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A few years ago, I was standing in the kitchen trying to decide whether to answer an email. That was it. One email. Nothing urgent, nothing particularly difficult. But my body was behaving as though I had been asked to defuse a bomb. My jaw was tight. There was heat moving up my neck. I kept opening the laptop, then walking away from it again. At one point I found myself reaching for a sweet snack, which is apparently one of my nervous system’s preferred avoidance strategies.

As a child I used to wish I didn’t have a body. It was inconvenient as that is where I felt things, and feelings were hard. Growing up I stopped noticing it. I could notice everyone else. Their moods, their needs, whether they were comfortable, uncomfortable, irritated, tired. I could read what mood my mother was in before she uttered a word. As I grew up that turned into being able to read a room within seconds. Useful skill in community work, terrible skill if it comes at t

So many clients can tell the story beautifully. They can explain what had happened, why it had affected them, how it connected to earlier experiences. They understand the patterns. They have insight coming out of their ears, frankly. If healing were based entirely on being articulate, many people would have been finished years earlier. Meanwhile, their bodies are still clenching every time I ask about certain topics. There is a particular exhaustion that comes from understand

Is this you or something like you? The phone is in your hand before your eyes have properly opened. There is a tightness across your chest that you barely register because it has been there so long it feels like weather — just the climate you live in. You move fast from the moment you get up. Coffee, kids, inbox, commute, meetings, lunch at the desk, more meetings, dinner, couch, screen, bed. By the time you stop, you are so wired and so depleted at the same time that sleep d

My friend sent me a link last week with a message that said, 'You need to read this.' I read it. It was convincing, well-written, completely plausible. Then I googled it and found an equally convincing, equally well-written article that said the exact opposite. I sat there for a moment with a strange feeling in my chest — not quite anxious, not quite angry — more like something in me had quietly decided to stop trying. I just felt flat. Done. That flatness is worth paying att

Emotional regulation is one of the most commonly used phrases in therapy, psychology, and mental health education. It’s often presented as a skill we should all develop in order to cope better, communicate more effectively, and feel less overwhelmed. But in practice, I see how this concept can quietly cause harm. Many people come into therapy believing they are failing at emotional regulation. They think they’re too reactive, too sensitive, too emotional, or not disciplined e

Mindfulness is often offered as the answer to distress. Feel anxious? Be mindful. Overwhelmed? Breathe and observe. Stuck in your head? Come back to the present moment. And yet, many people sit across from me and quietly admit something that feels almost shameful to say out loud. ‘I’ve tried mindfulness. It doesn’t help. Sometimes it makes things worse.’ If that’s you, there’s nothing wrong with you. And you’re not f

Talking can be an important part of healing. Being able to put words to what happened, to be heard, and to make sense of your experience often brings real relief. And yet, many people sit in my room and say something like, ‘I understand what happened to me. I’ve talked about it for years. But my body still reacts.’ If that’s you, it’s an indication that your system is holding something that words alone can’t reach. Trauma doesn’t only live in memory or meaning. It lives in th

When people think about mental health, they usually think about thoughts, emotions, or behaviours. They focus on coping strategies, insight, and change. What’s often missed is something more basic. Before the mind can reflect, before emotions can settle, before behaviour can shift, the body needs to feel safe. It is the most consistent underlying issue I see with clients, and it is something I work to build in my own body – helping the mind feel safe to feel sensations in the

Most people think conflict is a communication problem. That if we could just find the right words, stay calm enough, or say things in the correct order, conflict would resolve itself. But in my work, I see something different. Conflict is rarely about language. It's about what happens in the body when connection feels threatened. You can have all the communication skills in the world, and still find yourself shutting down, getting defensive, or saying things you later regret.