Mother’s Day Is Coming....and It’s Complicated
Mother’s Day is two days away.
This will be my first one without my mum.
And I’ll be honest, the reminders have been brutal. The emails. The adverts. The cheerful prompts telling me it’s time to order the perfect card. The ones from Moonpig especially seem to find their way into my inbox with relentless enthusiasm.
“Don’t forget Mum.”
If only it were that simple.
Grief has a strange way of sneaking up in everyday moments. I still find myself going to pick up the phone to tell her something. Something funny, something annoying, something ordinary.
Then there’s that split second where reality catches up.
People who have lived with this for years will know that feeling well.
And Mother’s Day doesn’t only hold grief for people who have lost their mums. It can bring up so many different kinds of loss.
For those whose mums are no longer here.
For those who are estranged.
For those who longed to become mothers but couldn’t.
For those grieving complicated relationships.
For those parenting without the support they needed themselves.
It’s everywhere this time of year.
Love, yes.
But also loss.
Grief has many shapes. Sometimes we grieve someone who has died. Sometimes we grieve someone who is still alive but cannot be the parent we needed. Sometimes we grieve the relationship we wish we had.
In therapy we often call this unfinished business, the feelings, conversations, or questions that never quite had a place to land.
That’s something we can gently explore together.
Not to fix it. Grief isn’t something that gets fixed.
But to make space for it.
To understand it.
To say the things that were never said.
To hold the love and the pain at the same time.
Because that’s often what grief actually is.
Love with nowhere obvious to go.
Mother’s Day can also feel particularly confusing when you have children of your own.
You’re grieving your mum.
And at the same time you’re someone else’s mum.
Those emotions can sit right next to each other, pride, sadness, love, longing, and they can feel like they’re fighting for space.
I’m still figuring out what this weekend looks like for me.
Right now, what I know is this:
I’ll see my children.
I’ll honour my mum in whatever way feels right in the moment.
I’ll probably spend time with the puppies, because being their pup mumma counts too.
And I had a conversation with my husband about all of this. I explained that I genuinely don’t know how I’m going to feel on the day.
His response was exactly what I needed to hear.
He said he’d meet me wherever I am at. That he wouldn’t expect anything, wouldn’t push anything. That he’d simply wait for me to say what I needed, and if I wanted him there, he’d come with me.
Sometimes the greatest kindness someone can offer is simply not trying to fix it.
Just being there.
Today is Friday, and after a couple of early morning clients I’ve given myself the rest of the day gently. Crafting. Walking the dogs. Maybe a gym swim. Moules and chips for dinner.
If I do all of it, some of it, or none of it…
That’s okay.
You can’t plan grief.
You can only meet it as it comes.
If this weekend feels heavy for you too, a few gentle things that might help:
Take a break from the constant reminders if you need to.
Step outside, nature has a quiet way of holding us when emotions feel big.
Write a letter to the person you miss, even if it’s just for you.
Light a candle.
Cook their favourite meal.
Tell a story about them.
Or simply rest.
However you feel on the day is allowed.
Right now, just knowing that feels like enough.
Take gentle care of yourselves this weekend.
Louise x
If this resonates, you’re not on your own.
Pull up a chair.
I've got you.
If you’re tired of carrying it alone, I’m here.
We can take it at your pace. No pressure. No fixing. Just space to be human.
📧 louisemalyancounselling@gmail.com
🌐 www.wildfirecounsellingtherapy.co.uk
Free, no-obligation intro chat, just to see if we’re the right fit.
Neurodivergent? The grief we don't talk about.
There’s a kind of grief around neurodivergence that people don’t often talk about.
Not because we don’t love neurodivergent minds.
Not because we don’t see the brilliance.
But because the world still has a very narrow idea of what success is supposed to look like.
Exam results.
Top sets.
Predicted grades.
University pathways.
A constant language of “achievement”.
And if you don’t fit neatly into that system, it can leave a mark.
I know that feeling personally.
At school I struggled to revise and learn the way other people seemed able to. I could understand things, think deeply about things, talk about things, yet when it came to sitting down and revising or showing it on paper, something just didn’t work the same way.
From the outside people saw an intelligent person.
Which meant the response was often:
“Just get on with it.”
“You’re making a fuss.”
“You’re capable, stop overthinking.”
When people think you’re intelligent but you’re struggling anyway, the assumption is that you’re not trying hard enough.
That’s where the shame creeps in.
Because how do you explain something you can’t fully explain yourself?
How do you put words to the frustration of knowing your brain works… just not always in the way the system expects?
Processing speed matters in exams.
The bell rings before the work is finished.
The test ends before the thoughts are fully down on paper.
The class moves on while your brain is still carefully piecing together step one.
So you try harder.
You push.
You mask.
You pretend you’re fine.
And often you carry that quiet feeling of being less than, even when you know deep down that isn’t true.
When I speak to parents of neurodivergent children now, I sometimes see a very particular emotional landscape.
They adore their child. They see their strengths, their creativity, their kindness, their unique way of seeing the world.
But alongside that pride there can also be a quiet ache.
Because the world keeps measuring success using a ruler that was never designed for their child’s mind.
So when other families are celebrating top grades, scholarships and academic prizes, sometimes the celebrations look different.
You celebrate resilience.
You celebrate perseverance.
You celebrate the courage it takes to walk back into school tomorrow and try again.
Those things rarely appear on certificates.
And sometimes when you want to proudly show a piece of work your child has done, there’s that tiny pause inside.
Because comparison sits in the room even when nobody says a word.
For some parents there’s another layer too.
They recognise pieces of their own childhood in what their child is experiencing. The same struggles. The same misunderstandings. The same comments about “trying harder”.
When we hold our babies for the first time, we quietly hope the world will be kinder to them than it was to us.
That school will understand them better.
And when the same patterns start appearing, that can bring its own kind of ache.
Psychology actually has words for these emotional spaces.
One is ambiguous loss, a type of grief where nothing has physically gone, but expectations or imagined futures shift over time.
Another is chronic sorrow, which describes waves of sadness that come and go across the years, often triggered by moments like exam seasons, school reports or parents’ evenings.
Both can sit alongside enormous love and pride.
Because these feelings are not opposites.
You can love someone completely as they are.
And still feel sadness about the systems they have to navigate.
I also know now that the things I once felt ashamed of weren’t flaws.
They were differences.
And those differences shaped the work I do today, the patience I have with people, the curiosity about how minds work, and the refusal to reduce someone’s worth to a grade or a neat definition of success.
Our children, and the adults they become, are not the problem.
The problem is a world that still struggles to recognise intelligence, creativity, empathy and resilience when they appear in forms it didn’t expect.
And one day, hopefully, we’ll learn to measure those things too.
Stay safe, stay connected & take gentle care
Louise x
If this resonates, you’re not on your own.
Pull up a chair.
I've got you.
If you’re tired of carrying it alone, I’m here.
We can take it at your pace. No pressure. No fixing. Just space to be human.
📧 louisemalyancounselling@gmail.com
🌐 www.wildfirecounsellingtherapy.co.uk
Free, no-obligation intro chat, just to see if we’re the right fit.
Mum. A tribute on international women's day.
A Tribute to My Mum
3.9.59 – 14.9.25
I felt compelled to write an extra blog today. A real personal reflection. It being international women’s day. To the woman who shaped my life.
There are some people in life whose influence never really leaves. Even when they’re no longer physically here, they remain woven into everything you are.
For me, that person is my mum.
I am here because of her. Not just in the obvious sense of life itself, but in the deeper ways too. The way I see the world. The way I care about people. The way I show up for others.
Her legacy lives quietly in so much of what I do.
She believed in people. She believed in kindness. She believed that when someone is struggling, the most powerful thing you can offer is to simply be there, to listen, to support, to care.
One of the last things she said to me has stayed with me every single day since.
Never stop supporting those who need you. We get it. Be what we didn’t have.
That conversation held so much.
It’s about compassion.
It’s about understanding pain without turning away from it.
It’s about using our experiences to create something better for others.
Those words sit at the heart of the work I do. Every client I sit with, every conversation, every moment of care, she is part of that. Her influence lives on in ways she may never have fully realised. She was so proud of me. Of all her 3 children actually. And we knew it.
I am endlessly grateful for her.
Grateful for the love she gave, the lessons she taught, and the strength she showed. Grateful that a piece of her continues through the way I live, the way I work, and the way I try to show up in the world. In awe of her story and journey. Of our story and journey. Of the strength and courage she passed to me, and my siblings. She drummed into each other we only have each other, to sort it out & forgive quickly when necessary. Between us, we have always practiced this. Our love is strong. Thank you mum.
Love like that doesn’t disappear.
It carries forward.
So this is for you, Mum.
Thank you for everything you gave me. Gave us.
Thank you for shaping the person I am.
Thank you for trusting me to carry those values forward.
Your legacy lives on.
Love you Mum.
Until next time
Don’t forget.
Louise x
International Women’s Day (and a Bump on My Head)
Today is International Women's Day.
And like many things in life, it has had me reflecting.
On the incredible women I’m surrounded by, clients, counsellors, friends, family. Women who carry more than most people ever see. Women who keep going through grief, trauma, motherhood, menopause, loss, joy, growth, work, relationships and everything else life throws at them.
I am endlessly proud of them.
Not in a distant, professional way. In a real way.
Because here’s something people don’t always realise about therapists.
Yes, we think about our clients outside the therapy room.
Not in an intrusive or unhealthy way. Not in a “they take over our lives” way. Just in a human way.
When you sit with someone week after week while they unpack parts of their life that they may never have said out loud before… they matter. Their story matters. Their growth matters.
If someone tells me they did something brave that week, set a boundary, spoke their truth, rested when they needed to, I feel proud of them.
And I tell them.
Often.
Because hearing “I’m proud of you” can be life changing if you’ve rarely heard it before.
Therapy, for me, isn’t about sitting silently pretending I’m a blank slate. It’s relational. It’s human. If something is brilliant, I’ll say it. If something is hard, messy, or, let’s be honest…. a bit shit, I’ll say that too.
Not with judgement. With honesty.
I adore this work.
And today, while we’re celebrating women, I also want to acknowledge the men.
The men who come to therapy and sit down opposite me, sometimes with visible discomfort because society hasn’t always made it easy for them to talk about feelings. The men who push through that anyway. The men who cry, reflect, question themselves, and grow.
What a privilege that is.
It’s also a day that reminds me of the men in my life, the ones who support, encourage, listen, laugh, and occasionally shake their heads at my endless stream of ideas.
Celebrating women doesn’t mean excluding men. It means recognising strength, resilience and humanity wherever it shows up.
And for me, that shows up every single day in my work.
Clients who think they’re “not doing very well” when in reality they’re doing something incredibly brave, facing themselves.
Counsellor colleagues who support each other, challenge each other, lift each other up.
Friends who show up in the messy middle of life.
Family who love us through all our chapters.
We don’t celebrate each other enough. We don’t say the things we feel out loud often enough.
So I try to.
If I’m proud of someone, I’ll say it.
If someone inspires me, I’ll say it.
If someone has done something difficult, I’ll recognise it.
Communication matters. Appreciation matters.
And modelling that is part of how I work too.
Because when people feel seen and valued, something shifts inside them.
Today, however, I’m celebrating in a very glamorous way.
I’m out walking with my husband and the puppies… with a rather impressive bump on my head from cleaning out a cupboard yesterday. Apparently housework is now officially hazardous to my health.
So I’ve decided the safest option today is fresh air, dogs, sunshine if we’re lucky, and appreciating the people around me.
Which feels very fitting.
To all the incredible women, and the supportive men, in my world and beyond:
I see you.
I’m proud of you.
And I’m grateful for you.
Stay safe.
Stay connected.
And take gentle care.
Louise x
If this resonates, you’re not on your own.
Pull up a chair.
I've got you.
If you’re tired of carrying it alone, I’m here.
We can take it at your pace. No pressure. No fixing. Just space to be human.
📧 louisemalyancounselling@gmail.com
🌐 www.wildfirecounsellingtherapy.co.uk
Free, no-obligation intro chat, just to see if we’re the right fit.
World Book Day: The Stories That Hold Us
Some books don’t just sit on a shelf.
They sit beside us in life.
One of mine is Always Remember: The Boy, the Mole, the Fox, the Horse and the Storm, by Charlie Mackesy
If you know it, you’ll know exactly what I mean.
Those four friends, the boy, the mole, the fox and the horse, wandering through wild landscapes together, navigating storms, friendship, kindness and cake.
Simple on the surface.
Profound underneath.
There’s a page I come back to again and again. The one about patience. About how shouting at a flower won’t make it bloom.
What a message that is.
Because so many of us speak to ourselves in ways we would never speak to anyone else.
Harsh.
Impatient.
Critical.
And when that same tone shows up in relationships, with partners, friends, colleagues, something very predictable happens.
People become defensive.
Because anger and harshness rarely help anything grow. They usually just make people pull their petals in a little tighter.
Therapy, with me, and for me, is the opposite of that.
It’s about meeting people exactly where they are.
Sometimes someone walks into the room and slams their trauma on the coffee table with a bang.
Sometimes it can’t even come through the door yet.
Both are completely okay.
And creativity in therapy doesn’t always look the way people imagine. It’s not always paints, sand trays or craft.
Sometimes creativity looks like:
A coffee at the breakfast bar.
A walk in the woods.
Talking about a favourite book.
Music that means something.
Lyrics that hit a nerve.
Even what someone likes to eat.
Those things tell stories too.
That’s one of the reasons this book resonates so deeply with me. It arrived in my life at a time when I needed patience and gentleness with myself, and the artwork alone feels calming. It’s beautiful in that quiet way that lets you breathe for a moment.
It lives on my bedside table.
I refer to it often.
Sometimes I don’t even open it, just knowing it’s there is comforting.
Books can do that.
They hold us.
I’ve always been a reader. The kind who loves nothing more than curling up with a good book. My taste is fairly eclectic, wartime sagas, gritty thrillers, and everything in between.
Right now I’m reading The midwifes confession by Diane Chamberlain. Its a story full of moral and ethical dilemmas that really makes you think.
And I’ve just finished most of the Railway Girls series by Maisie Thomas. I’ve deliberately saved the last one for later in the spring. There’s something about those wartime stories, the camaraderie, the friendship, the resilience, that pulls me right into that world.
Connection again.
Friendship again.
Stories of people getting through hard things together.
(There’s a theme here 😉)
And of course there’s always a textbook or work-related book on the go as well. It brings me richness and fullness to learn, grow & know the impact this can have on the people I work with.
My love of books started young. Really young.
I was reading Catherine Cookson in primary school! Then came Judy Blume, the Point Horror series, the babysitters club and since I was young enough to remember it was the magical worlds of Enid Blyton Mallory Towers, St Clare’s, The Wishing Chair that peppered my youth. I begged my parents to let me go to boarding school!
A book voucher was the best present I could imagine. Oh the joy of the voucher with foiled inscription. The decisions on which to choose felt so important. It was, books were my world. My place to escape to. Books were safe.
Trips to the library felt like entering another universe.
I’d spend hours choosing books with my mum. Properly choosing them. The kind of choosing where the book becomes a little treasure.
For a while I felt a bit of shame about the kinds of books I loved.
Not anymore.
Books bring comfort.
They bring joy.
They take us places when we need somewhere else to go for a while.
And every time I open one, a little part of my mum is there with me.
World Book Day isn’t just about children dressing up as their favourite characters.
For me, it’s about recognising the power stories have, to comfort, to teach, to connect, to heal.
And celebrating the wonderful places they can take us.
What are you reading? When was the last time you curled up and got lost in the pages?
Stay safe, stay connected & take gentle care
Louise x
If this resonates, you’re not on your own.
Pull up a chair.
I've got you.
If you’re tired of carrying it alone, I’m here.
We can take it at your pace. No pressure. No fixing. Just space to be human.
📧 louisemalyancounselling@gmail.com
🌐 www.wildfirecounsellingtherapy.co.uk
Free, no-obligation intro chat, just to see if we’re the right fit.
My Crystal Ball Is Broken (And My Magic Wand’s Useless Too)
I was watching a programme recently about the woman who used to dress Sarah Ferguson. One of those shows where the story unfolds through other people’s memories, opinions, interpretations. Fascinating stuff… but it got my brain ticking over.
Because while I was watching, one thought kept popping up.
How do they actually know?
We do this all the time as humans. We watch something. We hear part of a story. We observe a relationship. Then our minds start filling in the blanks like an overconfident novelist.
She must have felt this.
He clearly meant that.
They were probably thinking…
Except… were they?
Psychology calls part of this Theory of Mind, our ability to imagine what someone else might be thinking or feeling. It’s a brilliant human skill. It helps us empathise, cooperate, connect.
But here’s the tricky bit.
Sometimes we don’t use it to understand people.
We use it to guess people.
And those guesses are usually built from our own experiences, fears, wounds, and assumptions.
In relationships.
In friendships.
In families.
We become mind readers who are working with… very unreliable equipment.
Which is why I often joke with clients about my crystal ball that doesn’t work and my completely lifeless magic wand that I wish did work. Yes, shock horror, i’d love to be able to magic away my clients pain.
Honestly, I’ve tried shaking them. Shouting at them. Stamping my feet and screaming in pure frustration. Nothing.
So if mind reading doesn’t work… what actually does?
Clear, grounded communication.
Questions that aren’t loaded with accusation.
Answers that aren’t wrapped in defence.
Saying what we actually need instead of hoping someone will magically know.
Simple in principle.
Spectacularly difficult in practice.
Many of us were never taught how to do this. Some of us grew up in environments where speaking openly didn’t feel safe. Others didn’t even realise it was allowed to ask directly for what we need.
So we guess.
We assume.
We worry.
We overthink.
And round and round the mind goes.
A lot of what happens in therapy is something people often refer to as reparenting. Not in a dramatic or clinical way, but in a deeply human one.
It’s about learning the things we maybe weren’t shown.
How to sit with feelings.
How to ask questions.
How to listen.
How to understand ourselves without judgement.
And most importantly, how to see things from the client’s perspective, not my own.
Because I’m not them.
Therapy isn’t about me inserting my story into someone else’s life. It’s about stepping into their shoes as carefully as possible and saying:
Help me understand what it’s like to be you.
When someone is met with genuine curiosity, kindness and understanding, something remarkable starts to happen.
The noise quietens.
The anxiety that grows from assumptions begins to soften.
The fear of “getting it wrong” loses its grip.
The embarrassment of not knowing what to say fades.
And shame…
Well, shame, she struggles to survive in the light.
Shame. She thrives in silence, secrecy and assumptions. She needs that dark deep place within us to exist.
When we bring her into a space where someone listens, reflects, and truly sees you?
Shame doesn’t stand much of a chance out here in the sunshine.
Turns out the crystal ball was never needed after all.
Just two humans, being honest.
Stay safe, stay connected & take gentle care
Louise x
If this resonates, you’re not on your own.
Pull up a chair.
I've got you.
If you’re tired of carrying it alone, I’m here.
We can take it at your pace. No pressure. No fixing. Just space to be human.
📧 louisemalyancounselling@gmail.com
🌐 www.wildfirecounsellingtherapy.co.uk
Free, no-obligation intro chat, just to see if we’re the right fit.
The World Didn’t Fall Apart (Because I Chose the Sun)
Sometimes rebellion looks like cancelling a meeting and standing in a field with daffodils on a Wednesday.
The rain has been relentless lately.
Grey mornings. Heavy skies. That damp chill that creeps into your shoulders and seems to whisper, “Stay small. Stay inside.” For a lot of people, it’s matched how things have felt emotionally too. Darker days, metaphorically and physically. Long stretches of just getting through. I have certainly felt the impact of both.
Then today, the sun made an appearance.
Not a dramatic, cinematic entrance. Just light breaking through cloud like it had quietly decided we’d had enough.
It was Wellbeing Wednesday. And by some rare alignment of diaries, I had 2 whole hours free in the middle of the day. An hour either side of wellbeing Wednesday.
That meant…..Three hours.
Now, old programming would have said: Be productive. Catch up. Get ahead. Do admin. Fill the space.
Instead, I cancelled wellbeing Wednesday, told the truth, and went out into the sunshine with my husband and the puppies.
I told the group of therapists, 4.5k of them, exactly what I was doing. I said I was being human. That I was choosing self-care. That I was taking advantage of the light.
Why lie?
There’s something powerful about modelling boundaries instead of preaching them. As therapists, we talk about nervous system regulation, burnout, sustainability. But if we can’t occasionally say, “The sun is out and I’m going to stand in it,” what are we demonstrating?
The world did not fall apart.
It did not crumble.
Emails did not combust.
The profession did not collapse because one therapist chose sunlight.
Instead, something beautiful happened.
I invited those therapists to use the time too. To get outside if they could. To look up. To take photos. To reflect.
And the pictures that came back, stunning.
Daffodils blazing yellow against green.
Deer caught mid-step in quiet fields.
Wild garlic carpeting woodland floors.
Wide skies.
Soft light.
Early spring lambs wobbling on new legs.
There is something deeply regulating about seasonal change. Our bodies respond to light. Sun on your arms and face isn’t indulgence, it’s biology. Vitamin D shifts. Circadian rhythms recalibrate. The nervous system reads brightness as safety.
Standing there, feeling warmth on my skin after weeks of grey, I could feel how much my own system needed it.
Sometimes we forget that we are mammals before we are professionals.
Rain and darkness affect us.
Long winters, literal and emotional, take a toll.
We are not machines designed for endless output under fluorescent lighting.
Self-care isn’t always bubble baths and candles. Sometimes it’s cancelling something non-urgent because the sun has finally broken through and your body says, “Now. Go now.”
There’s also something deeper here.
So many of us have been in darker times, grief, stress, global uncertainty, personal struggles. When the light appears, even briefly, we have to let ourselves step into it. Not wait until everything is perfect. Not earn it through exhaustion.
Just step forward.
What I loved most was the collective permission. One honest admission, “I’m choosing sunshine”, opened space for others to do the same. And instead of judgement, there was beauty. Reflection. Connection.
That’s what happens when we stop pretending we’re endlessly resilient.
We show that boundaries are real.
We show that rest is responsible.
We show that prioritising ourselves doesn’t equal selfishness.
And crucially, the world doesn’t fall apart when we do.
The lambs were still there.
The daffodils were still standing.
The emails were still waiting.
Life carried on.
But I felt different.
Lighter.
More present.
More alive.
Sometimes the most radical thing you can do in a productivity-obsessed culture is stand in the sun in the middle of a Wednesday and say, “This matters.”
Dark seasons come.
Rain falls.
There are heavy times.
And then the light returns.
When it does, look up.
Step into it.
Let it land on your skin.
The work will still be there tomorrow. Wellbeing Wednesday will happen again.
And me? I feel absolutely refreshed and dare I say it? Warm & glowing.
Stay safe, stay connected & take gentle care
Louise x
If this resonates, you’re not on your own.
Pull up a chair.
I've got you.
If you’re tired of carrying it alone, I’m here.
We can take it at your pace. No pressure. No fixing. Just space to be human.
📧 louisemalyancounselling@gmail.com
🌐 www.wildfirecounsellingtherapy.co.uk
Free, no-obligation intro chat, just to see if we’re the right fit.
The world's gone mad.
I took the puppies out earlier.
Sunshine. Actual, proper sunshine. The kind that makes you squint and forgive the British weather for at least twenty minutes.
They were completely unbothered by the state of the world.
No awareness of politics.
No scrolling.
No existential dread.
Just grass. Smells. A stick that absolutely had to be carried at full speed for no clear reason.
And I stood there watching them, thinking about how many conversations I’ve had recently that begin with:
“Everything feels mad.”
“It’s all too much.”
“I don’t know what’s going to happen.”
“I can’t switch off.”
Yes. It is crazy out there.
War. Cost of living. Climate anxiety. Political division. Social media shouting matches. Constant access to distressing news 24/7. Our nervous systems were not designed to process global catastrophe before breakfast.
Your brain evolved to track threats in your immediate environment, rustling bushes, tribal conflict, food scarcity. Now it’s trying to metabolise global instability from a glowing rectangle in your hand while you’re also replying to emails and remembering to defrost chicken.
Of course people feel on edge.
This doesn’t mean you’re weak.
It means you’re wired.
But here’s where the sunshine and the puppies come in.
There’s a concept in psychology called the “circle of control.” It’s simple, but powerful.
Inside the circle:
Your actions.
Your boundaries.
Your responses.
Your routines.
Your care for your own nervous system.
Outside the circle:
Global politics.
Stock markets.
Other people’s behaviour.
The weather.
The internet’s latest outrage.
When we spend too much time mentally wrestling with what’s outside our circle, our anxiety ramps up. Because the brain hates unsolved problems, and these are unsolvable at an individual level.
Standing in that sunshine, I realised something again.
The puppies were firmly inside their circle.
Warmth.
Movement.
Connection.
Curiosity.
That doesn’t mean we ignore reality. It means we balance awareness with regulation.
A few gentle strategies I share with clients when the world feels overwhelming:
Limit your intake. You are allowed to be informed without being saturated. Choose when and how you consume news. Not first thing. Not last thing. Your nervous system deserves bookends of safety.
Name what is yours. Literally say, “This is outside my control.” It sounds simple. It works because it helps your brain categorise the threat.
Ground physically. Sunshine. Fresh air. Cold water on your wrists. Walking the dog. Moving your body. The nervous system resets through the body, not through overthinking.
Create micro-stability. Small daily anchors: morning coffee ritual, evening walk, a playlist, lighting a candle. Predictability calms the brain when the world feels unpredictable.
Look up. I mean that quite literally. When we’re anxious, our posture folds in and our gaze drops to screens. Lift your eyes. Take in the sky. Your brain reads open space as safety.
And maybe most importantly, connect. Anxiety thrives in isolation. Talk about what’s coming up for you. You don’t have to carry global fear alone.
It is wild out there.
But you are allowed to experience warmth.
You are allowed to laugh at your dog being ridiculous.
You are allowed to rest.
You are allowed to focus on your circle.
Standing there in the sunshine today, I thought: this is resistance too.
Regulating your nervous system in chaotic times isn’t avoidance.
It’s strength.
It’s sustainability.
It’s how we stay steady enough to show up well in the parts of the world we can influence.
The world may be spinning.
But right now, there is sunlight somewhere.
There is fresh air.
There is something within your circle that you can tend to.
Start there.
Even the puppies know that’s enough for today.
Stay safe, stay connected & take gentle care
Louise x
If this resonates, you’re not on your own.
Pull up a chair.
I've got you.
If you’re tired of carrying it alone, I’m here.
We can take it at your pace. No pressure. No fixing. Just space to be human.
📧 louisemalyancounselling@gmail.com
🌐 www.wildfirecounsellingtherapy.co.uk
Free, no-obligation intro chat, just to see if we’re the right fit.
This image, and Punch’s story, stopped me.
Those viral clips of him sitting alone, clutching his little orange teddy like it was the only thing in the world he could trust. Watching the troop from a distance. Not quite in. Not quite out. Just… surviving.
And now? He’s inching closer.
Not dramatically.
Not all at once.
Not “fixed.”
Just a few inches nearer than yesterday.
For a Japanese macaque, where hierarchy matters and belonging is everything, that’s not small. That’s courage.
And honestly? It made me think about us.
Trauma and the Nervous System: Sitting on the Edge of the Group
When humans experience trauma, abandonment, neglect, loss, abuse, chronic stress, our nervous systems adapt to survive.
Sometimes that looks like:
Sitting on the edge of relationships
Watching but not joining
Clutching tightly to the one thing that feels safe
Trusting objects more than people
Staying hyper-aware of everyone’s movements
We might look “fine.”
We might even function well.
But internally, we’re sitting slightly apart from the troop.
Punch holding his teddy isn’t weakness.
It’s regulation.
That toy is his safety cue. His nervous system anchor. The one thing that says, I’m not completely alone.
Humans do this too.
We hold onto coping strategies. Routines. Busyness. Work. A relationship. A therapist. Sometimes even anxiety itself, because at least it’s familiar.
And here’s the important part:
We don’t rip the teddy away.
Therapy Isn’t Forcing You Into the Circle
In therapy, we don’t drag someone into the middle of the group and say, “You’re safe now. Behave like it.”
That would overwhelm the nervous system.
Instead, we sit with you while you hold the teddy.
We let your body learn, slowly, that connection doesn’t equal danger.
We co-regulate.
We notice.
We pause.
We go at your pace.
Little by little, your nervous system begins to update.
You inch closer.
Not because someone pushed you.
Not because you “should.”
But because something inside feels just a tiny bit safer.
That’s healing.
The Quiet Privilege of Being a Therapist
There’s something deeply humbling about this work.
We often don’t see what happens next.
There isn’t a dramatic reunion scene.
No standing ovation.
No final episode where everything wraps up beautifully.
Sometimes it’s just a wave.
A goodbye.
A “thank you.”
And then you go back to your troop.
You build friendships.
You leave a relationship that wasn’t safe.
You start speaking up.
You apply for the job.
You rest.
You belong.
We don’t always get to witness the full circle forming.
But what a privilege it is to have sat beside you while you were still holding the teddy.
Not for us.
For you.
Joining Your Own Tribe
Punch isn’t fully inside the circle yet.
But he’s not outside of it anymore either.
That’s everything.
Belonging doesn’t roar.
It inches.
And maybe that’s what therapy is really about, not changing who you are, but helping your nervous system feel safe enough to join your tribe.
To find:
Your people
Your spaces
Your version of safety
Your own “teddy” … healthy, grounding, supportive
And maybe even a therapist who truly gets you.
Because when you feel understood, something softens.
You don’t have to perform.
You don’t have to fight for position.
You don’t have to sit quite so far away.
You can move a little closer.
And sometimes, a few inches closer than yesterday is the bravest thing you’ll ever do. 🐒✨
stay safe, stay connected & take gentle care
Louise x
If this resonates, you’re not on your own.
Pull up a chair.
I've got you.
If you’re tired of carrying it alone, I’m here.
We can take it at your pace. No pressure. No fixing. Just space to be human.
📧 louisemalyancounselling@gmail.com
🌐 www.wildfirecounsellingtherapy.co.uk
Free, no-obligation intro chat, just to see if we’re the right fit.
Human First
Being solely self-employed is both liberating and terrifying.
I love the autonomy. I love that I’m my own boss. I set the rules. I work in a way that feels authentic, flexible, aligned with who I am.
And I still have to pay the bills.
This past year has been one of the hardest of my life. I’d signed up and paid for further courses & qualifications. I’d invested in conferences. I was growing the business, building momentum, stretching myself.
Then tragedy struck.
My mum got sick.
And then she died.
What followed was a period of pain I can’t quite put into tidy words. I couldn’t work like I had before. I didn’t have savings to stop working entirely. So I existed in that impossible space so many self-employed people know, grieving deeply, yet still needing to function.
I had to take time out. For grief. For self-care. For survival.
And then, as if that wasn’t enough, I experienced seven more bereavements.
Seven.
People and pets who were in my life last year are not in it now. My world has shifted in ways I’m still integrating. It’s been a roller coaster of shock, anger, disbelief, exhaustion, numbness, love, longing.
And yet.
There are people in my life now who weren’t here last year, and they have made an enormous impact.
There are people who were already here who stepped up in ways I will never forget.
My husband got my need for no xmas decorations, no celebration. I couldnt. I just couldnt.
My daughter respected and understood cancellations.
My supervisor checked in most days. Helped with admin. Held me emotionally. Knew what I needed yet never assumed. She met me where I was at.
A friend and colleague sat with me day after day, letting me be up, down, inconsistent, messy. She just intuitively knew. Showed me love in ways I didnt even know I needed.
Another friend took me dancing and listened to me rant late into the night.
Someone sat with me through the night in a grief group online and understood the confusion and anger. She got why I was there and respected my feelings and the place I was in. Didnt put her stuff on me.
A new friend laughed and cried with me night after night and got how ADHD & trauma sits and respected my needs without words. She got it.
My siblings and I talked, created, laughed through tears, instinctively knowing we needed connection.
My accountant removed stress from my shoulders and quite literally held my hand through the business side when I couldn’t think straight.
And Arthur, my puppy. Lets just say, today is possible thanks to him. He gave me a reason to get up.
None of these people tried to fix it.
They didnt tell me everything would be okay, because it wasn’t.
They heard me.
They held me.
They let me feel.
That is everything.
A few months into a new year, I can say this honestly: I have good days. I have good hours. I have sadder days and sadder hours.
That is natural.
Grief doesn’t shrink. The loss doesn’t become less sad. What changes is the space around it. Life grows around the grief. The world shifts. New experiences enter. We evolve whether we want to or not.
I have begun to gently invite that in. To create a new normal that honours what was and makes space for what is becoming.
And in doing that, I’ve realised something profound.
This is exactly what we do in therapy.
We don’t fix.
We don’t rush.
We don’t tell someone they should be over it.
We sit. We validate. We evolve alongside.
Watching my clients grow warms my heart in ways that are hard to describe. Their wins matter. Their setbacks matter. Their honesty matters. I will never shame them for how they feel, and I won’t pretend I’m some emotionless observer either.
I am human first.
I’ve journalled publicly about my grief. I’ve spoken about it. Thousands of people have read, watched, messaged, shared their own stories. There is no shame in that. It has helped me. And it has helped others feel less alone.
This past year has made my work deeper. Richer. More embodied. It has modelled boundaries, stepping back when needed. It has modelled self-care, not as a luxury, but as necessity.
On a plane, we’re told to put the oxygen mask on ourselves before helping even our children. Not because we’re selfish. Because we’re no use to anyone if we can’t breathe.
That applies to life too.
Yes, I’m a psychotherapist.
And I am a human first.
Exactly as it should be.
So this is gratitude, from the bottom of my heart, to the people who carried me when I couldn’t carry myself.
And it’s also a message to you, if you are struggling:
It is imperative that you are okay first.
There is no shame in reaching out.
There is no weakness in needing support.
There is strength in allowing yourself to be held.
You are so important.
Stay safe.
Stay connected.
Take gentle care.
Louise x
If this resonates, you’re not on your own.
Pull up a chair.
I've got you.
If you’re tired of carrying it alone, I’m here.
We can take it at your pace. No pressure. No fixing. Just space to be human.
📧 louisemalyancounselling@gmail.com
🌐 www.wildfirecounsellingtherapy.co.uk
Free, no-obligation intro chat, just to see if we’re the right fit.
Finding Your Tribe (Even If It Takes Until Your 40s and beyond)
Wednesday wellbeing got me thinking about tribe. About the people who get you. The ones who don’t try to sand you down into something more convenient.
My brain runs at a million miles an hour. Always has.
I juggle multiple projects and love the buzz of it, yet sitting doing nothing can cause me physical and mental discomfort. Then, out of nowhere, I’ll crash and sleep for 15 hours. Or take a three-hour daytime nap like my body has just pulled the plug. Then live on 4-6 hours sleep like i’ve had the best rest ever.
Some days sound feels unbearable. Other days I want music loud and immersive.
I get overwhelmed by the smallest admin task, yet happily hold multiple projects complex emotional work with clients all day long.
I am a walking contradiction.
And for years, I felt shame about that.
I felt shame for being super capable in some areas and completely stuck in others. For thinking fast. For talking fast. For jumping to step 22 when someone else is still working out step one.
Joe Bloggs is carefully reading the instructions. I’ve already reorganised the system and colour-coded it.
That didn’t always go down well.
At school, my ADHD was obvious, but not obvious enough. I talked too much. I “wasn’t applying myself.” I needed to try harder.
Maths? Hard. So I learned by rote. Then one teacher showed me visual ways to break things down and something clicked. Mental arithmetic? My thing. Numbers neatly lined up in a spreadsheet with symbols? Absolutely not.
Contradiction again.
And then there was Mr Short, my science teacher when I was 11–14. He demonstrated everything visually. Colours. Diagrams. Experiments. He saw how I learned. He adjusted. And I thrived.
That’s what being seen does.
But there were plenty who didn’t see me. Who criticised. Who tried to mould me into something more “neurotypical,” more compliant, less intense. The criticism over the years nearly broke me. Very nearly killed me.
Now?
Bollocks to the lot of them.
And thank you, from the bottom of my heart, to the ones who saw my worth before I could and when i couldn’t. The ones who encouraged, championed, and stayed when I was chaotic, messy, growing when i felt like chucking in the towel.
Because finding your tribe changes everything.
I didn’t find mine until my 40s. A creative community of incredible women and some men too!! who love deeply, challenge kindly, and celebrate wins like they’re their own. They held me through the darkest days and clapped the loudest when things went right.
It’s never too late to find your people.
I am a round peg in a square world, and I’m completely okay with that now.
I feel emotion deeply. I work on myself constantly. I evolve. I question. I grow. And none of that would have happened without relationship.
That’s why I work the way I do.
I’m passionate about what I do, and I’m bloody good at it too. However, not every counsellor is for every client. And that’s okay.
Choice matters.
I didn’t feel like I had choice once, and the pain that caused is indescribable. So I want people to know they do. You get to decide who sits opposite you. You get to decide what feels safe.
My clients mean the world to me. I feel their pain. I celebrate their breakthroughs. Sometimes my heart feels like it might burst when they realise their own strength.
And I also know autonomy matters. They have to get there themselves. I can walk alongside, guide, reflect, yet I don’t take over. That’s respect.
The same goes for supervision. It isn’t a tick box. It’s support for all of you, your work, your doubts, your business, your ambition. A space to grow, not perform.
I want people to succeed. I want them to expand. I want to give what was given to me, belief, encouragement, space to be different without being diminished.
If you’re still looking for your tribe, still feeling like the odd one out, still wondering why you can do some things brilliantly and others feel impossible, you’re not broken.
You might just be wired differently.
And there are people out there who will get you.
Therapy can help you hold the dark days while you search. It can help you shed the shame that was never yours. It can help you stand solid in who you are so that when your tribe appears, and it will, you recognise them.
Stay safe.
Stay connected.
Take gentle care.
Louise
X
If this resonates, you’re not on your own.
Pull up a chair.
I've got you.
If you’re tired of carrying it alone, I’m here.
We can take it at your pace. No pressure. No fixing. Just space to be human.
📧 louisemalyancounselling@gmail.com
🌐 www.wildfirecounsellingtherapy.co.uk
Free, no-obligation intro chat, just to see if we’re the right fit.
ACEs: When Childhood Experiences Don’t Stay in Childhood
You may have seen the term ACEs and wondered what it actually means.
ACEs stands for Adverse Childhood Experiences. The original research looked at difficult or traumatic experiences in childhood, things like abuse, neglect, domestic violence, addiction in the home, parental mental illness, divorce, or loss. What researchers found was powerful: the higher someone’s ACE score, the greater their risk of physical and mental health difficulties later in life.
But here’s the part that matters most to me as a therapist:
Trauma isn’t just what happened.
Trauma is what the brain couldn’t process at the time.
That changes everything.
Because what may not look traumatic to an adult can absolutely be traumatic to a child.
Moving house.
Changing schools.
Parents divorcing.
A parent being emotionally unavailable.
Feeling different.
Being the “sensitive one.”
Not being believed.
Children don’t have adult brains. They don’t have language, perspective, or context. They don’t know, “This isn’t my fault.” They just experience overwhelm.
And when something overwhelms a child’s nervous system without enough support, it becomes an adverse experience.
Children rarely articulate trauma clearly. Instead, it shows up in behaviour.
Clinginess.
Aggression.
Withdrawal.
Perfectionism.
People-pleasing.
Shutting down.
Those behaviours aren’t “bad.” They’re adaptations. They’re survival strategies.
Over time, those strategies can shape attachment, how we connect to others. If safety felt unpredictable, love felt conditional, or emotions weren’t welcomed, we learn to protect ourselves.
That can show up in adulthood as:
• Anxiety that seems to come out of nowhere
• Addiction or numbing behaviours
• Fear of abandonment
• Struggles in relationships
• Feeling “too much” or “not enough”
• Hyper-independence
• Chronic hypervigilance
Sometimes people arrive in therapy saying, “Nothing that bad happened to me, so I don’t know why I’m like this.”
That sentence alone tells me something probably did.
Because trauma isn’t a competition. It’s not about whether it was “bad enough.” It’s about whether your nervous system could cope.
When we experience trauma, the body goes into protection mode. Fight. Flight. Freeze. Flop. Fawn. Those responses are automatic. Involuntary. Designed to keep you alive.
Here’s the important part:
That system doesn’t just switch off because you turned 18.
If a part of you felt unsafe at seven, that seven-year-old nervous system can still get activated at thirty-seven. Your reactions can feel bigger than the current situation because they’re not just about now, they’re about then. The reaction you have is to the 7 year old experience, triggered by something in the here and now.
That’s why you might think afterwards:
“Why did I react like that?”
“I’m so dramatic.”
“That was stupid.”
And then comes shame.
But your body wasn’t being dramatic. It was doing exactly what it was designed to do, detect danger and protect you.
Hypervigilance, always scanning, always on edge, isn’t weakness. It’s a nervous system that learned early that the world wasn’t fully safe.
The exhausting part is carrying that into adulthood when the danger is no longer the same, but the body doesn’t know that yet. Constantly scanning for danger, hyper vigilant and on high alert. Its exhausting, confusing and emotionally painful.
It doesn’t have to stay like this.
This is where counselling can help.
It starts with choosing a therapist you are drawn to and then gel with. Someone you feel gets you. Not every counsellor is for every client, my advice is always chat to a few and explore options.
Once you have chosen, we can start the healing process together.
We don’t always need a detailed memory of what happened. We don’t need to relive everything. Often we start with what’s happening now, the anxiety, the reactions, the patterns.
Through a safe therapeutic relationship, the nervous system begins to experience something new: consistency, attunement, regulation. Slowly, the body learns it’s not alone anymore. And most important pehaps? Feeling safe.
We explore gently. At your pace. Without forcing memories or labels.
Sometimes it’s not about naming the trauma.
It’s about noticing the response.
We work with the part of you that reacts. The part that braces. The part that panics. The part that shuts down.
And instead of shaming it, we understand it.
When you realise, “This reaction makes sense,” something shifts. Compassion grows. The grip of shame loosens.
Your body isn’t broken.
Your reactions aren’t stupid.
Your defence mechanisms aren’t flaws.
They are intelligent responses from a younger version of you who did the best they could. The reactions are involuntary. The bodies way of screaming “warning warning, this is not ok”
Healing isn’t about erasing the past. It’s about helping your nervous system update its information. The trauma memory can shift to the regular memory part of the brain and therefore no need for such strong uncontrollable reactions. The body begins to feel safe rather than on constant high alert.
You are not that powerless child anymore.
But your body may still think you are.
Therapy helps those parts catch up.
And when they do, life can feel lighter, not because nothing hard ever happened, but because you’re no longer fighting yourself for having survived it.
Stay safe. Stay connected. Take gentle care,
Louise x
If this resonates, you’re not on your own.
Pull up a chair.
I've got you.
If you’re tired of carrying it alone, I’m here.
We can take it at your pace. No pressure. No fixing. Just space to be human.
📧 louisemalyancounselling@gmail.com
🌐 www.wildfirecounsellingtherapy.co.uk
Free, no-obligation intro chat, just to see if we’re the right fit.
When Your Body Has Been Holding the Story & then perimenopause hits 🙄
For years I lived in a body that hurt.
Tight shoulders.
Clenched jaw.
An aching back with no injury behind it.
Exhaustion that sleep didn’t fix.
Pain that moved around like it had a mind of its own.
At one point I was given labels, fibromyalgia, chronic fatigue. And I’m not dismissing those diagnoses. They are very real for many people. But what nobody explained to me was this:
Your body can hold stress & trauma for years.
Nobody told me my shoulders weren’t just “bad posture.”
Nobody said my jaw pain might be trapped tension, not just TMJ.
Nobody asked what I had lived through.
When we experience trauma, whether it’s one big event or years of smaller relational wounds, the nervous system adapts. It braces. It armours. Muscles tighten to protect vital organs. Breath becomes shallow. The body stays slightly on guard.
That’s useful when you’re surviving.
It’s exhausting when you’re safe but your body hasn’t realised it yet.
A fantastic doctor pointed me to the book by Bessel van de Kolk - the body keeps the score and then Therapy. With a therapist who I gelled with. Quite simply changed my life.
It all changed that for me. Not overnight. Not in some dramatic cinematic breakthrough. But slowly. By learning to notice what was underneath the pain.
Tight shoulders? Often anxiety or responsibility I was carrying.
Clenched jaw? Words unsaid. Anger swallowed.
Back pain? Bracing. Holding it all together.
When I started to process what had happened to me, properly, safely, my body began to soften. The pain didn’t magically disappear, but it made sense. And when something flares now, I don’t panic. I ask: what’s happening? What am I holding?
Then I know what I need to do. Rest. Move. Breathe differently. Talk. Get support.
That knowledge is life changing.
And then, just as I felt like I’d figured my body out… menopause arrived.
Hot flushes in the middle of sessions.
Brain fog so thick I’d lose words mid-sentence.
Memory glitches that made me question myself.
ADHD symptoms dialled up to full volume.
Exhaustion followed by bursts of electric energy at midnight.
Nobody really talks about this properly.
The body changes. The intimate parts change. Sleep changes. Libido changes. Mood shifts. Confidence wobbles. And if, like me, your mum was the person you’d have asked about all of this, and she’s no longer here, there’s a particular kind of loneliness in that.
You can have friends. A partner. A whole support network. But there is something about wanting your mum in those moments. Wanting to ask, “Is this normal?” Wanting reassurance from the person who once knew your body before you did.
Men don’t always know what’s happening either. They can feel confused, shut out, worried they’ve done something wrong. Nobody hands them a manual. So couples can find themselves navigating something huge in silence.
We need to talk about it more.
We also need to take the shame out of it.
Hormones shift the brain as well as the body. Oestrogen plays a role in attention, memory, mood regulation. When it fluctuates, ADHD can feel worse. Brain fog becomes real. You can feel sharp one minute and completely scattered the next.
I went through a phase of buying every supplement under the sun. Trial and error. Hoping one magic vitamin would fix it all. Then someone gently reminded me: you can go to your GP. You can ask for blood tests. You can look at HRT options. You don’t have to self-manage in the dark.
So I’ve booked an appointment. Three weeks to wait. I’m not entirely sure what they’ll suggest. But even taking that step feels empowering.
Here’s what I want you to know if any of this sounds familiar:
You are not dramatic.
You are not lazy.
You are not “losing it.”
Your body is communicating.
Therapy can help you understand what it’s saying.
Not in a mystical way. In a grounded, practical, relational way. We explore stress patterns. Trauma responses. Life transitions. Identity shifts. We create space to talk about the intimate, awkward, uncomfortable bits without shame.
Because this is life.
Bodies change. Hormones shift. Grief resurfaces. Old trauma can reawaken during big transitions like menopause. ADHD traits can amplify. Sleep disruption alone can make you feel like a different person.
When we don’t understand what’s happening, we turn it inward. We assume we’re failing.
When we do understand, something softens.
Being authentic in my body now feels different. I move more freely. I notice when I’m clenching and I release. I recognise when overwhelm is hormonal, when it’s trauma, when it’s lack of sleep, when it’s too much on my plate.
Awareness doesn’t remove everything. But it gives choice.
And once you have choice, you’re not trapped in it anymore.
If you’re navigating unexplained pain, hormonal shifts, worsening ADHD symptoms, grief, or the strange loneliness of midlife changes, you are not alone in that.
Let’s talk about it.
Let’s bring it into the room.
Let’s take the shame out.
Your body has been carrying you for years.
It deserves to be listened to.
Stay safe. Stay connected. Take gentle care,
Louise x
If this resonates, you’re not on your own.
Pull up a chair.
I've got you. If you’re tired of carrying it alone, I’m here.
We can take it at your pace. No pressure. No fixing. Just space to be human.
Take gentle care,
Louise x
📧 louisemalyancounselling@gmail.com
🌐 www.wildfirecounsellingtherapy.co.uk
Free, no-obligation intro chat, just to see if we’re the right fit.
When Words Aren’t Enough: Creativity, Self-Worth and Finding Ourselves Again
Some of the most powerful work I’ve ever done in therapy didn’t start with words.
It started with a picture.
A metaphor.
A card pulled from a deck that somehow knew more about me than I could say out loud.
Creativity is how I grew. It’s how I evolved. And it’s how I continue to grow now. It started with some bird doodles. Rapunzel changed my life.
There was a time when I couldn’t access my feelings in neat sentences. If someone had said, “Just connect with your emotions,” I would have shut down. Not because I didn’t want to. Not because I was resistant. But because I genuinely didn’t know how.
So when I hear people say, “They just won’t connect with their feelings,” I feel a heaviness. For some people, especially those with trauma histories or neurodivergent brains, feelings don’t arrive labelled and organised. They arrive as sensations, overwhelm, numbness, agitation, or nothing at all.
That’s not refusal.
That’s nervous system protection.
And when therapy labels that as avoidance, it can deepen shame. It can leave someone feeling broken, less than, “too much” or “not enough.”
Low self-worth is rarely just a thought.
It’s something lived in the body. Built over years. Formed in how someone was spoken to, treated, ignored, controlled, misunderstood, or made responsible for things that were never theirs.
You don’t think your way out of that.
You experience your way through it.
That’s where creative work comes in.
Using tools like animal imagery, metaphor and cards allows something to soften. When someone chooses a card and says, “I don’t know why, but this one feels like me,” we’ve already bypassed the inner critic. We’ve stepped around the pressure to “explain yourself properly.”
Images can hold what words can’t.
For trauma survivors, this matters. Trauma can fragment memory and language. The brain areas responsible for speech can go offline when we feel threatened. For neurodivergent clients, especially those with ADHD or autistic traits, feelings might be sensory, visual, energetic, not verbal.
Creativity gives another doorway in.
I use Spirit of the Animal Oracle cards in my work because animals carry archetypal energy. Strength. Protection. Adaptability. Hibernation. Instinct. Clients often project their own story safely onto the image. It becomes less exposing. More relational. Gentler.
And here’s the part I care deeply about: it’s never about the cards being magical. It’s about the relationship in the room. The safety. The pacing. The ethical container.
This is how I built my tribe. By trusting who I am. By working down-to-earth, creatively, relationally. By modelling that it’s okay to be different. My own therapist worked creatively with me. That experience changed everything. It showed me there wasn’t anything wrong with me, I just needed a different way in.
When self-esteem is low, it often sounds like:
“I’m hard work.”
“I’m too sensitive.”
“I should be better by now.”
“Everyone else seems to cope.”
“I don’t even know what I feel.”
If that resonates, I see you.
Self-worth grows when we experience ourselves differently. When we feel understood. When something lands and we think, “That’s me… and that makes sense.”
That’s why I’ve created a new experiential online CPD workshop for counsellors and students. It explores self-worth and self-esteem using Spirit of the Animal Oracle Cards, with and without the cards themselves, because this isn’t about selling a tool. It’s about deepening practice.
In this two-hour Zoom workshop we’ll explore how imagery can soften the inner critic, support trauma work safely, and offer neurodivergent clients alternative ways of expression. There will be live exercises, reflective space, and ethical discussion about using creative approaches responsibly in the therapy room.
You’ll leave with practical ideas you can use immediately. You’ll also leave having experienced the work yourself, because we cannot take clients somewhere we haven’t gently walked.
My wider workshops are always about growth. About evolving as practitioners. About trusting our own authenticity rather than squeezing ourselves into rigid models that don’t fit.
Because once we truly believe we are okay as we are, the world loses its power to define us.
Creative work isn’t fluffy. It’s not avoidance. It’s not a gimmick.
It’s another language.
And for some people, it’s the first language that ever made sense.
If you’re curious about working more creatively, relationally and deeply around self-worth, you’ll find the details of the workshop through Wildfire Creative Studio.
Come and explore. Grow. Stretch. Find your own way of doing this work.
There is space for you, exactly as you are. Stay safe, stay connected and take gentle care
Louise x
Pancake Day, Potholes, and Trying to Keep Up With Life
Pancake Day today.
I’ve been talking about it for weeks, planning toppings, thinking about it, definitely looking forward to it… and then somehow only just remembered this afternoon. Classic. Annoying. Very typically me.
Life has felt a bit like the weather lately. Four seasons in one day. Sunshine one minute, rain sideways the next. Cold wind, then sudden warmth. It sums up how many of us are moving through life right now, changeable, unpredictable, trying to keep up.
The roads are full of potholes too, which feels like a decent metaphor. You think you’re cruising along nicely and suddenly, bang, you hit something you didn’t see coming. Puncture, turns into new tyre. Cost a fortune I cant really afford, messed up my day.
Today has been busy. Admin piles. Organising things. Collecting stock for a workshop. Trying to remember what needs doing next while my brain jumps three steps ahead. At one point I found myself standing in the kitchen eating Nutella straight from the jar with a spoon, because sometimes that’s just where the day lands.
And honestly? That’s okay.
Being busy doesn’t always mean being productive. Sometimes it just means juggling a hundred small things while trying not to drop the important ones.
One thing I have learned, and keep relearning, is the importance of prioritising what actually keeps me steady. For me today that meant getting the dog out for a walk. Fresh air. Moving my body. Stepping away from the admin and the noise in my head.
Self-care isn’t always candles and long baths. Sometimes it’s muddy boots, wind in your face, and ten minutes where nobody needs anything from you.
I’ve also been trying to drink more water. Sparkling water with lime juice feels like a small win, simple, grounding, a little ritual that reminds me to slow down for a moment. Some days I dont manage it. Some days I do, these are the days I celebrate rather than beating myself up on the days I forget.
And this is where the therapy part comes in.
So many clients come into the room feeling like they should be doing more, coping better, managing perfectly. (That bloody word “should” it carries so much shame.) Yet life isn’t neat. It’s messy and full of competing priorities. Some days you’re organised and on top of everything. Other days you’re eating Nutella from the jar wondering how it’s only lunchtime.
Both are normal.
A few gentle reminders if today feels a bit like chaos:
Prioritise the basics first. Food, water, movement, fresh air, they genuinely change how our nervous system copes with stress.
Choose one or two key tasks, not ten. Your brain likes achievable wins.
Notice your self-talk. “I’m failing” is usually just “I’m overloaded.”
Build pauses into the day. Even five minutes outside counts. My apple diary is my friend! If its not in there, its doubtful it will happen.
Allow imperfection. Life doesn’t need to be beautifully organised to be meaningful. Tomorrow isnt promised. The here and now is so important.
Therapy certainly isn’t about fixing everything. You are not broken. It’s about learning how to move through the busy, unpredictable days with a bit more compassion for ourselves.
So if you’re reading this while juggling work, family, emotions, deadlines, weather changes, and maybe your own metaphorical potholes, you’re not alone.
Take the walk. Drink the water. Eat the pancake (or the Nutella).
Small things matter more than we realise.
Did the jobs get done? Did they heck. My husband surprised me with a bowling trip and couple of hours in the arcade. Did I have fun? Yes. Does it matter the jobs havent got done? Nope. Do I feel good? Yes, exhausted and happy. Does it affect my work or my clients? Jobs being done no. The trip out gives them a non burnt out me. I’m modelling boundaries, being human and self care. Tomorrow is another day! (And i’ll have pancakes then! If I remember!)
Stay safe.
Stay connected.
Take gentle care.
Louise x
AI myth busting. Lets learn together. Its the internet. Never share anything you dont want anyone to know.
It’s the internet. Never share anything you don’t want anyone to know. EVER.
Let’s talk honestly about AI, caricatures, privacy, and the fear that seems to be building around it, because there’s a lot of noise out there, and not all of it is balanced or true. Scare mongering and fear inducing. I want to share a few things with you.
Recently I saw a post warning people about creating AI caricatures. The message was clear: nothing is free, social media is watching, AI is dangerous, and we should all be worried about our data being swallowed by a tech machine somewhere.
I get the concern. Really, I do.
However, I also think we need to slow down, breathe, and add some education and nuance to the conversation, especially as counsellors, and especially for the people who trust us.
Yes, the internet collects data.
Yes, social platforms track behaviour.
And yes, we should all be mindful of what we share online.
None of that is new.
If you’ve ever used Facebook, searched on Google, or shopped online, you’ve already stepped into a system built on data and AI. That’s the reality of modern life. But there’s a big difference between using a tool responsibly and feeding it sensitive information carelessly. Meta (facebook use it for example) one of the biggest data collectors out there and very honest about it too! If you dont want people to know it, dont post it. Your stuff is not private. Thats a myth.
And that’s where the real conversation needs to sit.
What I actually did (and what I didn’t do)
I’ve seen the caricatures too. They’re fun. I was curious. So I played.
My prompt was simple:
“Using this photo and all you know about Louise Malyan from Wildfire Tranquil Counselling & Therapy Hub, make me a set of caricatures.”
That’s it.
I didn’t give personal details.
I didn’t upload confidential information.
I didn’t share client stories or private conversations.
I used information that is already public, my website, my professional presence, things I have chosen to make visible.
If someone is putting deeply personal information into AI that they don’t want public, then yes, that’s risky and dangerous. But that’s not an AI problem. That’s a digital literacy problem.
Let’s talk about fear vs reality
There’s a narrative that AI tools instantly “scour the internet,” gather your life story, and expose your secrets. The reality is more boring and less dramatic.
Tools like OpenAI work within specific systems and boundaries. They don’t magically access everything about you just because you asked for a cartoon version of yourself. That’s not how it works.
Could technology be misused? Absolutely. That’s true for every technology ever created, phones, social media, even email.
The answer isn’t fear.
The answer is education and ethical use.
Counsellors, ethics, and AI
As a therapist, confidentiality is sacred. That doesn’t change because new tools exist.
I will never put identifying client information into AI. Ever. I see people using the anon feature on facebook thinking it's confidential, this is not ok. I challenge it every time I see it.
No names.
No recognisable details.
No confidential stories.
That’s non-negotiable.
However, refusing to engage with technology at all doesn’t make us safer or better practitioners. It just leaves us uninformed.
Used wisely, AI can be a tool, not a replacement for therapy, not a shortcut for learning, and absolutely not a robot counsellor.
Human relationship is the therapy. Always.
Confidentiality is a passion of mine. I’ve had mine broken. I nearly died. I will NEVER put clients at risk of that.
Why AI helps me….. and why that matters
I’m very open about being Autistic ADHD, snd having CPTSD and dyspraxia. Executive function can be messy. Thoughts arrive fast, chaotic, tangled. Sometimes I need help organising them.
AI can help me rearrange my thinking, like having a whiteboard that helps me sort, structure, and clarify ideas.
And here’s the crucial part:
I do that safely.
Without personal details.
Without confidential information.
When ADHD brain locks onto something, it’s like a dog with a bone, urgent, immediate, impossible to switch off. AI can help in those moments when I need to process or organise ideas right now, without waiting days for the perfect headspace.
That doesn’t remove learning.
It doesn’t replace reflection.
It doesn’t replace people.
It just helps me work with the brain I have.
I might ask it a better word to replace another. What questions to ask myself to arrange a list. How I can prioritise, what do I need to think about. Or the meaning of a word, or where I can find information. I have to fact check EVERYTHING. No intimate or personal details, just open questions that we can also google (ok yes, thats another form of ai!)
Reassurance for clients
If you’re reading this as a client and wondering, “Is my information safe?”
Yes.
Your privacy is something I take incredibly seriously. The boundaries around confidentiality do not bend because technology exists. My ethical responsibility to you comes first, always.
AI is a tool I use carefully, intentionally, and appropriately. Just like any other professional tool.
The bigger picture
Technology is not going away. Neither is human connection.
We can challenge fear-based narratives without dismissing genuine concerns. We can use tools safely while staying ethical. We can be curious and cautious at the same time.
For me, it comes down to this:
Use common sense.
Protect personal information.
Don’t share anything you wouldn’t want public.
And remember, the heart of therapy will always be human-to-human connection. No algorithm can replace that.
AI might help organise thoughts.
It might help creativity.
It might even make a slightly spooky caricature.
But healing? Growth? Being truly seen?
That still happens between humans, between people.
Stay safe, stay connected & take gentle care.
Louise x
Working with young people, and why I do it differently
I’ll be honest… when I was younger and way into adulthood…I thought therapy was rubbish.
Not because therapy itself doesn’t work, but because my experience of it didn’t. I never felt seen or heard. My confidentiality was broken. I felt like hard work. Like a problem that needed fixing.
And when you’re young, those experiences stick.
What I know now is this: therapy isn’t rubbish.
Its the fact not every therapist is right for every person.
That understanding shapes everything about how I work today.
When a young person comes to me, autonomy matters. Trust matters. I am very clear about confidentiality and what that means, because safety comes first. I meet them where they’re at, their interests, their hobbies, their world, and we find a way of working together that fits them.
Because life is hard enough anyway.
Add neurodivergence into that, for example ADHD, autism, dyslexia, dyspraxia, feeling different, not quite fitting in, not always understanding how the world works, and it can feel twice as hard. Sometimes there aren’t words for what’s going on. And that’s okay.
There is nothing worse than someone asking “what’s wrong?” when you genuinely don’t know.
In therapy with me, there’s no pressure to have perfect answers. We can find ways of exploring things without needing words straight away. Drawing, music, gaming, films, TV, Lego, crystals, hot chocolate, haribo…. anything can become part of the work if that’s what helps. Therapy doesn’t have to look clinical or formal.
My room certainly doesn’t.
Big comfy sofas. Maybe sitting at the table. Maybe side by side on stools over a hot chocolate at the breakfast bar. Playing with Arthur my therapy puppy or sat with steve the therapy cat, working in the campervan, going for a walk or to the park, We work in ways that feel safe, human and real.
Online we can use various apps, screen share, games, activities, music, spotify. Its endless. We work together and find out the best way, for nobody else, for the person sitting in front of me, physically or through a screen.
Because healing sits in the relationship. In building trust.
I remember what it was like trying to fit in. I turned to alcohol as a teenager because it felt like the only way to get it right. I didn’t know how to talk about what had happened to me. I didn’t know how to be a teenager. Life didn’t come easily.
Alcohol seemed to work, until it didn’t.
Or maybe it never really did. It masked things. It helped me survive for a while, but it also started a struggle that lasted nearly 30 years. Behind closed doors. Feelings locked away.
There is nothing worse than people asking how you are feeling, wanting to know what is wrong when you dont have the words or even know yourself. It's debilitating. Your defences are reacting involuntary, you feel horrific and life is an endless struggle. Yep that was me too.
Until one day I found a therapist who changed my life.
I learned that it was okay to be me. That there was nothing wrong with me. I just learned differently. Processed differently. Lived differently. I’ve been sober a good few years. I know I am not the problem.
And that’s what I want young people to discover now, not in 30 years’ time.
I don’t want them growing up believing they’re broken or not good enough. I don’t want them needing drugs or alcohol to cope with life because they don’t know another way.
I can’t change the whole world, it’s still very square and very neurotypical. I’m a round peg who never fit into that square hole, and I know many others feel the same.
My work is about showing that. Modelling that. Meeting each person, young person, adult, child, exactly where they are. Taking things at their pace, in their language, doing it their way.
Because there is nothing wrong with them.
It’s about what happened to them, or what they are going through, and that does not define who they are.
Healing is possible.
If this resonates, or you’d like to find out more, feel free to get in touch for a free intro chat.
Stay safe, stay connected and take gentle care
Louise x
Valentine’s Day, Love, and Everything In Between
Last night I sat writing cards and wrapping presents. Today my husband and I have planned a day for us. Gentle. Quiet. Safe. Just us and the pup, away from the crowds.
And I know that isn’t everyone’s reality.
Even a few short weeks ago, I personally couldn’t imagine celebrating love, or much of anything, really. Grief and loss felt like despair. A dark place. Heavy and consuming.
That’s why days like today can feel complicated.
Valentine’s Day is everywhere. The shops are full of hearts, flowers, and messages telling us how love should look. It’s hard to ignore. And for many people, this isn’t a day of celebration at all.
Loss sits loudly here.
The loss of a partner.
Divorce.
Separation.
Relationships that ended.
Relationships that never happened.
Loved ones no longer here.
All of it can rise to the surface on a day that supposedly celebrates love.
For some, it brings sadness. For others, anger. For many, a quiet ache of “what ifs” and memories that feel just out of reach. Some people are working. Some are serving away from home. Some simply can’t be together with the people they love.
One day doesn’t define love. And love isn’t something we have to buy into to prove it exists.
For me, today feels a little different.
My husband asked me to marry him, for a year! And i said yes on Valentine’s Day ten years ago. Since my mum died, we haven’t really done birthdays or Christmas, celebrations felt too heavy. But today felt right. When he asked if I wanted to do something, we planned it together. No pressure. No expectations. Just something that felt safe in this moment.
That feels important.
Because love isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s quiet agreement. Shared understanding. A gentle day that says, we’re okay here.
I have friends who are single, or not able to be with those they love, and we’ve been checking in with each other. Tonight I’ll be meeting some of them online if it feels right. No pressure, no performance, just acceptance.
And maybe that’s the heart of it.
Some people celebrate today.
Some people struggle with it.
Many feel both at once.
Acknowledging that matters. Meeting each other where we are at matters. Validation, understanding, communication, all of it matters.
If today feels hard, I see you.
Is there something you can do just for you? Something small? Inviting a little joy in, or maybe just comfort. Ice cream and Netflix. A walk. A quiet moment. Reaching out to someone you feel safe with.
However today looks for you, however you choose to spend it, know that you matter.
Stay safe.
Stay connected.
Take gentle care.
Louise x
Sobriety and the Shame That Was
Sobriety is beautiful.
Sobriety is brutal.
Both things are true.
Addict life isn’t glamorous. It isn’t fun in the way people sometimes imagine. It’s blackouts. Chaos. Conversations you don’t remember. Things said. Things done. A slow erosion of self. It’s survival dressed up as coping.
Nobody wakes up one day and thinks, “I’d quite like to become an addict.”
It’s usually a slow burn. A creeping reliance. A way of numbing pain, trauma, shame, anxiety, grief. For many of us, it was how we survived for years. It worked, until it didn’t.
And then comes sobriety.
People think the hard bit is stopping. Stopping is hard, yes. It takes everything. Especially when the one thing that always soothed you, numbed you, carried you through, is suddenly not an option. You’re left navigating life without the anaesthetic.
But there’s another layer people don’t talk about enough.
The past doesn’t disappear.
As much as we might want it to.
If we were an arsehole in the madness, sobriety doesn’t magically rewrite that. The words were still said. The chaos still happened. The hurt still landed.
We can be sober and deeply committed to change, and the people around us can still carry resentment, anger, mistrust. Their feelings matter too.
That’s where the shame can creep back in.
You’re doing everything “right.” You’re sober. You’re trying. And yet you can’t escape the history. You want it all to be okay now. You want to be treated as the person you are today. But healing doesn’t work on demand.
Ignoring it doesn’t help. If resentment isn’t spoken, it grows. It leaks out sideways. It comes out in arguments that seem to be about the washing up but are actually about years of pain.
Navigating that without the one thing you always turned to is hard. Sitting in uncomfortable conversations without numbing out is hard. Hearing how you hurt someone and staying present is hard.
But it’s not impossible.
It takes time. Patience. Effort on both sides. Accountability without self-destruction. Boundaries too, because acknowledging harm doesn’t mean accepting abuse. Being sober doesn’t mean you deserve to be insulted or punished forever. It means you’re willing to face what was, without running.
In therapy, individual or couples, we can mediate those conversations. Slow them down. Speak from the “I”. Acknowledge. Hear. Validate. Not excuse. Not attack. Just sit with the truth of it.
There are also groups that can help loved ones, Al-Anon, Alateen, Families Anonymous. They’re not for everyone, and they don’t replace therapy, but for some they’re a lifeline. Addiction impacts the whole system, its a family disease, not just affecting the individual.
I know this from both sides.
I grew up around addiction. And I’ve lived it.
Both sides needed working through. Both carried pain. Both carried shame.
Five years into sobriety, I still work at it every day. I have supervision. I have therapy. I have friends I can be honest with. If something comes up, I have to be open to the conversation. Not defensive. Not collapsing. Just present.
My addiction holds some of the darkest and most painful times of my life.
It does not define me.
And if you’re walking this road, the sobriety, the shame, the resentment, the rebuilding, I see you. Truly see you.
It’s messy. It’s uncomfortable. It’s courageous.
And it is possible to work through.
If any of this resonates, get in touch for a free, no-obligation intro call. We can see if we’re the right fit.
Stay safe.
Stay connected.
Take gentle care.
Louise x
Shame and Object Permanence (Or Why My Car Is Still Filthy)
Let’s talk about something that carries an enormous amount of shame for so many people, object permanence.
Object permanence is a psychological concept that originally comes from child development. It describes the understanding that something continues to exist even when you can’t see it. Babies learn this over time, that when you hide a toy under a blanket, it hasn’t vanished from the universe.
Now here’s where it gets interesting.
In neurodivergent brains, ADHD, autism, trauma-impacted nervous systems, object permanence doesn’t always function in the neat, linear way textbooks describe. It’s not that we think people or things literally disappear. It’s that if something isn’t visible, present, or actively in our awareness… it can drop out of our working memory completely.
Out of sight can become out of mind.
Take my car.
It’s filthy. Muddy paw prints. General life chaos. Every time I get into it, I think, “I must clean the car.” Very sincere. Very determined.
Then I get home, go inside, and the car ceases to exist.
Not metaphorically. Neurologically. It is no longer in my brain. Until the next time I sit in it.
Vitamins? They live on top of the air fryer. Or the microwave. Put them in a drawer and it’s game over. Drawer equals disappearance. Visibility equals survival.
Friends? If I don’t see them, if they don’t pop up on socials, if I don’t think of them at a time I can immediately message, I don’t. Not because I don’t care. Not because they don’t matter. But because the thought leaves my working memory and something else takes its place.
The bag for the charity shop? That’s been known to hang around for six months. Three bags currently live by the freezer. They have a better social life than I do at this point.
For years, the shame around this was brutal. The internal narrative was harsh. Lazy. Useless. Inconsistent. Why can’t you just do the thing? Add to that the frustration of people around you. The eye rolls. The “how did you forget?” The understandable irritation from my husband when something slips again.
It took me a long time to understand this isn’t a moral failing. It’s neurology.
ADHD sits under the neurodivergent umbrella. Autism does too. Trauma impacts the brain in similar ways, particularly around working memory, executive function, and cognitive load. When your brain is busy scanning for threat, regulating emotion, or juggling ten internal tabs at once, things that aren’t directly in front of you can genuinely fall offline.
Understanding that changed everything.
It didn’t magically fix it. The car still needs cleaning. The charity bags are still loitering. If I’m in a rush and walk straight out the door, I don’t see the vitamins, and I don’t take them.
But I take them more often than I don’t. Because they’re visible. Because I’ve adjusted. Because I’ve stopped trying to force myself to function like someone I’m not.
That’s the difference.
When we understand our brains, we can work with them instead of constantly fighting them.
The shame used to be debilitating. Now it still bites me occasionally, but it doesn’t define me. I can laugh at the muddy car. I can create systems that actually fit how I operate. I can explain to the people around me what’s happening instead of absorbing all the blame.
This is why psychoeducation matters. This is why being neurodivergent-informed matters. This is why compassion, especially towards ourselves, matters.
If any of this resonates, if you’ve been carrying shame for things that might actually be neurological, you’re not broken. You might just need a different strategy and a bit of understanding.
Feel free to get in touch for a free, no-obligation intro call.
Stay safe.
Stay connected.
Take gentle care.
Louise x
