could still reach him.
She kissed her husband once.
Once.
Just once.
Because if she kissed him twice, she might never leave.
Then she climbed onto the horse.
The cold was not just cold — it was a predator.
It clawed at her lungs.
It bit her fingertips.
It stole her breath and her thoughts and the edges of her memory.
Snow blinded her.
Wind mocked her.
The horizon was gone — there was only white and the beat of the horse beneath her and the tiny, fading flutter of her baby’s heart.
An hour passed.
Maybe two.
Time dissolved.
And then — the crying stopped.
The silence was worse than death.
She pressed her hand to his chest, through the layers, searching, searching, begging —
There. There. A flutter. A faint spark.
He was still with her.
Barely.
Her voice cracked as she spoke into the storm:
“Stay, Jacob. Stay. I don’t care if you hate me for the cold. Just stay.”
Her lips were bleeding.
Her fingers were numb wood.
Her vision blurred.
And then — shapes moved in the white.
A hallucination, she thought. Or God. Or madness.
But it was real.
A line shack.
Small. Weather-beaten. Half-buried — but standing.
She fell more than dismounted.
Shoved the door open with her shoulder.
Collapsed inside with her baby still tied to her chest.
She built the fire with hands she could not feel.
Melted snow in a tin pot.
Unwrapped her baby with a prayer and a terror too large for words.
Jacob was blue.
Silent.
Not breathing.
Something inside her shattered — and then ignited.
She pressed him to her bare skin, rocked him, whispered her husband’s name, her own name, her child’s name — as if names could pull souls back into bodies.
She breathed her warmth into him.
Over and over and over.
“Come back to me.”
“Come back to me.”
“Please. I am not done loving you yet.”
And then it happened —
A gasp.
A cough.
The tiniest cry — weak, angry, alive.
She broke.
She sobbed.
She laughed.
She held him as though the world itself had been returned to her arms.
Two days later, soldiers found them.
Kate had fever.
Shaking.
Barely conscious.
But her son —
Her son was warm.
Pink.
Nursing.
Living.
They called it a miracle.
But Kate knew better.
It wasn’t a miracle.
It was a thousand choices made every step through the snow:
One more breath. One more heartbeat. One more inch forward.
Jacob Morrison grew up to become a doctor — because he had learned, with every breath of his life, that survival is something someone fights for.
And when he told his children about the grandmother they never knew, he didn’t speak of heroism or legend.
He said:
“My mother rode through death itself because I was worth saving.”

Because love is not soft.
Love is not fragile.
Love is a warhorse ridden through a blizzard.
And when the world comes for what we love —
we do not beg.
We rise.
📝reece ryan

10/11/2025

This is such a great clip that was shared with me. Gabor Maté is on the nail as always !

https://www.facebook.com/share/v/17dv5oMx9h/?mibextid=wwXIfr

09/11/2025

The countdown has begun....3 weeks to go...

Save the date !!

See you there :)

09/11/2025

While it may be a controversial subject for some, spiritual trauma, and trauma that occurs in churches, is far too prevalent to dismiss. Much of it stems from non-professionals overstepping their boundaries and venturing into areas best left to trained counsellors.
You are invited to carefully consider the following:

A clear framework for understanding a pastor’s “lane” in supporting hurting people safely:
________________________________________
1. Pastors’ Core Role: Spiritual and Relational Care
A pastor’s lane centers on spiritual support, relational presence, and referral — not clinical or professional therapy or counselling.
Their role is to:
• Listen with empathy and compassion
• Pray with and for the person
• Share hope and guidance from Scripture appropriately
• Help connect the person to a supportive
• Ensure long-term, reliable wrap around support is put in place
• Encourage professional help when needed
Think of it as “shepherding the soul, not treating the symptoms.”
________________________________________
2. Recognize the Boundaries
Pastors should not:
• Diagnose mental health conditions
• Offer medical or therapeutic treatment
• Promise confidentiality when safety is at risk (e.g., self-harm, abuse, harm to others)
• Take on burdens beyond their training or emotional capacity
A good rule of thumb: if the person’s needs are clinical, chronic, or crisis-level, that’s outside the pastoral lane and requires referral or collaboration with trained professionals.
________________________________________
3. Know When to Refer
A pastor should refer or collaborate when someone:
• Talks about trauma of any kind
• Talks about suicidal thoughts or self-harm
• Describes abuse, trauma, or violence
• Exhibits signs of addiction or severe mental illness
• Needs ongoing counselling beyond short-term pastoral care
The pastor’s job is to normalize seeking help, not replace it.
________________________________________
4. Safety and Confidentiality
Pastors should be clear about:
• Limits of confidentiality:
“If you tell me something that makes me believe you or someone else is in danger, I’ll need to get help right away.”
• Documentation: Keep brief, factual notes (not detailed counselling records) if required by church policy.
• Mandatory reporting: Know state or national laws about reporting abuse or danger.
Ethical confidentiality boundaries are critical – unfortunately pastors are not subject to these like professionals are.
________________________________________
5. Team-Based Care
Pastoral support is strongest when part of a care network:
• Mental health professionals
• Medical providers
• Support groups
• Community resources
• Trusted lay leaders or care teams
A wise pastor doesn’t try to be the whole support system — but a bridge between faith and professional help.
________________________________________
6. Spiritual Integrity and Self-Awareness
Pastors should continually:
• Stay humble about limits
• Seek supervision or peer consultation
• Practice self-care and boundaries
• Training and educating self and volunteers is paramount
• Maintain ongoing training in trauma-informed and ethical care
A healthy shepherd leads best from within healthy boundaries.

Send a message to learn more