Sorry, I Know I’m Talking Too Much!” Why I Offer Therapy Sessions From 50 Minutes to Four Hours

Sorry, I Know I’m Talking Too Much!” Why I Offer Therapy Sessions From 50 Minutes to Four Hours

Because sometimes 50 minutes is enough. Sometimes you’ve only just found your words. And sometimes, you need the time and space to really get into something without watching the clock.

“Oh crap, I’m oversharing again!”

Can we talk about that word for a minute?

Oversharing.

I really dislike it.

Especially when I hear it coming from someone who’s spent years being told they’re too much.

Too loud. Too emotional. Too sensitive. Too intense. Too chatty. Too complicated.

And now they’re sitting in therapy, a space they’ve specifically come to so they can talk about themselves, apologising for talking about themselves.

The irony!

“Sorry, I’m rambling.”

“Sorry, I’ve gone off on a tangent.”

“Sorry, I don’t even know why I’m telling you this.”

“Sorry, I know we’ve gone over time.”

“Sorry, I’m probably oversharing.”

Honestly, if I had a pound for every time someone apologised for talking in therapy, I’d probably have that crystal ball and magic wand I’ve been after for years. 🤣

Here’s something I want you to know.

You don’t have to apologise for needing to talk.

And you don’t have to arrive with a perfectly rehearsed, chronological account of your life.

Some people can tell you exactly what’s troubling them within the first five minutes.

Others need to talk about the weather, the dog, something that happened at Tesco, what their partner said last Tuesday and a completely unrelated memory from 1998 before they finally arrive at what they really wanted to say.

And sometimes, that journey is part of the work.

Which brings me to something I feel quite passionately about.

Why do we assume that 50 minutes is the right amount of time for everyone?

The traditional therapy hour. Who decided that was enough?

The traditional therapy session is often around 50 minutes.

And there are good reasons for that.

It provides structure, consistency and boundaries. It gives time to reflect, explore something meaningful and begin processing what’s been discussed.

For many people, 50 minutes works beautifully.

I offer 50-minute sessions myself.

I value them.

And I also recognise that not everybody processes, communicates or connects in the same way.

Some people take longer to settle.

Some need time to build up to a difficult conversation.

Some have spent their entire week holding everything together, and when they finally sit down, their brain needs a little while to work out where to begin.

Some need time to think before they speak.

Others need to speak before they can think.

And that’s where things get interesting.

Let’s talk about verbal processing

Have you ever started talking about something and realised halfway through that you didn’t actually know what you thought until you heard yourself saying it?

That’s verbal processing, sometimes called thinking out loud or external processing.

For some people, talking isn’t simply a way of communicating a thought they’ve already formed.

Talking is how they form the thought in the first place.

They might begin a sentence without knowing where it’s going.

They might explore several possibilities out loud.

They might contradict themselves.

They might go off on tangents, circle back, change direction and suddenly say:

“Oh! Hang on. I’ve just realised something!”

And there it is.

The connection.

The thing they hadn’t quite been able to put into words.

For some people, including some of us with ADHD, verbal processing can be an important way of organising thoughts, exploring feelings and making sense of experiences.

It’s not exclusive to ADHD, and not everyone with ADHD processes this way.

Some people process internally, through writing, movement, drawing or silence.

Others use a mixture.

And sometimes how we process changes depending on how we’re feeling.

The important thing is recognising that not everybody arrives at understanding by taking the same route.

When the talking IS the thinking

Imagine trying to explain something that’s been troubling you.

You begin with one situation.

Then remember something else.

Then make a connection to your childhood.

Then realise it reminds you of something happening in your relationship.

Then you start questioning whether the problem is what you originally thought it was.

And suddenly you’re getting somewhere.

You’re finding the words.

You’re feeling something shift.

You’re beginning to understand.

Then…

“I’m afraid that’s our time for today.”

Oh.

Right.

Okay.

See you next week, then.

Now, ending sessions within a few minutes on time is an important therapeutic boundary. I never cut someone off. However we cant go on forever!

And I also recognise how frustrating it can feel when you’ve finally got into the flow and suddenly need to stop.

Especially if it took you 35 minutes to get there.

The problem with finally finding your flow

I see this in therapy.

Someone arrives, and we start chatting.

Perhaps they’re feeling anxious.

Perhaps they don’t know where to begin.

Perhaps their brain is moving at a hundred miles an hour.

Or perhaps they need a little time to feel comfortable enough to approach something painful.

Then, slowly, things start connecting.

They begin talking more freely.

They stop monitoring every word.

They start exploring something they’ve been holding on to.

And sometimes the most meaningful part of the conversation happens towards the end.

That’s not unusual.

We don’t always arrive at the important stuff on demand.

And if you’re someone who takes time to warm up, settle into a conversation or find your words, a short session can sometimes feel as though it’s over before you’ve really begun.

This is one of the reasons I offer different session lengths.

Not because longer therapy is automatically better. Because choice matters.

So what do I offer at Wildfire?

I offer traditional 50-minute sessions, alongside longer sessions of 90 minutes, two hours and, occasionally, personalised therapeutic intensives or creative workshops lasting up to four hours.

Each has a different purpose.

And we can explore what might suit you.

50 minutes allow an hour: A familiar, manageable space

For many clients, 50 -60 minutes is exactly right.

It offers regular time to reflect, explore difficulties, build awareness and develop a therapeutic relationship.

Some people prefer the consistency of meeting weekly.

Others find that 50-60 minutes gives them enough emotional space without becoming overwhelmed.

It’s also useful when we’re working on something gradually, returning to themes and noticing changes over time.

There is absolutely nothing lesser about a shorter session.

Sometimes the most powerful moment in therapy happens in five minutes.

90 minutes: A little more breathing room

This can be lovely for people who need longer to settle or process verbally.

We have more time to explore, make connections and reflect without feeling quite so conscious of the clock.

Perhaps you want to look at a particular relationship pattern.

Perhaps you’re struggling with a decision.

Perhaps there’s something you’ve been wanting to talk about for ages, and you know you’ll need time to find your way through it.

Ninety minutes can allow space to get into the conversation and still have time to consider what you’ve discovered.

And for some people, that extra 40 minutes makes a real difference.

Two hours: Time to explore something in greater depth

Sometimes we want to dedicate a longer period to a particular issue.

Perhaps we’re exploring a recurring pattern, self-worth, shame, identity, grief or something that’s been affecting you for years.

Perhaps we’re using creative therapeutic approaches.

Maybe we’re working with imagery, timelines, cards, collage, drawing, journalling or other ways of exploring experiences that aren’t always easy to put into words.

These approaches can take time.

Time to choose materials.

Time to create.

Time to notice what comes up.

Time to talk about it.

And importantly, time to finish in a way that feels considered rather than hurried.

A two-hour session can create more room for that process.

It doesn’t mean we need to fill every minute with intense emotional work.

We can pause.

We can reflect.

We can notice when enough is enough.

More time should mean more flexibility, not more pressure.

Four hours: Personalised therapeutic intensives and creative workshops

Now, this is where my love of doing therapy differently really comes into its own.

Occasionally, I offer longer, individually tailored therapeutic workshops or intensive sessions.

These aren’t four hours of sitting opposite one another talking continuously.

Can you imagine? We’d both need a lie-down. 🤣

They’re thoughtfully planned around the person, what they’d like to explore and what feels appropriate.

We might use a combination of conversation, creative exercises, reflective activities, psychoeducation, practical exploration and time to process.

For example, someone might want to spend a longer session exploring self-worth and the beliefs they’ve developed about themselves.

We could use a combination of reflective discussion, imagery, creative exercises and practical work around how those beliefs show up in everyday life.

Someone else might want to explore their ADHD, their relationship with themselves and the systems or expectations that leave them feeling overwhelmed.

Or perhaps there’s a particular life transition, relationship difficulty or personal theme they want dedicated time to explore.

The structure would be individual.

And we’d build in breaks.

Because nobody needs four hours of emotional intensity without time to pause, move, have a drink or collect their thoughts.

These sessions aren’t suitable for everyone or every issue. We’d discuss that beforehand, including what support and follow-up might be helpful.

A four-hour session isn’t about cramming months of therapy into an afternoon.

It’s about creating a different kind of space for a particular piece of work.

“Do I have to choose one session length and stick to it?”

Absolutely not.

This is something I particularly want people to understand.

Therapy doesn’t have to follow one rigid format.

You might prefer weekly 50-minute sessions.

You might find that 90 minutes every other week suits your processing style and your diary.

Perhaps you’d like a longer session once a month, with shorter sessions in between.

Or perhaps you’re happy with your usual 50 minutes and occasionally want to book two hours to explore something in more depth.

We can discuss it on a case by case basis. Together.

For example:

• Weekly 50-minute sessions: Regular connection, reflection and continuity.

• 90 minutes fortnightly: More time within each meeting, with space between sessions to reflect.

• A two-hour session once a month: Dedicated time for deeper or more creative exploration, with an agreed plan for support between appointments if needed.

• A mixture of session lengths: Your usual shorter sessions, with an occasional longer session when there’s something particular you’d like to focus on.

These are possibilities, not prescriptions.

And longer gaps between appointments aren’t necessarily suitable for everyone, especially when someone needs more consistent support.

What matters is considering your needs, circumstances, emotional capacity and what we’re working towards.

The point is that we can have a conversation about it.

ADHD, time and the pressure to get it all out

For some people with ADHD, time can be a strange thing.

You can spend 20 minutes trying to explain something that made perfect sense in your head.

You can forget the point halfway through.

You can suddenly remember five other things you desperately wanted to mention.

You can spend half the session talking about one subject and realise at the end that the thing you really wanted to discuss never came up.

Or you might be so worried about forgetting something that you rush to say everything at once.

And then apologise.

Again.

Some people with ADHD also experience difficulties with working memory, organising thoughts, switching between topics or estimating how much time has passed.

This can affect the experience of therapy.

And for those who verbal process, a longer session may provide more opportunity to follow a train of thought without feeling quite so rushed.

Of course, longer sessions can also be tiring or overstimulating.

Some people benefit from shorter, more frequent meetings.

Others benefit from a visual agenda, written reminders or a little structure to help them keep track.

ADHD-friendly therapy isn’t necessarily longer therapy. It’s therapy that considers how YOU work.

And that might look different from week to week.

What about people who have experienced trauma?

This is where we need to be particularly thoughtful.

Sometimes people have spent years keeping difficult experiences locked away.

It can take time to feel safe enough to begin speaking.

And when those words finally come, there may be a strong desire to keep going.

I understand that.

I also know that talking about trauma for longer isn’t automatically more therapeutic.

Sometimes less is more.

Sometimes we need to slow things down, notice what’s happening in the body, regulate, reflect and ensure there’s enough time to finish safely.

A longer session may be helpful for some carefully planned trauma work, particularly where an approach requires preparation, processing and a supported ending.

For others, it could be too much.

The aim is never to get as much trauma out as possible.

It’s to work in a way that feels safe enough, manageable and appropriate for the person.

That includes knowing when to stop.

Longer doesn’t mean better. And shorter doesn’t mean you’re missing out.

I really want to emphasise this.

There’s no prize for spending four hours in therapy.

You don’t get extra points for crying more, sharing more or having a huge emotional breakthrough.

Sometimes a 50-minute session can be incredibly meaningful.

Sometimes a two-hour session gives someone the space they need.

And sometimes the most useful thing we can do is recognise that you’ve reached your limit for today.

Therapy isn’t a race.

And a longer appointment isn’t a guarantee of faster progress.

It’s simply another option.

One that might be helpful for some people, some goals and some circumstances.

Can we also stop apologising for taking up space?

I want to come back to where we started.

“Sorry, I’m oversharing.”

“Sorry, I’m talking too much.”

“Sorry, I’m going on.”

I hear these things so often.

And I’m always curious about where that apology comes from.

Who taught you that your words were too much?

Who made you feel that your feelings were inconvenient?

Who told you to stop being dramatic, stop going on, get to the point or keep things to yourself?

Perhaps you’ve spent years being the person who listens to everyone else.

Perhaps you don’t feel heard in your relationships.

Perhaps you learnt that your needs came second.

Or perhaps you’ve simply got a brain that makes connections by talking things through.

None of those automatically mean you’re oversharing.

And there’s something quite sad about people feeling they need to apologise for speaking in the very place they’ve come to be heard.

Of course, boundaries matter. Context matters. Consent matters. Not every person or situation is the right place for every conversation.

And sometimes exploring how, when and with whom we share things is useful therapeutic work.

Yet in therapy, you shouldn’t have to spend the entire session worrying that you’re taking up too much space.

You’re allowed to have a voice.

You’re allowed to need time.

You’re allowed to think out loud.

You’re allowed to change your mind halfway through a sentence.

You’re allowed to pause.

You’re allowed to say, “Actually, I’ve forgotten what I was going to say.”

And you’re allowed to ask whether a different session length might suit you.

How I work at Wildfire

I’m Louise, a psychotherapist and counsellor, and if you’ve read my other blogs, you’ll know I’m not particularly interested in making everyone fit into one version of therapy.

I’m down to earth, curious, creative and passionate about meeting people where they’re at.

I bring professional training, years of experience and lived experience to my work.

I know what it’s like to have a busy brain.

I know what it’s like to need time to make sense of things.

And I know that sometimes you need to talk something through several different ways before it finally clicks.

That doesn’t mean I assume everybody works like me.

Far from it.

I’m interested in how YOU process.

Do you need time to warm up?

Do you prefer direct questions?

Do you think out loud?

Would writing or drawing help?

Do you need a bit more structure?

Do you want time for creative exploration?

Do you prefer shorter sessions because longer conversations leave you exhausted?

These are all things we can discuss.

I offer online therapy in a range of session lengths, including occasional personalised therapeutic workshops and intensives where appropriate.

And if something isn’t working, I want you to feel comfortable telling me.

Because the therapeutic relationship matters far more to me than making you fit into a particular format.

One last thought…

Perhaps you’ve tried therapy before and found yourself watching the clock.

Perhaps you’ve spent half your session building up to something, only to run out of time.

Perhaps you’ve felt rushed, frustrated or disappointed that you didn’t get to say what you needed.

Or perhaps 50 minutes is absolutely perfect for you.

There isn’t one correct amount of time to be human.

We all process differently.

We all communicate differently.

We all need different things at different times.

And I think therapy should have room to recognise that.

You don’t need to squeeze your entire experience into a neat little box to make it easier for someone else.

Sometimes 50 minutes is enough.

Sometimes 90 minutes feels better.

Sometimes a longer, carefully planned session creates space for something meaningful.

And sometimes the best thing we can do is have a conversation about what you actually need.

If you’re curious about working with me, or whether a different session length might be helpful, we can explore that during an introductory conversation.

No pressure to arrive knowing exactly what you want.

We’ll work that out together.

Wildfire Counselling & Therapy

Real, down-to-earth therapy that doesn’t have to look like traditional talking therapy.

Online sessions, creative therapeutic approaches and personalised ways of working.

www.wildfirecounsellingtherapy.co.uk

Take gentle care,
Louise x

ADHD Coaching: What Actually Is It, and Why Might It Be Exactly What You Need?

ADHD Coaching: What Actually Is It, and Why Might It Be Exactly What You Need?

Because knowing what you need to do and actually being able to do it are two very different things.

“I know what I need to do, Louise. I just can’t seem to bloody do it!”

Sound familiar?

You’ve got the planner. You’ve downloaded the app. You’ve watched the videos. You’ve read the advice.

You’ve probably got a notebook somewhere with NEW LIFE, NEW ME written across the front.

And for a few days, it was brilliant.

You were organised. Motivated. On top of things.

Then life happened.

The planner disappeared under a pile of paperwork. The app notifications became background noise. The washing multiplied, the emails piled up and that thing you were supposed to do three weeks ago is still sitting there.

And now you’re beating yourself up.

Again.

Welcome to a very familiar experience for many people with ADHD.

What if the problem isn’t that you’re not trying hard enough? What if the strategies you’re trying simply aren’t designed for the way you work?

This is where ADHD coaching can come in.

And no, it’s not someone standing over you with a clipboard telling you to get your act together.

Quite the opposite, actually.

So, what exactly is ADHD coaching?

ADHD coaching is a collaborative, practical approach to helping people understand how their ADHD affects everyday life and develop strategies that work for them.

It’s about working with your brain rather than spending your entire life fighting against it.

A good ADHD coach doesn’t hand you a generic list of things to do and send you on your way.

They get curious.

They want to understand what happens between you knowing something needs doing and actually getting it done.

They explore what’s working, what isn’t, what you’ve already tried and what might be getting in the way.

And importantly, they recognise that ADHD isn’t simply a problem with attention.

It can affect planning, organisation, working memory, emotional regulation, motivation, time perception, decision-making, task initiation and the ability to move between activities.

It can also affect relationships, confidence, work and how you feel about yourself.

And every person experiences it differently.

Some people are incredibly organised in one area of their life and completely overwhelmed in another.

Some thrive under pressure and struggle when there’s no deadline.

Some can spend six hours engrossed in something they love and find it almost impossible to start a ten-minute task they find boring.

That’s not necessarily a contradiction.

That’s part of what makes ADHD so interesting, complicated and, at times, utterly exhausting.

“Can’t you just make a list?”

Ah, the famous list.

Along with its close relatives:

“Set an alarm.”

“Get up earlier.”

“Try being more organised.”

“Stop leaving everything until the last minute.”

“Have you tried a routine?”

Yes, Brenda. I have. Thank you. 🤣

Now, lists and routines can be genuinely useful.

The question is whether they’re useful for you.

Because a strategy isn’t successful simply because it works for someone else.

Perhaps you love lists, then lose them.

Perhaps you write everything down and forget to look at it.

Perhaps you create a routine so rigid that the first unexpected interruption throws the entire day into chaos.

Perhaps you become so overwhelmed by everything on your list that you do absolutely none of it.

ADHD coaching can help you understand why that happens and explore alternatives.

Maybe you need a visual system.

Maybe you need fewer steps.

Maybe you need external reminders, accountability, body doubling or a different environment.

Maybe you need to stop trying to organise your life in a way that looks impressive and start finding something that actually works.

The best system isn’t the prettiest, cleverest or most expensive. It’s the one you can realistically use.

And if it stops working?

We get curious and change it.

What can ADHD coaching actually help with?

Quite a lot, depending on your needs and goals.

Getting started when your brain says NO

You know the task needs doing.

You want to do it.

You might even be anxious about not doing it.

Yet somehow, you can’t get started.

ADHD coaching can help explore task initiation, overwhelm, motivation and the barriers that make seemingly simple things feel enormous.

Sometimes we break tasks down.

Sometimes we look at the environment.

Sometimes we discover the task isn’t actually the problem. It’s the uncertainty, fear of getting it wrong or number of decisions involved.

Time blindness and constantly running late

You genuinely thought you had plenty of time.

Then suddenly you’re supposed to be somewhere in seven minutes, you’re still in your pyjamas and you can’t find your keys.

Again.

We can explore how you experience time, what happens during transitions and how to create systems that don’t rely entirely on your internal sense of time.

Planning and organisation

Not everyone needs a colour-coded diary.

Some people need one calendar.

Some need visual reminders.

Some need flexibility.

Some need help working out what is actually important rather than treating every task as equally urgent.

And some need permission to stop trying to do everything.

Emotional overwhelm and rejection sensitivity

For some people with ADHD, emotions can arrive quickly and intensely.

A message that hasn’t been answered.

A change of plans.

A piece of feedback.

A facial expression you can’t quite interpret.

Suddenly your mind has written an entire story about what it means.

Coaching can help you notice patterns, develop practical ways of responding and create space between the feeling and what happens next.

Where deeper emotional wounds, trauma or significant distress are involved, therapeutic work may be more appropriate, or helpful alongside coaching.

Work, careers and self-employment

This is a big one.

Especially when you’re self-employed and suddenly you’re the boss, administrator, accountant, diary manager, marketing department and person responsible for remembering to buy toilet roll.

ADHD coaching can help with prioritising, managing workload, creating realistic schedules, navigating deadlines, communicating needs and developing systems that support your working life.

It can also help you identify your strengths.

Because ADHD isn’t exclusively about difficulties.

Creativity, curiosity, enthusiasm, unconventional thinking and the ability to make interesting connections can be real strengths for some people.

The aim isn’t to squeeze you into somebody else’s idea of productivity.

It’s to help you work more effectively in a way that’s sustainable for you.

Coaching isn’t about fixing you

I think this is one of the most important things to understand.

You’re not a broken version of a neurotypical person.

You don’t need someone to train you to behave like everybody else.

And you certainly don’t need another person making you feel inadequate because you haven’t completed your homework.

For many people with ADHD, there’s already a lifetime of that.

School reports.

“Could achieve so much more if they applied themselves.”

“Needs to concentrate.”

“Talks too much.”

“Doesn’t listen.”

“Has so much potential.”

Then adulthood arrives and the language changes.

“Disorganised.”

“Unreliable.”

“Too sensitive.”

“Lazy.”

“Always making excuses.”

Eventually, some of those messages become the things you say to yourself.

And that’s exhausting.

ADHD coaching should be a place where you can explore what you need, without having to prove how hard you’re trying.

That doesn’t mean there’s no accountability.

Accountability can be incredibly helpful.

It means accountability is collaborative, realistic and compassionate, rather than another opportunity to feel you’ve failed.

ADHD coaching and ADHD therapy. What’s the difference?

This is something I’m asked about, and it’s worth explaining.

There’s overlap between the two, particularly when someone works in an ADHD-informed way.

Generally speaking, ADHD coaching focuses more on practical challenges, goals, strategies and how to make everyday life work better.

Therapy may explore emotional distress, trauma, relationships, shame, self-worth, anxiety and the deeper experiences that affect how you see yourself and the world.

For example, someone might come to coaching because they’re struggling to manage their workload.

We could explore planning, priorities, time management and strategies for getting started.

During that work, they might recognise that every time they make a mistake, they experience intense shame connected to years of criticism.

That’s something that may benefit from therapeutic exploration.

Equally, someone might spend months in therapy understanding why they struggle with certain things and still need practical support with organising their day.

Understanding why something happens and knowing what to do about it aren’t always the same thing.

Both approaches can be valuable.

Neither is automatically better.

And coaching isn’t a substitute for appropriate mental health treatment when that’s what’s needed.

The important thing is finding the right support for the difficulties you’re experiencing.

“I’ve tried everything. Nothing works.”

Have you ever noticed how quickly ADHD can turn an unsuccessful strategy into a judgement about yourself?

The planner didn’t work.

I’m useless.

The routine lasted three days.

I never stick at anything.

You forgot an appointment.

I’m so unreliable.

You didn’t complete the goal you set.

What’s wrong with me?

This is something I’m particularly interested in.

Because there’s a difference between something not working and you being a failure.

A strategy is information.

If it doesn’t work, that tells us something.

Perhaps it was too complicated.

Perhaps it depended on skills you find difficult.

Perhaps the timing was wrong.

Perhaps you were exhausted.

Perhaps it worked brilliantly for a while and then stopped being interesting.

Or perhaps life changed.

Rather than automatically asking, “Why didn’t you do it?”, I prefer questions such as:

“What happened when you tried?”

“Which bit was difficult?”

“Was there anything that helped?”

“What would make it easier?”

“Do we need a completely different approach?”

That’s not letting someone off the hook.

That’s working out what might actually help.

Why finding your person matters so much

This is probably one of the biggest things I want you to take away from this blog.

Not every ADHD coach is going to be the right ADHD coach for you.

And that’s okay.

Some people want a highly structured approach.

Clear goals. Regular check-ins. Written action plans.

Others need more flexibility, creativity, conversation and room to explore.

Some people love being challenged directly.

Others need someone who understands that years of criticism have made even gentle feedback feel threatening.

Some need humour.

Some need visual tools.

Some need space to think out loud, go off on tangents and come back again.

And some need someone who understands that their brain can move faster than their mouth, or sometimes the other way round.

The relationship matters.

You need to feel able to say:

“I didn’t do it.”

“I forgot.”

“I don’t understand.”

“That doesn’t work for me.”

“Can you explain why we’re doing this?”

“I think I need something different.”

Without feeling embarrassed or judged.

And you need someone who’s prepared to listen.

What would I look for in an ADHD coach?

I’d want to know how they understand ADHD beyond the stereotypes.

I’d want to know what training and experience they have.

I’d be curious about how they adapt their approach to different people.

I’d want to know what happens when a strategy doesn’t work.

Do they become frustrated?

Do they keep pushing the same method?

Or do they get curious and explore something else?

I’d also want to know whether they recognise the limits of coaching and when someone might benefit from therapeutic or other specialist support.

And I’d pay attention to how I felt when talking to them.

Could I be myself?

Did I feel listened to?

Was I comfortable asking questions?

Did I feel as though we could work together?

You don’t need to find someone who has exactly the same brain as you.

You need someone who is interested in understanding yours.

What if you’ve got ADHD and you don’t even know what you need help with?

That’s absolutely fine.

You might know that life feels harder than it needs to.

You might be overwhelmed, exhausted, frustrated or fed up with constantly playing catch-up.

You might have a hundred ideas and no idea where to start.

Or perhaps you’ve spent so long adapting to everyone else’s expectations that you’re not even sure what you want anymore.

You don’t need to arrive with a beautifully prepared five-point plan.

Sometimes the first step is working out what matters to you.

Not what your partner thinks you should do.

Not what your employer wants.

Not what social media says a successful ADHD life should look like.

What do YOU want to feel different?

And what might help you get there?

That’s a perfectly good place to start.

My approach to ADHD coaching

If you’ve read anything else I’ve written, you’ll probably know by now that I’m not particularly interested in doing things simply because that’s how they’ve always been done.

I’m Louise, a psychotherapist, counsellor and coach, and I work a little differently.

I’m down to earth, curious, creative and very much a real human being.

I also have lived experience of ADHD.

I understand the excitement of a new idea, the chaos of too many things happening at once, the frustration of knowing what you want to achieve and struggling to get there.

I understand that what works brilliantly one week might not work the next.

And I understand how exhausting it can be to feel you’re constantly trying to catch up with yourself.

My lived experience informs my empathy. It doesn’t mean I assume your ADHD looks like mine.

Because it might not.

I’m not here to tell you how to run your life. I’m here to help you find ways of running it that work for you.

We can explore practical systems, everyday challenges, work, organisation, overwhelm, confidence and the things you want to change.

We can use creative approaches, visual tools, conversation, problem-solving and realistic goal-setting.

We can break things down.

We can experiment.

We can laugh when something turns out to be spectacularly unhelpful.

And we can try something else.

I’ll explain why I’m suggesting things, answer questions and welcome your ideas.

I haven’t got a magic wand or crystal ball, although I would absolutely love both.

What I can offer is a collaborative space where your experiences are taken seriously, your strengths are recognised and your goals are shaped around your actual life.

Not some imaginary version of you who wakes up at 5am, drinks green smoothies and has a perfectly organised sock drawer.

Unless that’s your thing, of course. You do you. 🤣

Can you get help paying for ADHD coaching?

Potentially, yes.

In the UK, the government’s Access to Work scheme may provide funding for practical workplace support for eligible people with ADHD, including some forms of specialist coaching.

This can include people who are employed or self-employed.

Eligibility and the support awarded depend on individual circumstances and an assessment of work-related needs. Coaching isn’t automatically funded simply because someone has an ADHD diagnosis.

It’s worth exploring if ADHD is affecting your ability to manage aspects of your working life.

You can find information and apply through the government’s website:

https://www.gov.uk/access-to-work

One final thing…

ADHD coaching isn’t about becoming a completely different person.

It’s not about creating the perfect routine, never forgetting anything again or magically developing the ability to do every boring task without resistance.

It’s about understanding yourself.

Finding strategies that fit.

Recognising your strengths.

Reducing unnecessary struggles.

Learning what support you need.

And perhaps, over time, changing the way you speak to yourself when things don’t go to plan.

Because you can be intelligent, creative, capable, passionate and full of ideas…

And still need help organising your Tuesday.

You don’t need to earn support by struggling for longer.

If ADHD coaching sounds like something that might help, I’m happy to have a conversation about what you’re looking for and whether we’d be a good fit.

And if I’m not the right person for you, that’s okay too.

Finding the right support matters far more than finding just any support.

Wildfire Counselling & Therapy

ADHD-informed therapy and coaching, delivered online.

www.wildfirecounsellingtherapy.co.uk

Take gentle care,
Louise x

ADHD Awareness Month: When Plans Change and Your Brain Hasn’t Caught Up Yet

Or why “Come on, we’re doing something else now” can feel like somebody’s pulled the rug out from underneath you.

Have you ever been happily doing something, completely absorbed in it, when somebody suddenly announces:

“Right, come on, we’re going now.”

And your entire body seems to respond with…

WHAT? NOW? WHY? WE HAVEN’T FINISHED!

Perhaps you were enjoying yourself.

Perhaps you were halfway through a task.

Perhaps you’d spent the whole morning preparing yourself to do something, only to discover the plans had changed.

And the person telling you seems completely baffled by your reaction.

“What’s the problem?”

“We’re only doing something different.”

“It’s not a big deal.”

“Why do you always make everything so difficult?”

Oh, that last one.

Because sometimes the hardest part isn’t the change itself.

It’s feeling ashamed of how much the change affects you.

And that’s what I want to explore today.

Because for some of us neurodivergent folk, changing direction isn’t always as simple as somebody announcing a new plan.

Our brains might need a little time to catch up.

When everybody else seems able to change direction

Imagine you’ve arranged to spend Saturday afternoon doing something you’ve been looking forward to.

You’ve thought about it.

Planned it.

Perhaps you’ve worked out what time you’re leaving, what you’re wearing, where you’re going and what the rest of your day will look like.

You might not even realise how much mental preparation you’ve done.

And then somebody says:

“Actually, we’re not doing that now. We’re going somewhere else.”

And suddenly you feel it.

That sinking feeling in your chest.

The frustration.

The heat.

The urge to say no.

Perhaps you go quiet.

Perhaps you become irritable.

Perhaps you ask seventeen questions.

Perhaps you snap at somebody you love.

Or perhaps you agree, smile and spend the next hour feeling completely overwhelmed.

And afterwards?

You feel guilty.

Why couldn’t I just go along with it?

Why did I react like that?

Why am I so difficult?

Why can’t I be more spontaneous?

And that shame can sometimes last considerably longer than the change itself.

Let me tell you about tendrils

There’s a description of this experience that I really like, often referred to as tendril theory.

It’s a metaphor, rather than a scientific theory, and I think it can be a wonderfully helpful way of explaining something that isn’t always easy to put into words.

Imagine a person with little tendrils growing out from their head.

Every time they begin preparing for something, those tendrils start growing towards it.

 You have a task to complete.

Your mind starts connecting with it.

You gather the information you need.

You begin organising your thoughts.

You imagine what you’re going to do.

You work out the steps.

Perhaps you become completely absorbed.

Your tendrils are growing and connecting with that task.

And then somebody says:

“Stop that. We’re doing something else now.”

For the person giving the instruction, it’s a simple change.

For you, it can feel as though all those tendrils have suddenly been pulled out.

Not gently gathered back in.

Not given time to loosen their grip.

Just yanked away.

And now you’re expected to immediately grow a whole new set in another direction.

No wonder that can feel overwhelming.

I love this metaphor because it helps explain something important.

Sometimes we aren’t resisting the new thing. We’re struggling to disconnect from the thing we were already connected to.

And those are not necessarily the same thing.

It’s not always about wanting things our own way

This is where misunderstandings can happen.

A partner might think you’re being controlling.

A friend might think you’re being awkward.

A boss might think you’re unwilling to be flexible.

A parent might think their child is deliberately being difficult.

And sometimes we might even believe those things about ourselves.

Yet there can be a lot happening underneath.

For some autistic people, predictability and routine can be particularly important.

For some people with ADHD, shifting attention, stopping an absorbing activity or reorganising a plan can be difficult.

And for people with both ADHD and autism, there can sometimes be a rather interesting tug of war between wanting novelty and needing predictability.

Of course, everybody’s different.

Some neurodivergent people love spontaneous changes.

Some struggle with certain types of change and not others.

And some find it depends entirely on how tired, overwhelmed or emotionally stretched they already are.

This isn’t about saying neurodivergent people can’t cope with change.

It’s about recognising that the effort involved in changing direction isn’t always visible to somebody else.

And sometimes you can feel it in your whole body

Have you ever noticed what happens physically when plans suddenly change?

Perhaps your chest feels tight.

You get hot.

Your hands or fingers feel strange or tingly.

Your stomach drops.

Your thoughts become fuzzy.

You feel restless.

You want to escape.

You feel like crying.

Or you suddenly can’t find the words to explain what’s happening.

For some people, unexpected changes can trigger a stress response.

And when we’re overwhelmed, our ability to think clearly, communicate and make decisions can become more difficult.

It’s worth remembering that physical sensations can have different causes too. New, severe or unexplained symptoms shouldn’t automatically be put down to ADHD or anxiety.

Yet learning to notice our own patterns can be really useful.

Because sometimes our body gives us clues before we’ve even worked out what we’re feeling.

For example, I might notice I’m becoming irritated.

And instead of immediately deciding I’m being unreasonable, I can get curious.

Hang on. What just happened?

Was I expecting something different?

Have I been interrupted?

Am I struggling to change direction?

Do I need a little time?

That moment of recognition can make a difference.

Not because it instantly removes the feeling.

Because it gives us an opportunity to understand it.

What happens when this affects our relationships?

Imagine you’re spending time with your partner.

You’ve planned a quiet evening.

You’ve mentally settled into the idea.

Then they announce:

“Oh, I’ve invited some friends round.”

They might be delighted.

You might actually like those friends.

Yet suddenly you’re feeling overwhelmed, irritated or anxious.

And your partner can’t understand why.

“What’s wrong? You like them!”

Yes.

You do like them.

And you weren’t prepared for having people in your space tonight.

Or perhaps you’ve planned a day out with a friend.

They change the destination at the last minute.

You become quiet.

They think you’re sulking.

You feel misunderstood.

They feel rejected.

And before you know it, you’re both upset about something that neither of you intended to turn into an argument.

Sometimes these experiences can create patterns in relationships.

One person starts feeling they have to walk on eggshells.

The other feels constantly pushed, rushed or misunderstood.

Both people become frustrated.

And nobody is really talking about what’s happening underneath.

That’s why learning to communicate these experiences can be so important.

How do you explain something you don’t fully understand yourself?

This is something I think we sometimes forget.

If you’ve spent years being told you’re difficult, dramatic, stubborn or inflexible, you might not have had the opportunity to explore what’s actually happening for you.

You might simply know that you feel awful when plans change.

And you don’t know how to explain it.

So perhaps you say:

“Fine.”

When you’re not fine.

Or:

“I don’t want to.”

When actually you might want to, just not immediately.

Or:

“Leave me alone.”

When what you really need is a little time to adjust.

I think there’s enormous value in finding language for these experiences.

Because once we understand ourselves a little better, we have a better chance of helping other people understand us too.

What could we say instead?

Perhaps something like:

“I’m not saying no. I need a little time to adjust to the change.”

Or:

“I’d prepared myself for what we originally planned, and my brain hasn’t caught up with the new plan yet.”

“Can you give me ten minutes before we leave?”

“I’m feeling overwhelmed. I need to finish what I’m doing or find a stopping point.”

“I know this doesn’t seem like a big change to you. It’s taking me a bit longer to process.”

“I’m not angry with you. I’m struggling with the sudden change.”

And sometimes:

“I want to do this with you. Can we work out a way that gives me a little more warning next time?”

I really like that last one.

Because it recognises that relationships involve more than one person’s needs.

We can’t always avoid change.

And we can’t expect everybody around us to organise their lives entirely around our preferences.

We can, however, learn to communicate what helps us and make room for each other’s differences.

What if you’re the person asking somebody to change plans?

Perhaps you’re a partner, friend, parent, colleague or employer reading this.

And you’re thinking, Okay, I recognise this in somebody I know.

There are some simple things that might help.

Give a little warning where possible

Instead of suddenly saying:

“Right, stop what you’re doing. We’re leaving.”

Perhaps try:

“We’re going to need to leave in about twenty minutes. How are you getting on?”

Or:

“There’s been a change to the plan. Can we talk through what that means?”

A little warning can give somebody time to begin mentally disconnecting from what they’re doing.

Explain what’s changing and what isn’t

Sometimes uncertainty is the difficult part.

If somebody knows what’s happening, why it’s changing and what to expect next, it may feel more manageable.

For example:

“We’re still going to see your friend. We’re meeting at a different café because the first one is closed.”

That can feel very different from:

“Plans have changed. Come on.”

Allow processing time

You might have had an hour to think about the new plan.

The other person might have had approximately three seconds.

And those three seconds might not be enough.

Don’t automatically interpret distress as defiance

Sometimes somebody needs a moment.

Sometimes they need to ask questions.

Sometimes they need to express disappointment.

That doesn’t automatically mean they’re trying to control the situation.

And equally, if their response is hurtful, it’s okay to address that.

Understanding why something happens doesn’t mean ignoring its impact on other people.

And what about at work?

I think this is particularly important.

Imagine your boss gives you a task.

You’ve worked out how to approach it.

You’ve gathered everything you need.

You’re finally getting into it.

And then your boss appears.

“Actually, leave that. I need you to do this instead.”

You might find it really difficult to switch.

Perhaps you’re frustrated.

Perhaps you lose your train of thought.

Perhaps you become overwhelmed because now you’re trying to hold both tasks in your head.

And perhaps you’re frightened to say anything because you don’t want to appear incapable.

So you push through.

You mask the frustration.

You try to keep up.

And by the end of the day, you’re absolutely exhausted.

This is where practical adjustments can help.

Clear priorities.

Written instructions.

Advance notice when possible.

Time to make a note of where you’ve stopped.

An opportunity to ask questions.

And a workplace where somebody can say, “I need a moment to switch tasks,” without feeling they’re admitting failure.

Sometimes a very small change in communication can make a significant difference.

What can we do for ourselves?

Alongside helping other people understand, we can begin recognising what works for us.

Not because it’s our job to make ourselves convenient for everybody else.

Because understanding our needs gives us more choices.

Perhaps you find it helpful to have a little transition ritual.

Finishing a paragraph.

Writing down where you got to.

Taking a short walk.

Having a drink.

Checking what the new plan involves.

Giving yourself five minutes without anybody talking to you.

Or simply saying:

“I’m feeling overwhelmed. I need a moment.”

Sometimes breathing slowly or noticing what’s happening around you helps.

Sometimes moving your body helps.

Sometimes you need to talk through the new plan.

And sometimes you need to recognise that you’re already exhausted and don’t have much capacity left for another change.

That isn’t a character flaw.

It’s information.

Information you can use to make decisions about what you need.

The aftermath nobody always sees

There’s another part of this I really want to talk about.

What happens afterwards.

Because perhaps you’ve managed the change.

You’ve gone along with the new plan.

You’ve done the task.

You’ve attended the event.

You’ve smiled.

You’ve held everything together.

And then you get home.

And you’re exhausted.

Irritable.

Tearful.

Quiet.

Or completely overwhelmed.

Sometimes people only see that you managed to do the thing.

They don’t see how much effort it took.

And sometimes we don’t give ourselves credit for that effort either.

Instead, we criticise ourselves.

Why am I so tired?

Everybody else managed.

Why can’t I cope with something so simple?

Yet perhaps it wasn’t simple for you.

Perhaps it required an enormous amount of adjusting, processing, masking and emotional effort.

And perhaps what you need afterwards isn’t another lecture about being more flexible.

Perhaps you need some quiet.

Some understanding.

A little space.

And the opportunity to recover.

This is where shame can really creep in

I think one of the most painful things about struggling with change isn’t always the change itself.

It’s the belief that there’s something wrong with you because you find it difficult.

Especially if you’ve spent years hearing:

“Stop making a fuss.”

“Why are you like this?”

“You always ruin everything.”

“Everybody else can manage.”

Those messages can become part of how you see yourself.

And then even when nobody is criticising you, you might criticise yourself.

That’s something we can explore in therapy.

Not simply how to manage change.

Also how to understand the beliefs you’ve developed about yourself because of the way your difficulties have been interpreted.

Because struggling with a transition doesn’t mean you’re selfish, immature or incapable.

And recognising that doesn’t remove the need to consider other people’s feelings.

It gives us a more compassionate place to begin.

How can therapy help?

One of the things I love about working with neurodivergent clients is helping people find language for experiences they’ve struggled to explain.

Sometimes people arrive knowing that certain situations feel unbearable.

They know they become overwhelmed.

They know relationships can become difficult.

They know they sometimes react in ways they regret.

Yet they don’t necessarily understand why.

So we get curious.

We explore what happens before, during and after those moments.

We look at the physical sensations.

The thoughts.

The expectations.

The fears.

The patterns.

And the things that might make transitions easier.

We might use drawing, doodling, visual metaphors, practical strategies or simply talk things through.

We can also explore ways of communicating those experiences to partners, friends, family members or colleagues.

Because understanding yourself is valuable.

Being able to help somebody else understand you can be life-changing for a relationship.

Not because they’ll always get everything right.

Because you’re no longer both trying to make sense of something without the language to describe it.

Perhaps we could all be a little more curious

The next time somebody struggles with a change of plans, perhaps we could resist immediately deciding they’re being difficult.

Perhaps we could ask:

“Do you need a bit of time?”

“What’s feeling hard about this?”

“Would it help to know what’s happening next?”

And if you’re the person struggling, perhaps you could practise saying:

“I need a moment to gather my tendrils.”

I rather love that. 😂

Because it reminds us that there’s a process happening.

One that might be invisible to everybody else.

And sometimes all we need is a little time to disconnect from one thing before we can connect with another.

You aren’t failing because you need that time.

You’re learning how you work.

And the people who care about you can learn alongside you.

Take gentle care,

Louise x

A little about working with me

I’m Louise, a psychotherapist, counsellor and ADHD coach who works differently from traditional talking therapy.

I work with adults, couples and young people, including neurodivergent people who have spent years feeling misunderstood, overwhelmed or as though they’re somehow getting life wrong.

We can explore emotional regulation, relationships, shame, communication, practical strategies and the experiences that have shaped how you see yourself.

And we can find ways of working that suit you.

If you’d like to explore therapy or ADHD coaching, I offer a free 15–20 minute WhatsApp video introductory call, with no obligation.

Wildfire Counselling & Therapy

🌿 wildfirecounsellingtherapy.co.uk
📧 louisemalyancounselling@gmail.com
📱 WhatsApp: 07540 843727

ADHD, Therapy and the Need for Answers: Why “Just Because” Doesn’t Cut It

Why solution-focused therapy can be a breath of fresh air for ADHD brains, and why the right therapist makes all the difference.

“I don’t know. It just is.”

Oh, those words.

If you’ve got ADHD, there’s a good chance you’ve spent a fair bit of your life asking WHY.

Why does that happen? Why do I feel like this? Why can’t I do something that everyone else seems to manage? Why did they say that? Why does my brain do that? Why, why, WHY?

And then someone gives you the answer…

“Just because.”

Well, that’s helpful, isn’t it? 🤣

For many of us with ADHD, an explanation isn’t some unnecessary extra. It’s how we make sense of things.

We’re not necessarily questioning your authority, challenging everything you say or deliberately being difficult.

We want to understand.

And sometimes, understanding is the very thing that helps us move forward.

Of course, not every person with ADHD experiences this in the same way. We’re not all carbon copies of one another. Although wouldn’t that make life easier for the people trying to write instruction manuals about us?

Sometimes I don’t want to explore my feelings for another six weeks. I want to know what I can DO!

Now, before anyone comes for me, I’m a therapist. I absolutely believe in exploring emotions, experiences, relationships, trauma and the things that have shaped us.

It’s a huge part of my work.

And sometimes?

People want a bloody solution.

They’ve spent years understanding that they’re overwhelmed, struggling with motivation, feeling rejected, procrastinating, overthinking or constantly running late.

They know they’re doing it.

They know how it feels.

They may even know where some of it comes from.

What they don’t know is how to make tomorrow a little easier than today.

And that’s where solution-focused approaches can be incredibly helpful.

Rather than spending every session exploring why something is happening, we can also ask:

• What would you like to be different?

• What’s already working, even a tiny bit?

• What gets in the way?

• What have you tried?

• What would make this feel more manageable?

• What’s one small thing we could experiment with?

Notice I said experiment.

Because I’m not particularly interested in giving someone another list of things they should be doing.

Chances are, they’ve already got enough of those.

“Louise, can you tell me what to do?”

I get asked this.

And I understand why.

When your brain feels like it’s got 47 tabs open, three playing music, one frozen and absolutely no idea where the noise is coming from, someone offering a clear answer can feel like heaven.

I often tell my clients:

“I haven’t got a crystal ball or a magic wand. I’d absolutely love both, mind you!”

I can’t magically fix everything. I can’t predict the future. And I’m not going to pretend I know your life better than you do.

What I can do is sit alongside you and help you work things out.

We can look at options, talk through possible consequences, explore what matters to you and break something enormous into smaller, achievable pieces.

I can answer questions where I have the knowledge to do so. I can offer explanations, share ideas, bring some psychoeducation into the room and help you understand what’s happening.

I can also say, “I don’t know, shall we explore that?”

Therapy doesn’t have to be an endless series of questions answered with more questions.

Sometimes information is useful.

Sometimes practical support is useful.

Sometimes hearing “That makes sense, and here’s why” is exactly what someone needs.

And sometimes we need to sit with something painful that doesn’t have a neat solution.

There’s room for all of it.

ADHD brains and the problem with unrealistic solutions

Here’s something I think gets missed far too often.

A solution is only useful if it’s actually achievable for the person who’s going to use it.

“Get yourself into a routine.”

“Make a list.”

“Use a planner.”

“Set an alarm.”

“Try harder to concentrate.”

No shit Sherlock, marvellous. Why didn’t I think of that? 🙄

Now, lists, planners, alarms and routines can be brilliant tools.

I use them myself.

The difficulty comes when they’re presented as universal solutions, without any curiosity about why they haven’t worked before.

Perhaps you’ve bought seventeen planners because you genuinely believed THIS one would change your life.

Perhaps you’ve set alarms and become so used to them going off that they’re now part of the background noise.

Perhaps you’ve created a beautiful colour-coded timetable, followed it for two days and then completely forgotten it existed.

Sound familiar?

That doesn’t automatically mean you’re lazy, unmotivated or unwilling to change.

It might mean the strategy isn’t right for you.

So instead of telling you to try harder, I’d rather explore what’s happening.

Does the task feel too big?

Is there too much choice?

Are you struggling to get started?

Is the environment distracting?

Does the system rely on remembering something at exactly the wrong moment?

Are you exhausted from trying to keep up?

We need to understand the obstacle before deciding which solution might help.

And sometimes the solution isn’t another tool.

It’s reducing expectations, asking for support, changing the environment or recognising that what you’re trying to achieve isn’t realistic right now.

Why therapy itself can be frustrating when you’ve got ADHD

Let’s talk about this, because therapy isn’t automatically ADHD-friendly simply because it’s therapy.

Imagine finally plucking up the courage to book an appointment.

You’ve got a thousand things going round your head. You’ve rehearsed what you want to say. You’ve probably forgotten half of it by the time you sit down.

You start talking.

Then you go off on a tangent.

Then you remember something else.

Then you interrupt yourself because you’ve suddenly made a connection.

Then you forget the original question.

And now you’re apologising.

Again.

Or perhaps you’ve been asked how something made you feel, and you genuinely don’t know.

You know something happened. You know you reacted. You might be able to explain every detail of the event.

Putting a name to the feeling? That’s another matter entirely.

Some people with ADHD also find it difficult to retrieve information on demand, process an unexpected question or recognise what’s happening emotionally in the moment.

And then there’s the therapist who sits silently, waiting.

For some people, that space is wonderful.

For others, it’s excruciating.

Am I supposed to say something? Have I said something wrong? Are they judging me? What’s happening?

Suddenly you’re spending more energy trying to work out how to do therapy correctly than actually benefiting from it.

Therapy should not feel like another place where you’re failing to meet somebody else’s expectations.

That’s not to say therapy should always feel comfortable. Sometimes meaningful work is uncomfortable.

There’s a difference between being gently challenged and feeling repeatedly misunderstood.

“Can you explain why we’re doing this?”

YES!

Please ask.

I love curiosity in the therapy room.

If I suggest an activity, introduce an idea or ask a particular question, you’re absolutely welcome to ask why.

What are we hoping to achieve?

How might this help?

What if I don’t understand?

What if I don’t want to do it?

What if I think it’s a load of rubbish?

We can talk about that too.

For some ADHD clients, knowing the purpose behind something can make it much easier to engage with it.

And if something isn’t working, I want to know.

I don’t need you to agree with me.

I need us to be able to work together.

Solution-focused doesn’t mean ignoring the past

This is important.

I’m an integrative therapist. I work with trauma, relationships, addiction, self-worth, ADHD and all sorts of complicated human experiences.

I’m also someone with lived experience.

I know that you can’t necessarily solve years of shame, trauma or feeling different by creating a to-do list and setting yourself three goals.

That would be ridiculous.

Sometimes we need to explore where a belief came from.

Sometimes we need to understand why rejection feels unbearable, why conflict sends us into a spiral or why we’ve spent our lives feeling like we’re somehow getting everything wrong.

Sometimes we need space to grieve the years spent not understanding ourselves.

And sometimes we need to look at what we can do on Tuesday morning when we’re overwhelmed, the washing is piling up and we’ve got an important email we’ve been avoiding for three weeks.

Both matter.

We can understand the past while making life in the present more manageable.

Solution-focused work doesn’t mean rushing someone through their pain or pretending everything has an easy answer.

It means recognising that people may also need hope, direction, choices and something practical to hold on to.

Small steps. And I mean genuinely small.

I’m not talking about taking an enormous goal and dividing it into five slightly less enormous goals.

I’m talking about making something manageable enough that you have a realistic chance of doing it.

Perhaps the goal is to sort your finances.

That might feel enormous.

So we start with opening the banking app.

Or finding one letter.

Or writing down one question you need answered.

Perhaps even that’s too much today.

Okay. What would make it easier?

Could we do part of it together? Could you ask someone to sit alongside you? Do you need a different time of day? Is there something making the task feel threatening?

And if it doesn’t happen?

We get curious.

We don’t automatically label it avoidance, resistance or a lack of commitment.

We explore what got in the way.

A solution that looks brilliant on paper and doesn’t work in your actual life isn’t the right solution yet.

And there’s no shame in changing it.

The right therapist matters. More than you might realise.

I say this regularly.

I’m not the right therapist for everyone.

And that’s absolutely fine.

There are some wonderful therapists out there who work very differently from me.

Some people love a quiet, reflective space where the therapist says very little.

Others want interaction, explanations, creativity, humour, gentle challenge and someone who can help them untangle the chaos.

Neither is wrong.

For someone with ADHD, finding a therapist who understands neurodivergence, or is genuinely willing to learn about your individual experience, can make an enormous difference.

Someone who doesn’t automatically interpret interruptions as disrespect.

Who understands that forgetting something doesn’t necessarily mean it wasn’t important.

Who recognises that inconsistency isn’t always a lack of effort.

Who can adapt the pace, language and structure of sessions.

Who understands that sometimes you need to move, doodle, fidget or look away to concentrate.

Who doesn’t expect you to communicate in one particular way.

And perhaps most importantly, someone you feel comfortable telling when something isn’t working.

You deserve a therapeutic relationship where you don’t have to spend the entire session masking.

How I work at Wildfire

I’m Louise, a psychotherapist and counsellor, and I’m certainly not your traditional blank-slate therapist.

I’m down to earth, curious, creative and passionate about supporting people in ways that make sense to them.

I bring professional training, years of experience and lived experience into my understanding of people.

That doesn’t mean I assume I know what your experience is like.

Your ADHD is yours. Your history is yours. Your needs are yours.

And that’s where we start.

We might spend a session exploring something painful from childhood.

We might look at rejection sensitivity, relationships, shame or the exhausting pressure to keep everyone happy.

We might use creative approaches, visual exercises, practical problem-solving or good old-fashioned conversation.

We might explore how to make daily life feel less overwhelming.

And yes, I’ll answer questions.

I’ll explain why I’m suggesting something.

I’ll share ideas where appropriate.

I’ll challenge you when I think it might be helpful, and I’ll welcome you challenging me too.

You don’t have to arrive with a perfectly organised list of problems.

You don’t even need to know what you want to work on.

We can figure that out together.

My job isn’t to make you fit into therapy. It’s to work with you to find a therapeutic approach that fits you.

One last thought…

If you’ve tried therapy before and come away feeling frustrated, misunderstood or as though you didn’t do it properly, please don’t assume therapy isn’t for you.

Perhaps that particular approach wasn’t what you needed.

Perhaps the relationship wasn’t quite right.

Perhaps you needed more explanation, more structure, more flexibility or more collaboration.

And perhaps your needs have changed since then.

There’s no single right way to do therapy.

And there’s certainly no single right way to have ADHD.

You are allowed to ask questions.

You are allowed to want answers.

You are allowed to want practical help.

You are allowed to say something isn’t working.

You are allowed to want to understand yourself AND find ways to make life easier.

Because sometimes understanding why is the beginning of finding out how.

And that, for me, is where some really meaningful work can happen.

If you’re looking for a therapist who works a little differently, I offer online therapy and ADHD-informed support, with space for both the deeper stuff and the practical everyday challenges.

You can find out more or arrange an introductory chat at:

www.wildfirecounsellingtherapy.co.uk

Take gentle care,
Louise x

Wildfire Counselling & Therapy

ADHD Awareness Month, Day Five: Injustice, ADHD and Being Like a Dog With a Bone 🐶

Or how a parking fine at Gatwick Airport has taken up far more space in my head than it deserves! 😂

There’s something you should probably know about me.

If something feels unfair, I can become like a dog with a bone.

And I mean a proper dog with a bone.

Not a little nibble and then wander off.

I’m talking about holding on, chewing it over, putting it down for approximately three seconds, picking it back up and starting all over again.

Sound familiar?

Because one of the things I’ve noticed about my ADHD is how difficult it can sometimes be to let something go when I feel there’s been an injustice.

And it doesn’t necessarily have to be something enormous.

Sometimes it’s something quite ordinary.

Like a parking fine.

At Gatwick Airport.

Oh, don’t get me started.

Actually, too late. You’ve started me now. 😂

Let me tell you about the parking fine

We recently parked at Gatwick Airport and had booked meet-and-greet parking.

All organised.

All paid for.

Lovely.

Except we then received a parking charge for driving through an area on the way to the meet-and-greet service.

Now, from what I’ve read in the terms and conditions, that journey through the area is permitted as part of the service we’d already paid for.

So naturally, I want to get it sorted.

Except sorting it involves trying to get through on the phone, waiting around, spending ages trying to find the right person and explaining what’s happened.

And I haven’t managed to resolve it yet.

Which means it’s sitting there.

Unfinished.

Unresolved.

And, in my view, unfair.

Now, logically, I know this is a parking charge.

Nobody’s life is depending on me sorting it out today.

There are other things I could be doing.

Things I’d probably enjoy considerably more.

Yet my brain keeps wandering back to it.

Why should we have to pay for something that’s included?

Why should I spend hours trying to sort out somebody else’s mistake?

What if I forget and the charge increases?

Why is it so difficult to speak to an actual human being?

And then I start rehearsing the conversation I’m going to have.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Honestly, if I could invoice for the amount of time I’ve spent having imaginary conversations with Gatwick Airport, I’d probably have paid for another holiday by now. 😂

It’s not always about the parking fine

Here’s the interesting bit.

For me, the intensity isn’t necessarily about the money.

It’s about the unfairness.

The principle.

The feeling that something isn’t right and somebody needs to put it right.

And I know I’m not alone in that.

Some people with ADHD describe having a particularly strong emotional response to perceived injustice.

That doesn’t mean everybody with ADHD experiences it, or that it’s a separate diagnostic symptom.

And of course, people without ADHD can feel exactly the same way.

I think it’s important that we don’t turn every human experience into an ADHD trait.

Yet ADHD can involve difficulties with emotional regulation, shifting attention and disengaging from thoughts or activities.

And when something has really caught our attention, particularly something emotionally charged, moving away from it can feel incredibly difficult.

It’s almost as though my brain has decided:

THIS IS IMPORTANT. WE ARE NOT FINISHED HERE.

Even when I’ve got absolutely no way of resolving it at that particular moment.

When your brain won’t switch off

Have you ever had an argument with somebody and then spent the next six hours replaying it?

Thinking about what you should have said?

Wondering whether they understood your point?

Imagining the next conversation?

Or perhaps you’ve witnessed somebody being treated unfairly.

Something has happened at work.

You’ve been misunderstood.

Somebody has made an accusation you know isn’t true.

You’ve seen somebody being bullied or taken advantage of.

And you cannot seem to put it down.

You might be cooking dinner, walking the dog or trying to watch television.

And there it is again.

The same conversation.

The same frustration.

The same feeling.

Sometimes it’s exhausting.

And sometimes the more we tell ourselves to stop thinking about it, the louder it seems to become.

Because knowing something isn’t helpful to keep thinking about doesn’t automatically mean we can stop thinking about it.

I think that’s something people don’t always understand.

They might say:

“Forget about it.”

“It’s not worth getting upset over.”

“Let it go.”

And perhaps they’re trying to help.

Yet when something has got its hooks into your brain, being told to let it go can feel about as useful as being told to stop having ADHD.

If only it were that simple.

There’s a difference between caring and being consumed

I want to make something clear here.

I don’t think having a strong sense of fairness is a bad thing.

Actually, I rather like that part of myself.

I care when people are treated badly.

I care about people being heard.

I care about honesty, accountability and doing the right thing.

Those values have shaped a lot of my life and the work I do.

And I wouldn’t want to lose them.

The difficulty comes when something I care about starts taking more from me than I want to give it.

When I’m spending my evening mentally arguing with somebody who isn’t even in the room.

When I’m distracted from things I enjoy.

When I can’t concentrate because I’m thinking about what happened.

When I’m lying in bed rehearsing what I’m going to say tomorrow.

Or when I’m so caught up in proving a point that I’ve forgotten to look after myself.

That’s when I need to get curious.

Not about whether I should care.

About how much of myself I’m giving to something I can’t resolve right now.

So how do I work through it?

Well, firstly, I don’t always get it right.

Sometimes I absolutely do become that dog with a bone.

And sometimes I need to recognise that I’ve picked the bone up again.

That’s part of the work.

Over the years, through my own therapy, personal experiences and professional learning, I’ve discovered different things that can help.

And I think that’s the important bit.

There isn’t one magical technique that works for everybody.

Sometimes even the things that usually help us don’t work particularly well.

So we experiment.

We get curious.

And we build up a few options.

1. Talk it through with somebody who gets it

Sometimes I need to say the whole thing out loud.

Not because I want somebody to fix it.

And not necessarily because I need them to agree with me.

I need to get it out of my head.

To hear myself explaining it.

To work out what’s actually happened, what I’m feeling and what I can do about it.

Having a friend who can listen without immediately telling you to calm down can be incredibly valuable.

And sometimes that friend might gently say:

“Louise, I think you’ve given this enough of your evening now.”

And because I trust them, I might actually listen.

Eventually. 😂

2. Write it down

This can be really helpful when my brain keeps going round in circles.

I might write down:

What actually happened?

What am I telling myself about it?

What am I feeling?

What is within my control?

What isn’t?

What, if anything, needs doing next?

With the parking charge, for example, I can gather the booking confirmation, keep the relevant terms and conditions and make a plan to challenge the charge.

That’s something practical.

Rehearsing an imaginary argument at 11 o’clock at night?

Not quite so useful.

And writing things down means I don’t have to keep mentally reminding myself of everything because I’m frightened I’ll forget.

3. Doodle, colour or make something

You knew colouring was going to make an appearance, didn’t you? 😂

I love colouring.

And sometimes having something to do with my hands helps me shift my attention away from the endless mental conversation.

I might colour.

Doodle.

Experiment with my pens.

Make something.

Sometimes I choose colours that reflect how I’m feeling.

Other times I simply want to colour a little frog and not think about anything particularly deep.

Both are fine.

The important thing is that I’m giving myself another place to put my attention.

4. Get moving

Walking the dogs is another one for me.

Getting outside.

Changing my surroundings.

Noticing what’s happening around me.

Watching the dogs being dogs.

Sometimes I find that moving helps me process what I’m thinking about.

Other times I need the walk to be a complete break from it.

And occasionally I spend the first ten minutes mentally arguing with the parking company while the dogs are having a lovely time.

That’s okay too.

I can notice it and gently bring my attention back to where I am.

5. Breathe and notice what’s happening in my body

When I’m really wound up about something, I sometimes notice that I’m physically tense.

My shoulders are up.

My jaw is tight.

My breathing feels different.

I’m ready for an argument that isn’t actually happening.

Sometimes placing my hand in the centre of my chest, skin to skin contact and just breathing and noticing. Another is slowing my breathing, lengthening my exhale if it feels comfortable, or simply noticing my feet on the floor can help me settle.

Not because breathing exercises magically solve injustice.

They don’t.

And they aren’t comfortable or helpful for everybody.

They’re simply one possible way of helping my body recognise that I don’t need to fight this particular battle at this exact moment.

6. Sometimes I need a good shout!

And I don’t mean shouting at another person.

I mean finding a safe, private way to express the frustration.

Sometimes that’s talking loudly to myself.

Sometimes it’s singing at the top of my voice.

Sometimes it’s having a good rant to somebody who’s happy to listen.

Sometimes it’s writing an absolutely furious letter that I have no intention of sending.

There are lots of ways to express anger without directing it at somebody else or causing harm.

Because anger itself isn’t wrong.

It’s an emotion.

What we do with it matters.

And sometimes we need to take action

I don’t want this blog to suggest that the answer to injustice is to breathe, colour a picture and accept it.

Absolutely not.

Sometimes something genuinely needs challenging.

Sometimes we need to make a complaint.

Set a boundary.

Speak up.

Ask questions.

Seek advice.

Or take action to protect ourselves or somebody else.

The important thing, for me, is learning to recognise the difference between taking action and being stuck in the emotional loop.

With the parking fine, I can take the appropriate steps to dispute it.

I can set aside some time to deal with it.

And when I’ve done what I can for that day, I can practise putting it down.

That doesn’t mean I’m agreeing with the charge.

It doesn’t mean I’ve stopped caring.

It means I’m choosing not to let it occupy every spare moment of my day.

And believe me, that’s something I still have to work at.

What if the injustice is much bigger than a parking fine?

Of course, some experiences are far more serious.

Being bullied.

Experiencing discrimination.

Being betrayed.

Having somebody abuse your trust.

Being treated unfairly by an organisation or somebody who held power over you.

Sometimes the consequences are life-changing.

And sometimes there isn’t an apology.

There isn’t accountability.

There isn’t the outcome you deserve.

I think we have to be careful about telling people they need to forgive, move on or let things go.

Because that can feel like another injustice in itself.

You can work towards finding some peace without deciding that what happened was okay.

And you can choose how much energy to give something without pretending it didn’t matter.

For some people, that takes time.

For others, it involves grief, anger, support, boundaries or difficult decisions.

And sometimes it’s something we explore in therapy.

What does this look like in the therapy room?

One of the things I enjoy about working with people is exploring what’s underneath the reaction.

Because two people can experience something similar and respond very differently.

One person might shrug off an unfair parking charge.

Another might feel furious.

Another might feel anxious about the money.

Another might feel frightened about getting into trouble.

And somebody else might find it brings back memories of not being believed, being blamed or having no control.

That’s why I don’t think simply telling somebody they’re overreacting is particularly helpful.

I’d rather get curious.

What’s happening for you?

What does this situation mean to you?

What feels most difficult?

Is there something familiar about this feeling?

What do you need right now?

And what might help you move through it without dismissing what’s important to you?

Sometimes we’ll talk.

Sometimes we’ll use creative approaches.

Sometimes we’ll look at practical ways to manage repetitive thoughts, emotional overwhelm or the things that keep triggering those old feelings.

And sometimes we’ll explore whether there’s something that needs changing in your life rather than simply finding ways to tolerate it.

Because therapy isn’t about teaching people to accept being treated badly.

It’s about helping them understand themselves, recognise their choices and find ways forward that work for them.

So, back to Gatwick Airport…

The parking charge is still waiting to be resolved.

I still think it’s unfair.

I still intend to challenge it.

And yes, I’m still slightly irritated about the whole thing. 😂

Yet writing this blog has actually helped me process some of that frustration.

I’ve taken something that’s been going round in my head and put it into words.

I’ve recognised why it’s bothering me.

I’ve reminded myself what I can do about it.

And now I can go and do something else.

Probably some colouring.

Or walk the dogs.

Or both.

Because I don’t need to spend the rest of today mentally standing in a car park at Gatwick Airport.

I can care about something without giving it every bit of my attention.

And that’s something I’m still learning.

Perhaps you are too.

So if you’re somebody who struggles to let things go, particularly when something feels unfair, I’d love you to think about this:

What helps you put the bone down for a little while?

Not forever.

Not because the situation doesn’t matter.

Simply long enough to give yourself some breathing space.

And if you’re struggling to find ways of managing those feelings, that’s something we can explore together.

Take gentle care,
Louise x

I’m Louise, a psychotherapist, counsellor and ADHD coach who works a little differently from traditional talking therapy.

I offer a free 15–20 minute WhatsApp video introductory call, so you can meet me, ask questions and see whether I might be your person.

Wildfire Counselling & Therapy

🌿 wildfirecounsellingtherapy.co.uk
📧 louisemalyancounselling@gmail.com
📱 WhatsApp: 07540 843727

ADHD Awareness Month, Day Four: Rejection, Rest and the Very Important Business of Colouring

Written on Sunday, published on Monday. Yes, I’m confused too. 😂

Well, would you look at me being organised!

It’s Sunday, and I’m writing Monday’s blog.

Why?

Because I’ve discovered that you can actually schedule a blog to publish at a later date. Well, i mean remembered as I did know. I forgot.

I know. Revolutionary stuff. 😂

So rather than waking up tomorrow, remembering I’ve promised myself I’m going to write throughout ADHD Awareness Month, getting distracted by seventeen other things and eventually thinking, Oh bloody hell, I’ve forgotten again, I’m trying something different.

I’m writing tomorrow’s blog today.

Which means that when you’re reading this, my today is actually your yesterday.

And now I’ve confused myself.

Anyway, welcome to day four!

When a cold becomes more than a cold

I’ve not been very well.

Nothing particularly exciting, just a cold that’s left me feeling rather rubbish.

And I’ve been reminded how being physically unwell can affect so much more than your physical health.

Especially when you have ADHD.

I’d arranged to see a friend, something I was really looking forward to.

And then I didn’t wake up when I was supposed to.

I wasn’t feeling well.

The plans didn’t happen.

And instead of my brain simply thinking, You’re poorly, these things happen, it decided to have a little party with every possible negative interpretation.

I’ve let them down.

They’re going to think I’m unreliable.

They’re going to be disappointed in me.

What if they don’t invite me again?

What if they think I don’t care?

I’m not a very good friend.

And before you know it, something as ordinary as being unwell and missing a plan has turned into a whole conversation about whether you’re good enough.

Wonderful, isn’t it? 😂

That horrible feeling of not quite belonging

If you have ADHD, you might recognise some of this.

It’s often described as rejection sensitive dysphoria, or RSD.

It’s a term people use to describe particularly intense emotional responses to perceived rejection, criticism or disapproval. It’s not a separate formal diagnosis, and it isn’t something everybody with ADHD experiences.

For those who do recognise it, though, it can feel enormous.

And sometimes there hasn’t actually been any rejection.

Nobody has fallen out with you.

Nobody has told you you’re a terrible friend.

Nobody has decided you’re not worth bothering with.

Yet your brain has already written the entire story.

And it’s rarely a particularly flattering one.

For me, that feeling can connect with something deeper.

Not fitting in. Not being enough. Being the person who gets things wrong.

Those old beliefs can be remarkably quick to make an appearance when I’m tired, poorly or overwhelmed.

And I think that’s an important part of understanding ourselves.

Sometimes the intensity of our reaction isn’t only about what’s happening today.

It’s also about what today’s experience reminds us of.

And then came a text message

My friend replied.

Essentially saying:

It’s absolutely fine. You’re not well.

That’s it.

No drama.

No guilt.

No suggestion that I’d ruined anything.

Just understanding.

And honestly, sometimes a message like that means more than somebody could possibly realise.

Because while my brain was busy telling me I’d disappointed somebody and wasn’t a good enough friend, there was another human being reminding me that being unwell is allowed.

That friendships don’t have to fall apart because plans change.

That I don’t have to earn somebody’s understanding by explaining myself seventeen different ways.

And that got me thinking about how we support the people in our lives who have ADHD.

Sometimes reassurance really does matter

If you’re friends with, living with or in a relationship with somebody who has ADHD, you might not always realise what’s happening in their head.

Something that feels quite small to you might have triggered an enormous amount of worry for them.

Perhaps they’ve forgotten to reply.

Cancelled plans.

Misunderstood something you’ve said.

Gone quiet.

Or started apologising repeatedly for something you weren’t even upset about.

You don’t need to become responsible for managing every feeling they have.

And reassurance doesn’t mean pretending everything is fine when something genuinely needs addressing.

We can still have boundaries, express disappointment and hold each other accountable.

And we can do those things with kindness.

Sometimes a simple message helps.

I know you’re not well. Please rest.

We’re okay.

I’m not upset with you.

We’ll rearrange.

I was thinking about you. How are you feeling?

You might think those words are obvious.

To somebody whose brain is busy imagining rejection, they can make an enormous difference.

And if you’re the person with ADHD, there’s something here for us too.

We can practise being honest.

Instead of disappearing because we’re ashamed, perhaps we can say:

I’m really sorry. I’m not feeling well, and I’m disappointed we couldn’t meet. My brain is making a bit of a story out of it.

It can feel vulnerable to say that.

And it gives the other person an opportunity to understand what’s happening rather than having to guess.

I also have to remind myself that a feeling isn’t necessarily a fact.

Feeling rejected doesn’t automatically mean somebody has rejected me.

That’s something I’ve learned through my own personal work, and something I continue to practise.

So what am I doing about it today?

Absolutely nothing productive.

Well, not in the traditional sense.

I’m under the covers.

I’ve got my colouring books.

My lovely new pens.

I’ve been watching colouring videos and crafty videos.

And I’m having naps whenever I feel I need one.

That’s today’s grand plan.

And I’m rather enjoying it, apart from the cold, obviously.

There was a time when I might have felt guilty about spending a day like this.

I should be doing something useful.

I should be catching up on work.

I should be cleaning.

I should be making the most of my time.

And now?

I’m poorly.

I’m resting.

I’m doing something that brings me joy.

That is enough.

And can we talk about adult colouring for a minute?

Because I absolutely love it.

The pens.

The colours.

The blending.

The books.

The satisfaction of watching a picture come to life.

And yes, sometimes I spend almost as much time watching other people colour as I do colouring myself. 😂

There’s something wonderfully absorbing about it.

I can focus on choosing colours, experimenting with combinations and creating something without needing it to be particularly useful.

And I find it comforting.

Of course, everybody’s experience is different. Some people find colouring relaxing, others find it frustrating, and some would rather do absolutely anything else.

That’s fine.

The point is finding something that works for you.

And here’s something I find quite interesting.

When did we decide that colouring was for children?

Or playing?

Or making things simply because we enjoy them?

At what age did we apparently become too grown-up for joy?

For years, so much of adulthood seemed to be about responsibility, achievement and being sensible.

Work hard.

Pay the bills.

Keep the house tidy.

Be productive.

And somewhere in all of that, play could start to feel like something we had to justify.

Thankfully, there’s a wonderful creative community of adults embracing colouring, junk journalling, painting, crafting, doodling and all sorts of other things.

People making things simply because they want to.

No need to be good at it.

No need to sell it.

No need to turn it into a side hustle.

You’re allowed to enjoy something without making it productive.

I think that’s a rather lovely thing to remember.

Creativity, ADHD and giving ourselves permission

One of the things I love about creative activities is that they offer different ways of engaging with ourselves.

Sometimes words are difficult.

Sometimes our thoughts are racing.

Sometimes we’re emotionally exhausted.

And sometimes we don’t particularly want to analyse anything.

We want to colour a mushroom purple, give a frog a ridiculous hat or spend half an hour choosing which shade of pink looks best next to teal.

And why not?

Creativity can give us opportunities to explore, experiment, concentrate, express ourselves or simply enjoy being in the moment.

It’s one of the reasons I incorporate creative approaches into my therapy work.

Not because everybody needs to colour.

And certainly not because colouring magically fixes mental health difficulties.

Because people are different.

We connect with things differently.

We process experiences differently.

And sometimes doing something with our hands makes it easier to explore what’s happening in our minds.

Other times it’s simply enjoyable.

Both are perfectly good reasons.

Perhaps today is about listening to what you need

I think there’s a little lesson for me in all of this.

I’ve been unwell.

I’ve missed something I wanted to do.

My ADHD brain has wandered into some familiar feelings about not being good enough.

I’ve had a lovely reminder from a friend that I’m allowed to be human.

And now I’m resting.

Not because I’ve given up on anything.

Because it’s what I need today.

Tomorrow might look different.

And if it doesn’t, that’s okay too.

So perhaps, whether you have ADHD or not, you could ask yourself something today.

What do I actually need?

Not what you think you should need.

Not what somebody else would do.

Not what would look impressive on social media.

What would genuinely help you right now?

Maybe it’s sleep.

Maybe it’s company.

Maybe it’s asking somebody for reassurance.

Maybe it’s cancelling something.

Maybe it’s getting outside.

Maybe it’s making something.

Maybe it’s allowing yourself to have a difficult day without turning it into evidence that you’re failing at life.

And perhaps, if somebody you care about is having a difficult time, you could send them a little message.

Nothing elaborate.

A simple thinking of you might mean more than you realise.

As for me, I’m heading back under the covers with my pens.

And if tomorrow’s blog appears as planned, we’ll know my new scheduling discovery worked.

If it doesn’t?

Well, that’ll probably make an excellent subject for day five. 😂

Take gentle care,
Louise x

A little about working with me

I’m Louise, a psychotherapist, counsellor and ADHD coach who believes therapy doesn’t have to look clinical.

I work with people who are tired of feeling misunderstood, overwhelmed, not good enough or as though they’re constantly trying to fit into somebody else’s expectations.

We can talk, get creative, explore patterns, work practically or find a combination that suits you.

You don’t need to arrive with everything figured out.

And you certainly don’t need to pretend you’re okay when you’re not.

If you’d like to explore working together, I offer a free 15–20 minute WhatsApp video introductory call, with no obligation.

Wildfire Counselling & Therapy

🌿 wildfirecounsellingtherapy.co.uk
📧 louisemalyancounselling@gmail.com
📱 WhatsApp: 07540 843727

ADHD Awareness Month, Day three. It’s the 11th of October. Of Course It Is. 😂

I had a plan. A really good plan, actually.

Throughout September, I decided I was going to write a blog every single day throughout October for ADHD Awareness Month.

Thirty-one days.

Thirty-one blogs.

Loads of ideas.

I was excited about it. I had all sorts of things I wanted to explore, share and talk about.

And then October arrived.

And here we are.

The 11th.

Blog number three! Well two actually as yesterdays was a fluke that i’d actually set an alarm to remind me it was world mental health day. 😂

Welcome to ADHD Awareness Month, brought to you by somebody with ADHD.

I couldn’t have demonstrated it better if I’d tried.

And do you know what? I’m absolutely okay with that.

Although that hasn’t always been the case.

I’ll start on Monday…

Does anybody else do this?

You decide you’re going to start something.

A new routine. A journal. Exercise. Eating differently. Sorting the house. A project you’ve been thinking about for months.

You have all the enthusiasm.

You can practically see how wonderful it’s going to be.

And then something happens.

You forget.

You get distracted.

Something else needs your attention.

You become overwhelmed.

You spend three hours doing something completely unrelated that suddenly feels incredibly important.

And before you know it, you’ve missed the day you were supposed to start.

So what do you do?

I’ll start Monday.

Or the first of next month.

Or when things calm down.

Or when you’ve got everything organised.

Because somehow starting on a Thursday, halfway through the week, doesn’t feel quite right.

And if you’ve already missed seven days, well, what’s the point now?

I know that thinking very well.

The difference is what I do next.

Years ago, I probably would have given myself a really hard time about this.

I’d have been annoyed with myself.

Called myself useless.

Wondered why I couldn’t stick to something so simple.

Perhaps decided I’d already ruined it and given up altogether.

And then that would have become another little piece of evidence in the enormous imaginary folder marked:

Things Louise Can’t Get Right.

Except I’ve done a lot of work on myself over the years.

And something I’ve learnt is that missing the plan doesn’t mean I’ve failed.

I can change the plan.

I can start on the 8th.

I can write two blogs instead of eight.

I can enjoy the process rather than turn it into another opportunity to criticise myself.

And I can still be proud of what I’ve done.

That might sound simple.

For somebody who has spent years struggling with perfectionism, shame, overwhelm and feeling not good enough, it can be quite a big thing.

What have I actually been doing?

Well, I’ve been colouring.

I’ve been doing other bits and pieces.

I’ve been trying to sort my mornings out and work out what helps me get going.

I’ve had things to do.

I’ve been living my life.

And this morning I’ve finally sat down to write.

Not because everything is perfectly organised.

Not because I’ve suddenly mastered ADHD.

Not because I’ve discovered some magical productivity trick.

Because today I’ve decided to give it a go.

And today counts.

The colouring counts too, by the way.

It’s something I enjoy. Sometimes it helps me settle, focus or have a little time without another demand being made of me.

It doesn’t need to be productive to be worthwhile.

That’s another thing I’ve had to learn.

This is what growth looks like for me.

Not having everything sorted.

Not suddenly being brilliant at routines.

Not becoming a completely different person.

It’s noticing the old thought:

You’ve missed a week. You’ve messed it up.

And being able to answer:

So what? I can start today.

It’s allowing myself to do something imperfectly.

It’s understanding that my brain doesn’t always work in the way I expected it to.

It’s being curious rather than immediately critical.

And perhaps most importantly, it’s not turning every unfinished plan into a judgement about who I am as a person.

I wasn’t born knowing how to do that.

I’ve worked hard on it.

Through therapy, recovery, understanding my ADHD, learning about myself and challenging beliefs I’d carried around for years.

And I still have days when the old thinking pops up.

The difference is that I don’t have to believe every bloody thought that arrives anymore. 😂

And this is something I want for my clients too.

When somebody comes to me struggling with ADHD, overwhelm, low self-worth or that constant feeling of getting life wrong, I’m not interested in giving them another set of rules they can fail at.

They’ve usually got enough of those already.

I’m interested in understanding them.

What happens when a plan changes?

What does it mean to them when they don’t finish something?

Where did they learn that doing something imperfectly meant they weren’t good enough?

What makes starting difficult?

What actually helps?

And how can we find ways of doing things that work for their life and their brain?

Sometimes that means practical ADHD coaching.

Sometimes it means exploring shame, childhood experiences, anxiety or perfectionism in therapy.

Sometimes it means looking at the expectations somebody has been carrying for years and asking whether they were ever realistic in the first place.

And sometimes it means giving yourself permission to start on a Thursday.

Or a sunday.

Or the 11th of October.

So here’s my ADHD Awareness Month promise.

I’m going to try to write a blog every day for the rest of October.

I might manage it.

I might miss a day.

I might suddenly write three in one afternoon because I’ve become completely absorbed in something.

I might get distracted by the dogs, my colouring pens or an idea for something entirely unrelated.

And if that happens?

I’ll come back to it.

No dramatic declaration that I’ve ruined everything.

No waiting for Monday.

No starting the whole challenge again because I didn’t follow my imaginary rules.

I’ll do what I can.

And I’ll enjoy sharing what I’ve learnt along the way.

Because progress isn’t cancelled because you weren’t consistent.

Perhaps you needed a different approach.

Perhaps life got in the way.

Perhaps you needed rest.

Perhaps your expectations were a little ambitious.

Perhaps you can start again today.

And perhaps that’s something worth celebrating rather than criticising.

So, if you’re reading this with a half-finished project, an abandoned journal, a pile of washing, seventeen ideas or something you’ve been meaning to start since January…

I see you. I hear you.

You don’t have to wait for Monday.

You don’t have to make up for the days you’ve missed.

You don’t have to earn the right to begin again.

You can start where you are.

And if tomorrow doesn’t go to plan, we can get curious about that too.

Anyway, it’s the 11th of October.

Blog number two. I mean three.

And I’m rather pleased with myself. ❤️

If any of this feels familiar and you’d like some help understanding your ADHD, finding ways of working with your brain or unpicking some of those old beliefs, I offer therapy and ADHD coaching in a way that meets you where you’re at.

There’s a free 15–20 minute intro call with no obligation, simply a chance to meet me and see whether I might be your person.

www.wildfirecounsellingtherapy.co.uk
louisemalyancounselling@gmail.com
WhatsApp: 07540 843727

Take gentle care,
Louise x

Louise Malyan
Psychotherapist Counsellor | ADHD Coach
Wildfire Counselling & Therapy

World Mental Health Day, ADHD Awareness Month and the Changing Seasons: Can We Get a Little More Curious About Each Other?

It’s October. The weather’s changing, the clocks will soon be going back, it’s ADHD Awareness Month, today is World Mental Health Day, and my perimenopausal ADHD brain is wondering what on earth is going on. 😂

One minute I’m enjoying the autumn colours, cosy jumpers and the thought of snuggling up with the dogs.

The next I’m wondering why I’m absolutely exhausted, why my concentration has disappeared and whether I’m too hot, too cold or somehow both.

And that’s got me thinking.

Not necessarily about what’s wrong with us.

More about how often we forget to get curious about what’s happening to us.

Because we’re human beings.

Not machines.

And our mental health doesn’t exist separately from our bodies, relationships, hormones, environments or the things we’ve experienced.

October has got quite a lot going on!

Today, 10th October, is World Mental Health Day.

October is also ADHD Awareness Month.

And here in the UK, we’re heading into those shorter, darker days when the temperature drops, the daylight changes and our routines start shifting.

For some people, autumn is wonderful.

For others, it’s the beginning of a really difficult time of year.

And some of us love the idea of autumn while finding the actual transition rather challenging.

I think that’s worth talking about.

Because when somebody says they’re struggling, how often do we jump straight to trying to fix it?

“Get outside more.”

“Go to bed earlier.”

“Try exercising.”

“Have you tried a planner?”

Now, some of those things might genuinely help.

And perhaps we could start by asking a different question.

What’s happening in your world at the moment?

The weather changes. And sometimes so do we.

Have you ever noticed how differently you feel depending on the time of year?

Perhaps you feel more energised when the sun is shining.

Perhaps you love the darker evenings because they give you permission to slow down.

Or perhaps you dread them.

Less daylight can affect our sleep-wake rhythms, energy and mood. Some people experience seasonal affective disorder, while others notice smaller changes that still affect their everyday lives.

And then there are the practical things.

Getting up when it’s dark.

Leaving work when it’s dark.

Children adjusting to new school routines.

More time indoors.

Less spontaneous socialising.

Cold, wet mornings when getting out of bed feels like an Olympic event.

For somebody already struggling with anxiety, depression, ADHD, burnout or grief, those changes can feel significant.

And yet we can be so quick to criticise ourselves.

“Why can’t I get motivated?”

“Why am I so tired?”

“Why was I managing last month and now everything feels difficult?”

Perhaps instead of immediately deciding we’re failing, we could get curious about what has changed.

ADHD doesn’t suddenly disappear because we’ve bought a new diary.

As somebody with ADHD, I know how frustrating it can be when your brain doesn’t seem to cooperate with your intentions.

You can genuinely want to do something.

Know how to do it.

Understand why it’s important.

And still struggle to get started.

Then add a change in routine, disrupted sleep, darker mornings or increased demands.

Things that were already taking effort can become even harder.

ADHD can affect attention, planning, working memory, emotional regulation and our ability to manage everyday tasks.

And it doesn’t look the same in everybody.

Some people are visibly restless.

Others appear quiet and organised while working incredibly hard behind the scenes to keep everything together.

Some have spent years being described as lazy, careless, dramatic, disorganised or too sensitive.

And some have spent decades believing those descriptions.

That’s one of the reasons I think ADHD Awareness Month matters.

Not simply so people recognise a list of symptoms.

So we can begin questioning the assumptions we make about behaviour.

Because what looks like somebody not trying might actually be somebody trying harder than anyone realises.

And then there’s perimenopause. Oh, the joy! 😂

Now here’s something I wish we’d spoken about more openly years ago.

Perimenopause.

Because for some women, it’s not simply hot flushes and irregular periods.

Changes in hormones can affect sleep, mood, concentration and memory.

And if you already have ADHD, those changes can make existing difficulties feel more noticeable or harder to manage.

Imagine spending years learning how your brain works, finding strategies that help, finally feeling a little more comfortable in yourself…

And then suddenly wondering why the strategies that worked last year aren’t working quite so well now.

You might feel more forgetful.

More emotionally reactive.

Less able to tolerate noise or interruptions.

More overwhelmed by things you previously managed.

And then there’s the frustration of wondering whether it’s ADHD, perimenopause, poor sleep, stress or some wonderful combination of the lot.

Sometimes there isn’t one neat answer.

That’s why I think we need to be careful about assuming every experience has one explanation.

And why it’s worth talking to an appropriately qualified healthcare professional about new or changing symptoms, rather than dismissing everything as hormones or ADHD.

Men and women aren’t necessarily experiencing the same things.

And I don’t mean that every man is one way and every woman is another.

We’re far more complicated and interesting than that.

I’m talking about how biology, hormones, upbringing, social expectations and life experiences can influence the way we experience and express distress.

Think about the messages many boys grow up hearing.

“Man up.”

“Don’t cry.”

“Be strong.”

Now think about the messages many girls grow up hearing.

“Be nice.”

“Don’t make a fuss.”

“Think about everybody else’s feelings.”

Those messages aren’t universal, and they can follow us into adulthood.

Some men learn to hide sadness behind anger, humour, work or withdrawal.

Some women learn to hide exhaustion behind smiling, caring for everybody else and saying they’re fine.

Of course, those patterns can happen to anyone.

And sometimes we become so focused on how somebody is behaving that we forget to wonder what might be happening underneath.

A man who seems angry might be frightened, ashamed or overwhelmed.

A woman who seems irritable might be exhausted, struggling with hormonal changes or carrying an enormous mental load.

A young person who seems uninterested might be anxious, overstimulated or struggling to process what’s expected of them.

And sometimes somebody is angry because they’re angry.

Curiosity isn’t about making excuses for harmful behaviour.

It’s about trying to understand what’s happening while still recognising responsibility and accountability.

We can understand somebody’s pain without accepting being hurt by them.

Both matter.

What if we stopped asking people to prove they’re struggling?

Something I see in therapy is how much effort people put into appearing okay.

They’ll tell me they’re exhausted, overwhelmed, anxious or unhappy.

Then immediately explain why they shouldn’t feel that way.

“Other people have it worse.”

“I’ve got nothing to complain about.”

“I should be grateful.”

“I don’t know why I’m making such a fuss.”

And I wonder where we learned that distress has to be justified before we’re allowed to acknowledge it.

Your mental health doesn’t have to reach crisis point before it deserves attention.

You don’t have to be unable to get out of bed.

You don’t have to have a diagnosis.

You don’t have to be visibly falling apart.

Sometimes noticing that you’re not feeling quite like yourself is enough reason to get curious.

What’s changed?

What are you carrying?

What do you need?

What have you been ignoring because you’ve been too busy looking after everybody else?

And is the way you’re currently coping actually helping you?

Therapy doesn’t have to look clinical. Neither do I.

If you’ve seen my World Mental Health Day picture, you’ll know I’m not exactly the stereotypical image some people have of a therapist.

There’s leopard print.

There are dogs.

There’s usually a mug of something nearby.

And there’s a human being who has her own experiences, emotions, challenges and wonderfully unpredictable ADHD brain.

I’m not a blank slate.

I’m a qualified therapist who believes the relationship between us matters enormously.

I bring my professional knowledge, training and experience.

And I bring warmth, humour, curiosity and a willingness to work differently.

We might talk.

We might explore things creatively.

We might look at patterns in your relationships, the experiences that shaped you, your inner critic, your emotional responses or the practical challenges of everyday life.

And if something isn’t working for you, we can talk about that too.

You don’t have to fit yourself into my idea of what therapy should look like.

We can explore what works for you.

Because there’s no single way to experience mental health difficulties.

And there’s no single way to find support.

So, on World Mental Health Day, here’s what I’d really like us to remember.

Mental health isn’t something we only need to think about when somebody is in crisis.

It’s part of everyday life.

It changes.

It responds to circumstances.

It can be influenced by sleep, hormones, seasons, relationships, health, trauma, neurodivergence, loss and the pressures we’re living under.

And sometimes we won’t immediately understand why we’re feeling the way we do.

That’s okay.

We can start with curiosity rather than criticism.

We can listen to somebody without immediately trying to fix them.

We can check in on the person who always seems fine.

We can recognise that two people might experience the same situation very differently.

We can take responsibility for our behaviour while being compassionate towards ourselves.

And we can remember that needing support isn’t evidence of weakness.

It’s part of being human.

Perhaps the most useful question we can ask ourselves and each other isn’t “What’s wrong with you?”

Perhaps it’s “What’s happening for you?”

And then actually make space to listen to the answer.

If you’ve been thinking about therapy or ADHD coaching, I offer a free 15–20 minute WhatsApp video introductory call. No pressure, no obligation, simply an opportunity to meet me, ask questions and see whether I might be your person.

🌿 Wildfire Counselling & Therapy
Louise Malyan | Psychotherapist, Counsellor & ADHD Coach

🌐 wildfirecounsellingtherapy.co.uk
📧 louisemalyancounselling@gmail.com
📱 WhatsApp: 07540 843727

Take gentle care,
Louise x

ADHD Awareness Month: What If You Were Never the Problem in the First Place?

Have you ever spent your entire life feeling like everybody else was given an instruction manual for being human, and yours got lost in the post?

Because I have. 😂

For years, I couldn’t understand why things that seemed so straightforward for other people could feel ridiculously difficult for me.

Why I could manage enormous responsibilities, deal with emergencies, think quickly under pressure and hold everything together when things went wrong, yet struggle with something as ordinary as putting the washing away or spmeone changing plans on me.

Why I could remember the tiniest detail of a conversation from years ago, yet walk into a room and have absolutely no idea what I’d gone in there for.

Why I could be incredibly capable one day and completely overwhelmed the next.

Why I felt things so deeply.

Why rejection, criticism or somebody’s change in tone could send my brain into a full investigation worthy of the Metropolitan Police.

And why, despite everything I’d achieved, there was always that little voice asking:

What’s wrong with me?

October is ADHD Awareness Month, and I want to talk about the bits of ADHD that don’t always make it onto the colourful infographics.

The bits that can be funny, frustrating, exhausting, heartbreaking and sometimes all four before breakfast.

Because ADHD isn’t simply forgetting your keys or getting distracted by a squirrel.

Although, to be fair, I do love a good squirrel. 😂

The exhausting business of trying to be normal

One of the things I hear so often from people with ADHD is:

“I’ve spent my whole life trying to fit in.”

And I understand that.

You watch other people.

You notice how they behave, what they say, how they organise themselves, how they manage friendships, how they seem to know the right thing to do.

Then you try to copy it.

You learn to hide the things that get criticised.

Perhaps you stop interrupting, even though you’re terrified you’ll forget what you wanted to say.

You rehearse conversations.

You pretend you’ve understood instructions when you haven’t.

You laugh when somebody calls you scatty.

You apologise for being late, emotional, forgetful, messy or too enthusiastic.

You become very good at appearing okay.

And sometimes you become so good at pretending that you lose track of who you actually are.

That’s masking.

It can help us navigate situations where being different hasn’t felt safe or accepted.

It can also be bloody exhausting.

Because imagine spending every day monitoring yourself.

Am I talking too much?

Have I said something stupid?

Do they like me?

Am I being annoying?

Have I forgotten something?

Why can’t I do this properly?

And then wondering why you’re exhausted when you’ve apparently done very little.

Sometimes the effort is happening where nobody can see it.

Late diagnosis: relief, grief and a whole lot of questions

For some people, receiving an ADHD diagnosis later in life is wonderful.

Suddenly things make sense.

There’s a reason certain things have always been difficult.

There’s language for experiences you’ve never been able to explain.

You discover other people whose brains work in similar ways.

And you might think:

Oh my goodness. There are more of us!

Then sometimes comes the grief.

What if somebody had recognised this when I was younger?

What if I’d received support instead of criticism?

What if I’d understood myself before spending years believing I was lazy, stupid, difficult or broken?

What if I’d made different choices?

And then there’s the identity question.

If I’ve spent decades trying to be the person everybody expected, who am I underneath all of that?

Not everybody experiences diagnosis in the same way.

Some feel relieved. Some feel angry. Some feel sad. Some feel absolutely nothing for a while.

Some don’t want a diagnosis at all.

And some are still trying to access an assessment.

There’s no correct emotional response.

I personally feel proud of understanding my ADHD.

Not because it makes everything easy.

Because it has helped me stop fighting myself quite so much.

ADHD and the emotional stuff nobody warned you about

Let’s talk about emotions.

Because ADHD can involve difficulties with emotional regulation, although everybody experiences that differently.

For some people, feelings arrive with the volume turned up.

Excitement can be enormous.

Joy can be wonderful.

Frustration can feel unbearable.

And perceived rejection?

Oh, that can be quite the experience.

You send somebody a message.

They reply:

“Okay.”

That’s it.

One word.

Your brain, meanwhile, has opened seventeen tabs.

Are they annoyed?

Did I say something wrong?

Why didn’t they use an emoji?

They normally use an emoji.

Maybe they don’t like me.

Perhaps I’ve upset them.

Should I apologise?

What for?

I DON’T KNOW, BUT PERHAPS I SHOULD APOLOGISE ANYWAY.

😂

Rejection sensitive dysphoria, often called RSD, is a term many ADHDers use to describe particularly intense emotional pain around perceived rejection or criticism.

It isn’t a separate formal diagnosis, and it doesn’t affect everybody with ADHD.

Yet the experience can be very real.

And sometimes it’s connected to years of actually being criticised, excluded, misunderstood or told we’re too much.

So in therapy, I don’t want to simply tell somebody they’re overreacting.

I want to understand what’s happening.

What did that interaction mean to you?

What did your brain predict was going to happen?

Does it remind you of something?

What happens in your body?

What helps you feel safe enough to respond rather than react?

Your feelings deserve understanding. And we can still get curious about what you do with them.

Why can I do something incredibly complicated and not something simple?

This is one of my favourite ADHD contradictions.

Give me a complicated situation, something urgent, interesting or challenging, and my brain may absolutely love it.

Ask me to complete a boring administrative task with no immediate deadline?

Suddenly cleaning the fridge seems fascinating.

ADHD can affect executive functions, including planning, starting tasks, organising, remembering information, managing time and switching between activities.

And it isn’t always consistent.

That’s what can make it so confusing.

Because you did it yesterday.

So why can’t you do it today?

Because you’re not a machine.

Your capacity can change with sleep, stress, interest, environment, hormones, emotional demands and a whole host of other things.

And knowing how to do something isn’t always the same as being able to get started.

That’s why telling somebody with ADHD to buy a planner, make a list or try harder can be spectacularly unhelpful.

Some of us have enough planners to open a stationery shop.

Beautiful planners.

Colour-coded planners.

Planners with stickers.

Planners we used enthusiastically for four days before forgetting they existed.

I speak from experience. 😂

The answer isn’t necessarily another planner.

Sometimes it’s changing the environment.

Making the task smaller.

Using visual reminders.

Having somebody alongside you.

Reducing decisions.

Finding ways to make something interesting.

Or accepting that the method everybody else uses simply isn’t the right method for you.

Different doesn’t automatically mean wrong.

ADHD, relationships and feeling misunderstood

ADHD doesn’t happen in isolation from the people around us.

It can affect relationships.

Perhaps your partner thinks you’re not listening.

You are listening. You’ve also noticed a noise outside, remembered something you forgot to do and started wondering whether the dog needs feeding.

Perhaps you forget something important and your partner experiences that as not caring.

Perhaps you become overwhelmed during disagreements.

Perhaps criticism feels so painful that you become defensive before you’ve even understood what’s being said.

Perhaps your partner feels they’re carrying too much of the practical responsibility.

And perhaps you feel constantly criticised for things you’re genuinely trying to manage.

Both experiences matter.

ADHD can help explain certain difficulties.

It doesn’t mean somebody else’s feelings stop mattering, and it doesn’t mean you’re deliberately causing problems.

This is where curiosity can make an enormous difference.

Instead of:

“Why can’t you ever remember anything?”

What about:

“What would help us remember this without either of us feeling like a parent or a child?”

Instead of:

“You never listen.”

Perhaps:

“Can we work out a way of having important conversations that helps us both feel heard?”

Understanding isn’t the same as making excuses.

It’s finding a way forward that works for the people actually in the relationship.

ADHD and addiction: when something finally quietens the noise

This is an area particularly close to my heart, personally and professionally.

Some people with ADHD develop difficulties with alcohol or other substances.

Not everyone does, of course.

And addiction is never explained by one thing alone.

Yet ADHD can increase vulnerability to substance-use problems, and sometimes people describe using alcohol or substances to manage restlessness, anxiety, social discomfort, emotional pain or the constant noise in their heads.

For some, alcohol can initially feel like relief.

A quieter mind.

Less self-consciousness.

A little break from thinking.

Until it starts costing more than it’s giving.

I’m sober myself.

And one of the things I understand is that changing a relationship with alcohol doesn’t automatically answer every question about why you needed it in the first place.

Sometimes getting sober is when the really interesting work begins.

The feelings are still there.

The overwhelm is still there.

The shame might still be there.

And suddenly you need to discover different ways of being with yourself.

There is no shame in needing help with that.

What about the children?

I wish we could stop assuming that every child who struggles with school, concentration, behaviour or emotions needs to try harder.

Sometimes a child who appears not to be listening is desperately trying to concentrate.

Sometimes the child who explodes after school has spent the entire day holding everything together.

Sometimes the child who can’t get through the school gates is overwhelmed, frightened or exhausted.

Sometimes the child who’s constantly moving is trying to regulate themselves.

And sometimes a child is testing boundaries, being impulsive, having an ordinary difficult day or doing something they know they shouldn’t.

Children are human beings, not walking diagnostic criteria.

ADHD doesn’t explain every behaviour.

Neither should we ignore the possibility that behaviour is communicating a need.

I think one of the most helpful questions we can ask is:

What is happening for this child, and what might help?

Rather than immediately deciding what is wrong with them.

And parents?

You deserve understanding too.

Especially if you’re discovering your child’s ADHD while recognising your own childhood in everything you’re learning.

That can bring up a lot.

You don’t have to love having ADHD

I see a lot of pressure for neurodivergent people to celebrate their brains.

And I understand where that comes from.

For years, difference has been treated as something to correct.

There’s enormous value in recognising strengths, creativity, humour, curiosity, enthusiasm and different ways of thinking.

I love many things about how my brain works.

And there are days when it drives me absolutely round the bend.

Both can be true.

You can be proud of being neurodivergent and still find aspects of ADHD disabling.

You can enjoy your creativity and struggle with overwhelm.

You can love your enthusiasm and wish you could switch your thoughts off sometimes.

You can accept yourself and still want support.

Acceptance doesn’t mean pretending everything is wonderful.

It means being able to look at yourself with a little more understanding and a little less judgement.

So how can therapy or ADHD coaching actually help?

This is where I think we need to move away from the idea that there’s one correct way to manage ADHD.

Because there isn’t.

I work as a psychotherapist counsellor and ADHD coach, and I bring my professional knowledge alongside my own lived experience.

I’m also very aware that my ADHD isn’t your ADHD.

What works for me might be completely useless for you.

And that’s okay.

We can explore the emotional stuff.

The shame.

The masking.

The years of feeling not good enough.

The anxiety, trauma, relationships, rejection sensitivity, addiction, burnout and identity questions.

We can also look at the practical stuff.

Managing overwhelm.

Understanding patterns.

Finding ways to start tasks.

Creating routines that suit your life.

Learning to recognise when you’re reaching capacity.

Communicating your needs.

Working out what actually helps rather than what you think should help.

And we don’t have to do it all sitting and talking in a traditional way.

We can use creativity, visual approaches, practical exercises, reflection, humour and whatever helps you engage with the work.

Sometimes we’ll try something and discover it’s completely wrong for you.

Wonderful.

We’ve learnt something.

You haven’t failed. We’ve found something that doesn’t fit.

Then we try something else.

Because my job isn’t to turn you into somebody who is brilliant at doing therapy my way.

It’s to work alongside you to discover what helps you.

One last thing for ADHD Awareness Month

If you’ve spent years feeling different, misunderstood, overwhelmed or not good enough, I hope this month brings you something more meaningful than a few social media posts.

I hope it brings understanding.

Perhaps a conversation.

Perhaps the courage to ask for an assessment.

Perhaps the realisation that you’re allowed to ask for help even without a diagnosis.

Perhaps a little more compassion for the younger version of you who was trying so hard.

And perhaps the beginning of a different relationship with yourself.

You don’t have to suddenly love everything about your brain.

You don’t have to become organised, calm, productive and emotionally regulated every minute of the day.

You don’t have to prove your ADHD is a superpower.

And you don’t have to spend the rest of your life apologising for being different.

What if, instead of spending another year trying to become somebody else, you started getting curious about who you actually are?

That’s a conversation I’d love more people to have.

And if you’d like some help having it, I’d be happy to meet you.

I offer a free 15–20 minute intro call via WhatsApp video, with absolutely no obligation to book. It’s a chance to ask questions, tell me a little about what’s happening and see whether I might be your person.

You can find out more about my therapy and ADHD coaching at:

www.wildfirecounsellingtherapy.co.uk

Email: louisemalyancounselling@gmail.com

WhatsApp: 07540 843727

Stay safe, stay connected.

Take gentle care,
Louise x

Louise Malyan
Psychotherapist Counsellor, ADHD Coach and a woman with an ADHD brain of her own.

They Followed Each Other Into the Thames. Two Never Made It Back Out.

What a pod of pilot whales made me think about loyalty, friendship, relationships, and finding your tribe.

I’ve become slightly obsessed with the pilot whales in the Thames.

Around 25 long-finned pilot whales suddenly appeared in one of Britain’s busiest waterways.

The bloody Thames.

These are animals that normally favour cooler, deeper offshore waters beyond the continental shelf in the Atlantic. Yet there they were, moving through the Thames Estuary around East Tilbury, Kent and Essex.

And, because my brain works the way it does, alongside worrying about them I couldn’t help wondering what on earth they thought of Kent and Essex.

Imagine being used to the open Atlantic and suddenly finding yourself surrounded by container ships, industrial docks, traffic and the general chaos of the Thames.

Where the fuck have you brought us, Derek? 😂🐋

There was something magical about seeing them there.

And something incredibly worrying.

Because these weren’t animals where they would normally be.

And now we know that two of them died.

One female was found dead near East Tilbury. Another female became separated from the pod as they were being encouraged towards the outer estuary, briefly stranded at Canvey Island, refloated, and was sadly found dead the following morning.

Post-mortem examinations are being carried out, so we don’t yet know exactly why they died.

And that makes the story even more heartbreaking.

Because while I’ve been reading about them, I’ve learnt something about pilot whales that I can’t stop thinking about.

They don’t easily leave one another behind.

Pilot whales form exceptionally close family bonds.

They live in tight-knit social groups, and BDMLR says they can follow sick, injured or lost members of their pod, sometimes even into situations that put the rest of them in danger.

Now, I’m a therapist, not a whale behaviour researcher. 😂

So I’m not going to give them human thoughts and announce that I know what they were thinking.

I don’t.

We have to be careful about turning animal behaviour into a lovely human story because it suits the point we’re trying to make.

However, we can observe their extraordinary social bonds.

And bloody hell, they’ve made me think about ours.

Because there’s something quite beautiful about a species whose instinct is so strongly oriented towards togetherness.

And perhaps humans could learn a little something from that.

Loyalty isn’t blindly sticking up for somebody.

I think sometimes we’ve completely cocked up the meaning of loyalty.

We think loyalty means defending our people regardless of what they’ve done.

Backing them publicly even when we know they’re wrong.

Keeping secrets that shouldn’t be kept.

Agreeing because they’re family.

Taking someone’s side because they’re our friend.

That’s not the kind of loyalty I’m talking about.

Real loyalty can actually be quite uncomfortable.

Sometimes it sounds like:

“I love you. I’m here. And what you’re doing isn’t okay.”

A good friend doesn’t necessarily tell you what you want to hear.

A good partner shouldn’t have to agree with everything you say.

Your tribe shouldn’t enable you to keep hurting yourself or other people because challenging you might upset you.

Sometimes the person most willing to tell you that you’re being a bit of a dick is the person who loves you enough to risk you being pissed off with them.

Accountability and loyalty can exist in the same relationship.

Perhaps loyalty isn’t I’ll always take your side.

Perhaps it’s:

I won’t abandon you simply because life got difficult.

There’s a huge difference.

Who stays when you’re no longer easy to be around?

That question has really sat with me.

Because human beings can be bloody uncomfortable with struggle.

Grief.

Addiction.

Depression.

Illness.

Shame.

Relationship breakdown.

Financial problems.

Trauma.

The friend who has disappeared a little because they’re overwhelmed.

The person who doesn’t have much to give back right now.

The one who isn’t funny, helpful, organised or entertaining anymore.

It’s quite easy to love people when they’re bringing something lovely to our lives.

It’s much harder when they’re struggling.

And again, I’m not talking about staying in abusive or harmful relationships.

Being loyal does not require sacrificing yourself.

You are allowed boundaries.

You are allowed to leave relationships that are damaging you.

You are allowed to stop carrying somebody who repeatedly refuses responsibility for their own behaviour.

Staying connected doesn’t mean drowning alongside somebody.

Sometimes love means stepping back.

Yet sometimes I wonder whether we’ve become so frightened of discomfort that we’re also leaving people behind who don’t need fixing or rescuing.

They need somebody to sit beside them and say:

“I’m still here.”

That’s what a tribe is to me.

Not thousands of Facebook friends.

Not followers.

Not people who like everything you post.

Not somebody who says “anything you need” and then disappears when you actually need something.

A tribe is different.

They’re the people who notice you’ve gone quiet.

The ones who check in without needing something first.

The ones you can tell the ugly stuff to.

The ones who celebrate you without competing with you.

Who can laugh with you until your face hurts.

Who can sit beside you when there’s absolutely fuck all funny about life.

Who let you change.

Who don’t require you to make yourself smaller so they can feel bigger.

Who don’t only love the version of you that’s useful to them.

And they’re the people who can say:

Louise, I love you dearly, but you’re talking absolute bollocks.

😂

That’s belonging.

And then there’s the human tribe that formed around these whales.

This part of the story matters too.

Because humans showed up.

BDMLR Marine Mammal Medics monitored the whales. The Port of London Authority coordinated activity on the water. Coastguard teams, Kent Fire and Rescue Service, Civil Air Support and other responders became involved.

Specialist whale rescue equipment was moved by aircraft so it could be available quickly if needed.

Boats spent around six hours guiding the pod more than 20 nautical miles towards the outer estuary and open sea.

Aircraft later searched the estuary and coastline to see whether whales had turned back or become stranded.

No further members of the main pod were seen during Sunday’s aerial search.

Think about that.

People with different jobs.

Different skills.

Different organisations.

Some probably complete strangers to each other before this happened.

All coordinating around one purpose:

Something vulnerable needs help.

And behind the rescuers are years of knowledge, research, training and experience.

People have studied these animals.

People have learnt from previous strandings.

People have developed equipment and techniques.

People train to respond when something goes wrong.

Even the famous Thames whale incident twenty years ago contributed to public understanding of marine-mammal rescue and welfare, and BDMLR describes the lasting legacy as both a shared memory and a responsibility.

There’s something incredibly moving about that too.

Especially when you look at the world at the moment.

We’re surrounded by division.

Us and them.

Pick a side.

Hate this group.

Blame that group.

People who have never met screaming at each other through screens.

Sometimes it feels like we’re becoming increasingly skilled at identifying all the ways we’re different and increasingly crap at remembering all the ways we’re the same.

And then 25 whales take a wrong turn into the Thames and suddenly people mobilise.

Equipment gets moved.

Boats appear.

Experts communicate.

People watch and hope.

For a little while the question isn’t:

Which side are you on?

It’s simply:

How can we help?

I think we need more of that.

Maybe we all need to find our pod.

I don’t mean twenty-five people.

Your pod might be three.

It might be one.

I’d rather have two people who genuinely know me than two hundred who only know the version of me I perform.

Find the people who let you be yourself.

Find the ones who make you feel safe enough to say the stupid question out loud.

Find people who challenge you with love rather than shame.

Find the ones who don’t disappear the second your life becomes inconvenient.

Find the people who clap when something wonderful happens to you rather than secretly hoping you’ll fall.

And then be that person too.

Check in.

Make the call.

Send the ridiculous meme.

Ask twice when somebody says they’re fine and you know they’re not.

Apologise when you’re wrong.

Tell your friend they’re being a dick when necessary. 😂

Sit beside somebody when you can’t fix what hurts.

Let people know they’re loved while they’re still here to hear it.

Because perhaps one of the most important things we can ever give another living being is the feeling:

You don’t have to do this bit alone.

Two of those beautiful whales didn’t make it back out.

And that’s incredibly sad.

We don’t yet know why they died, and I hope the post-mortem examinations help researchers understand more.

However the rest of their pod gave me something I wasn’t expecting.

They made me think about loyalty.

Relationships.

Friendship.

Community.

The people we choose.

The people who choose us.

The difference between being surrounded by people and actually belonging.

And the incredible things that can happen when humans stop fighting amongst ourselves for five bloody minutes and work together.

Perhaps we aren’t so different after all.

We need connection.

We need community.

We need our tribe.

We need people who don’t blindly defend everything we do, but who care enough to remain curious about us.

People who know when to challenge us.

When to help us.

When to give us space.

And when to simply stay nearby.

Find your pod.

And when someone in it is struggling, make sure they know they haven’t been forgotten.

And wherever the remaining Thames whales are now, I really hope they’re back in deep water together.

Although I still desperately want to know what they thought of Kent and Essex.

I’m expecting an absolutely fucking brutal TripAdvisor review. 😂

Stay safe, stay connected & take gentle care

Louise

The First Birthday Without Mum .... And Why I Changed the Plan

Mum’s birthday was on the 3rd.

Her first birthday since she died.

And I had been absolutely dreading it.

There are certain dates after someone dies that seem to sit on the horizon waiting for us.

The first birthday.
The first Christmas.
The anniversary.
The date they went into hospital.
The last time you saw them.

Sometimes the anticipation becomes almost as difficult as the day itself.

How am I going to feel? What should I do? How am I going to get through it?

I’d already decided I was taking Mum’s birthday off work. I knew I didn’t want to be holding space for anybody else that day.

I’d made plans. I thought I’d go out for lunch and do something to mark her birthday.

Then the day actually arrived.

And I couldn’t.

I didn’t want lunch. I didn’t want to go anywhere. I didn’t want to follow the plan I’d made when I was trying to predict what grieving-me would need.

So I changed it.

And that was okay.

I stayed home. I reflected. I spoke to my siblings on the phone. I allowed myself to be sad.

I looked after myself.

And actually, it was exactly what that day needed to be.

Grief doesn’t need you to stick to the itinerary

I think there can be enormous pressure around significant dates after somebody dies.

We can feel as though we ought to commemorate them properly.

Go somewhere meaningful. Raise a glass. Difficult when you are sober… Visit somewhere. Cook their favourite meal. Do something profound enough to match how much we loved them.

Except grief isn’t particularly interested in our plans.

You might think you want company and wake up needing solitude.

You might plan to stay home and suddenly desperately need to get out.

You might cry.

You might not.

You might go dancing and have a bloody brilliant time.

None of those things measure how much you loved the person who died.

You don’t have to perform your grief to prove your love.

That is something I’m incredibly passionate about in my work too.

I don’t want to tell a grieving client what their grief should look like.

I want to help them find enough space to discover what they need.

I bought myself a present

This was perhaps the part of the day I hadn’t expected.

I bought myself a present.

I’ve been doing quite a lot of colouring alongside clients recently, playing with inks, blending, colours and different techniques.

And I’ve been loving it.

So I bought myself a travel colouring set and some gorgeous pens.

They’re mine.

I bloody adore them.

And they’re now tucked away in my bag ready to come on holiday with me.

There was something really lovely about giving myself something on Mum’s birthday.

It didn’t make me less sad.

It wasn’t distracting myself from grief.

It was simply something kind.

And I think that’s important too.

Grief and joy don’t cancel each other out.

We can miss someone terribly and enjoy something.

We can cry and laugh on the same day.

We can be devastated by what we’ve lost while continuing to build a life around that loss.

That’s not forgetting.

That’s living.

Firsts are huge. So are seconds, thirds and random Tuesdays.

We talk a lot about the first year of grief.

And yes, the firsts can be enormous.

Except I don’t particularly like the idea that once we’ve survived the first birthday, Christmas or anniversary, we’ve somehow ticked it off.

There will be second birthdays.

Third Christmases.

Fifth anniversaries.

And there will be completely ordinary Wednesdays when something catches you off guard.

A song.

A smell.

A photograph.

Something funny happens and, for half a second, you think:

I need to tell Mum that.

Grief doesn’t work from a calendar.

Do what YOU need to do

So if you’re approaching one of those dates, perhaps you don’t need to work out the perfect way to get through it.

Make a plan if having one helps.

And give yourself permission to completely bin it if the day arrives and you need something else.

Go dancing.

Go for lunch.

Visit somewhere special.

Stay home.

Talk about them all day.

Don’t talk about them at all.

Buy yourself something lovely.

Get under the duvet.

Laugh.

Cry.

Do absolutely nothing.

There is no prize for grieving correctly.

Mum’s first birthday without her was incredibly sad.

I dreaded it.

It arrived.

I listened to myself.

I changed the plan.

And eventually, the day passed.

Another first I never wanted to experience, experienced.

And when the next one comes, I’ll meet that one too.

Not because I’m “moving on”.

Because I’m learning how to keep living while carrying someone I love with me.

One day, one me, one bloody shitty crappy heartbreaking first at a time. ❤️‍🩹

stay safe, stay connected & take gentle care

Louise x

Louise Malyan
Psychotherapist Counsellor
Wildfire Counselling & Therapy
wildfirecounsellingtherapy.co.uk

"School Refuser” I Really Hate That Term.

It’s September.

New shoes. New uniform. New timetable. Photos by the front door.

And all over social media, smiling children holding boards telling us which year they’re going into.

Lovely.

Except somewhere, in another house, there’s a completely different morning happening.

A teenager is still under the duvet.

Someone has a stomach ache.

Someone is crying in the bathroom.

Someone got dressed and made it as far as the car before completely falling apart.

Someone hasn’t slept because they’ve been thinking about school since 2am.

And somewhere there’s a parent standing in the kitchen, already exhausted, thinking:

What the hell am I supposed to do?

Welcome to September.

First, can we talk about the phrase “school refuser”?

Because I hate it.

I don’t particularly like “school avoidance” either.

And “won’t go to school” can get in the bloody bin with it.

Words matter.

Won’t suggests choice.

Refusing suggests defiance.

Avoiding suggests that if we push hard enough, remove the Xbox, threaten consequences or become stricter, they’ll eventually give in and go.

Yet what if they actually can’t?

That’s a very different conversation.

If a young person was standing outside a burning building saying, “I can’t go in there”, we wouldn’t immediately start discussing their attendance percentage.

We’d want to know what was making the building feel unsafe.

School might not literally be on fire.

Their nervous system may be reacting as though it is.

And that’s the bit I’m interested in.

Not:

“How do we make you go to school?”

More:

“What’s happening for you that makes going to school feel impossible right now?”

That’s where I’d start.

Behaviour is the symptom. The unmet need is the story.

If you’ve read any of my other stuff, you’ll probably have heard me say this before.

Behaviour tells us something.

A teenager screaming at Mum at 7.45am isn’t necessarily a rude teenager who needs firmer boundaries.

A teenager refusing to put their shoes on isn’t necessarily manipulative.

A child complaining of a stomach ache every Monday morning isn’t necessarily “trying it on”.

And the teenager who seems absolutely bloody fine once you’ve finally said they can stay home isn’t proof they were faking it.

Actually, that last one is really important.

Parents sometimes tell me:

“The minute I said they could stay home, they were absolutely fine!”

Of course they were.

The perceived threat disappeared.

Imagine being terrified you’re about to do a parachute jump and someone suddenly says, “You don’t have to do it.”

Your body is probably going to go:

THANK FUCK FOR THAT.

Relief doesn’t prove the fear wasn’t real.

It can show us just how much fear was there.

“They used to love school.”

Yep.

And something may have changed.

Sometimes we can identify exactly what.

Sometimes we can’t.

It might be bullying.

Friendship groups.

A teacher.

Being humiliated in class.

Exam pressure.

Periods.

Body image.

PE changing rooms.

The lunch hall.

Noise.

Crowds.

Getting the bus.

Being asked a question unexpectedly.

Not understanding the work.

Understanding the work and being bored senseless.

Being neurodivergent in an environment designed around neurotypical expectations.

Masking all day.

Sensory overwhelm.

Feeling different.

Being terrified of getting something wrong.

Having nowhere safe to go at break.

Something happening at home.

Grief.

Trauma.

Family breakdown.

Addiction within the family.

Poor sleep.

Low self-esteem.

Or twenty tiny things that individually seem manageable and together have become completely overwhelming.

And sometimes the young person genuinely doesn’t know.

That’s important too.

“I don’t know” is an answer.

We don’t have to interrogate it out of them.

When the body says no before they have the words

Anxiety doesn’t always announce itself politely.

It doesn’t necessarily say:

“Hello Mum, I’m experiencing significant anticipatory anxiety regarding today’s educational environment.”

Wouldn’t that make mornings easier?

Instead it might look like:

“I feel sick.”

“My head hurts.”

“I can’t find my tie.”

“I’m not going.”

“Leave me alone!”

“I fucking hate school.”

Tears.

Anger.

Silence.

A slammed door.

Not getting out of bed.

Not sleeping.

Meltdowns over something that seems ridiculously small.

Complete shutdown.

The body often speaks before a young person has any idea how to explain what they’re feeling.

Their internal smoke alarm has gone off.

And once that alarm is screaming DANGER, reasoning with them about GCSE results, attendance figures and future career prospects probably isn’t going to switch it off.

And then there’s you.

The parent.

Because I think you get forgotten in this conversation too.

You’re watching your child struggle while simultaneously receiving emails about attendance.

You’re worrying about their education.

Their friendships.

Their mental health.

Their future.

You might be trying to get other children ready while negotiating with one child who cannot leave their bedroom.

You might have a job you’re supposed to be at.

Perhaps you’ve already phoned work three times this month.

Maybe you and your partner disagree completely about how to handle it.

One thinks they need compassion.

The other thinks they need a kick up the arse.

Now you’re arguing too.

And underneath all of that can sit the horrible little voice:

Am I making this worse?

Am I being too soft?

Should I force them?

What if they never go back?

What if I’ve completely fucked this up?

You’re probably knackered.

So no, I’m not going to tell you to create a beautiful colour-coded morning routine and practise five minutes of mindful breathing while everybody eats overnight oats.

Real families don’t always work like Instagram.

Let’s look at what might actually help.

Get curious before you get corrective

Rather than starting with:

“Why won’t you go?”

Try:

“Which bit of school feels hardest at the moment?”

That’s a much easier question.

Because “school” is enormous.

We need to shrink it.

Is it getting there?

Walking through the gates?

Registration?

A particular lesson?

Break?

Lunch?

Being seen walking in late?

Certain people?

Noise?

Not knowing where to sit?

Being behind after missing school?

The fear that everyone will ask where they’ve been?

The more specific we become, the more possibility we have.

We aren’t trying to prove to them that school is safe.

We’re trying to understand why they don’t currently experience it as safe.

There’s a difference.

Please don’t turn home into another battleground

This doesn’t mean there are suddenly no boundaries.

It doesn’t mean unlimited gaming until 4am and abandoning education forever.

It means remembering that relationship matters.

If school already feels unsafe and home becomes six hours of arguments about school, where does your young person get to come down?

Connection gives us somewhere to work from.

Sometimes the conversation you desperately want to have won’t happen sitting opposite each other at the kitchen table.

Try the car.

Walk the dog.

Chuck a ball around.

Draw.

Bake something.

Sit side by side rather than face to face.

And sometimes stop talking about school altogether.

Your teenager is still a whole human being outside their attendance.

They need to know that.

Stop trying to eat the whole elephant

If a young person hasn’t managed a full school day for weeks, demanding Monday to Friday, 8.30 until 3.30 can feel enormous.

What’s achievable?

Perhaps it’s driving past school.

Then getting out of the car.

Maybe it’s going in to meet one trusted member of staff when the corridors are quiet.

One lesson.

Two lessons.

A morning.

Maybe they need to arrive differently.

Maybe lunchtime is currently impossible.

Maybe they need somewhere quieter between lessons.

We’re looking for the next achievable step.

Not somebody else’s version of success.

And please involve the young person in this.

Something being done with them feels very different from something being done to them.

Work with school. And ask better questions.

Rather than only discussing attendance, ask what happens while your child is there.

Who do they trust?

Where do they go when overwhelmed?

What happens at break?

Are there sensory issues?

Are they struggling academically?

Are they masking?

Has anyone noticed friendship difficulties?

Is there a particular lesson they’re repeatedly missing?

What happens immediately before they leave school or ask to go home?

Could they have a safe person?

A quieter entrance?

A different arrival time?

Somewhere to decompress?

A phased return?

Reasonable adjustments where appropriate?

We’re not trying to make life completely anxiety-free.

That’s impossible.

We’re trying to make it manageable enough that the young person can begin experiencing:

“I can do this.”

And sometimes we also have to be brave enough to ask:

Is this environment currently able to meet this young person’s needs?

Because not every difficulty lives inside the child.

Sometimes the environment needs to change too.

Regulation first. Conversation second.

If your teenager is having a full panic response at 8am, that’s probably not the moment for a lecture about attendance.

Their thinking brain isn’t particularly interested in your excellent argument.

Help the body first.

Slow things down.

Lower your voice.

Reduce the number of words you’re using.

Give physical space if that’s what they need.

Get outside.

Use cold water.

Move.

Breathe.

Stroke the dog.

Wrap in a blanket.

Sit on the floor.

Put music on.

Different nervous systems regulate differently.

There isn’t one magical grounding technique that works for everybody.

Find their things.

Then, when the alarm has quietened, get curious about what happened.

Please notice the things they ARE doing

When everything becomes about school, children can quickly start believing they’re failing at life.

They’re not.

Notice the shower.

The dog walk.

The artwork.

The conversation with Grandma.

The meal they cooked.

The friend they messaged.

The fact they managed ten minutes in school when last week they couldn’t get out of the car.

Confidence isn’t usually rebuilt through telling someone:

“You need to be more confident.”

It’s built through tiny experiences of:

I did something I didn’t think I could do.

Then another.

Then another.

That’s how we start creating a different story.

And please don’t make school attendance the measure of whether you’re a good parent.

You’re raising a human being, not an attendance statistic.

Of course education matters.

So does mental health.

So does connection.

So does helping a young person understand themselves.

So does learning how to navigate difficult things without believing they’re broken because they’re struggling.

If your child is struggling with school right now, you haven’t necessarily failed.

And neither have they.

Something is happening.

Let’s get curious about what.

Because when we stop asking:

“How do we make this child go to school?”

and start asking:

“What is this young person trying to tell us?”

we might finally find somewhere useful to begin.

A few things to think about over a coffee

What part of school actually seems hardest for your young person?

When are they most regulated and able to talk?

Who feels safest to them at school?

What happens in their body on a school morning?

What are they managing that perhaps isn’t being noticed because attendance has become the focus?

And perhaps the biggest one:

If their behaviour is communication, what might they be trying to communicate?

You don’t have to know the answer immediately.

Sometimes curiosity is the beginning.

When some extra support might help

I work differently with children and young people.

I don’t expect a young person to walk into my therapy room, sit opposite me and immediately start talking about their feelings.

Frankly, plenty of adults don’t want to do that either.

We might walk.

Create something.

Spend time outside.

Meet the animals.

Draw.

Use cards or sand tray.

Talk while doing something completely different.

Or spend some time figuring out what makes their particular brain and nervous system tick.

There isn’t a “right” way to do therapy here.

Because the young person in front of me matters more than the method.

If your child or teenager is struggling with school, anxiety, overwhelm or simply doesn’t seem like themselves at the moment, you’re welcome to get in touch.

We can have a conversation about what’s happening and whether I’m the right person to support them.

And if I’m not, I’ll say so.

I only want someone to work with me if it feels right for them.

stay safe, stay connected & take gentle care

Louise Malyan
Psychotherapist, Counsellor & Supervisor
Wildfire Counselling & Therapy
Brenchley, Kent | Online | Outdoor & Creative Therapy

In a World Full of Jolenes, Be a Dolly

In a World Full of Jolenes, Be a Dolly ❤️

Dolly Parton died today.

And I’m really bloody sad about it.

I’ve never met Dolly.

She didn’t know me.

I wasn’t her friend or her family.

Yet when I heard the news, I felt genuine loss. I feel genuine loss. I’m sad.

Because some people become woven into our lives without ever actually being in them.

And Dolly was part of mine.

Her music has been part of the playlist of my life. Different songs belong to different memories, different people, different places and different versions of me.

Even my Mazda Bongo camper van is named after her.

Dolly Daydream. ❤️

And there’s a sign standing in my counselling room that says:

“In a world full of Jolenes, be a Dolly.”

On my bed I have Dolly cushions. In my journal I have Dolly stickers.

So yes. I bloody loved Dolly.

And today I’m grieving someone I never knew.

More than the music

Of course I loved her music.

Songs that make me smile.

Songs I sing far too loudly.

Songs that transport me straight back to another time.

That’s one of the incredible things about music.

The person singing might have absolutely no idea you exist, yet their voice can sit alongside you during some of the most intimate moments of your life.

Yet with Dolly, I loved what she seemed to represent too.

The humour.

The kindness.

The glamour.

The hair.

The beauty.

The ridiculous amount of sparkle.

The ability to seemingly never take herself too seriously while taking the things that mattered incredibly seriously.

She was feminine, funny, ambitious, successful, clever and kind. None of those things had to cancel another one out.

There was something wonderfully unapologetic about her.

This is me.

And perhaps that’s one of the reasons I’ve always been drawn to her.

I’ve spent a lot of my own life learning how to stop trying to fit into what I thought everybody else wanted me to be.

Dolly certainly never seemed interested in disappearing quietly into beige.

Neither am I.

And then there were the books

One of the things I particularly loved about Dolly was her passion for children’s literacy.

Her Imagination Library grew from something she started in Tennessee into an international programme gifting books to young children.

Books.

What a bloody wonderful legacy.

Stories.

Imagination.

Curiosity.

Characters to identify with.

Different worlds to disappear into.

Opportunities for children to discover that reading and stories belong to them too.

As someone who absolutely loves books, there’s something about that which has always really touched me.

Fame can be used for lots of things.

Dolly used hers to put books into children’s hands.

That tells me something about what she chose to put back into the world.

“Yet you didn’t actually know her”

No.

I didn’t.

And that’s something I think is worth talking about.

Because sometimes when a famous person dies, people almost feel they have to qualify their sadness.

“I know I didn’t actually know them…”

As though we’re being silly for grieving.

We’re not.

Grief doesn’t require a reciprocal relationship.

We can absolutely grieve somebody we’ve never met.

Sometimes we’re grieving the person.

Sometimes what they represented.

Sometimes their death connects us with our own losses.

Sometimes it confronts us with ageing and mortality.

And sometimes we’re grieving all of the memories attached to their work.

Because a song stops being only a song.

It becomes your mum.

Your childhood.

A road trip.

A relationship.

A breakup.

A holiday.

Getting sober.

Dancing in the kitchen.

A funeral.

A camper van.

A version of yourself who doesn’t exist anymore.

A whole bloody chapter of your life can live inside three minutes of music.

The relationship might have been one-sided. The meaning wasn’t.

There’s a little bit of Dolly everywhere in my life

My counselling-room sign makes me smile every time I see it:

“In a world full of Jolenes, be a Dolly.”

Obviously, poor Jolene has been taking an absolute arse kick battering for decades. 😂

However to me, that sign has always meant something bigger.

Be kind.

Be generous.

Be yourself.

Have humour.

Don’t make yourself smaller to make other people comfortable.

Give something back.

Stand up for what matters.

Wear the bloody sparkles.

Let other people be themselves too.

Leave people feeling a little better for having encountered you.

And then there’s Dolly Daydream.

My camper van.

Road trips, holidays, adventures and memories, all happening in something carrying her name.

It probably sounds like a tiny, insignificant thing.

Today it doesn’t feel insignificant at all.

Because that’s how people become part of our stories.

In hundreds of little ways.

We don’t need to justify our grief

This is something I talk about in my work and something I’m reminding myself of today.

We don’t need to rank grief.

We don’t have to prove we were close enough to somebody to earn the right to feel sad.

There isn’t a grief application form.

If somebody mattered to you, they mattered.

If their music accompanied your life, that’s real.

If their words helped you through something, that’s real.

If they represented something important to you, that’s real.

If hearing they’ve died makes you cry, let the bloody tears come.

Grief is grief.

And grief is incredibly personal.

People die. What they gave us doesn’t.

That’s the bit I’ve been thinking about.

Tomorrow, that sign will still be hanging in my counselling room. The cushion i’m looking at sat here on my bed.

“In a world full of Jolenes, be a Dolly.”

Dolly Daydream will still be sitting there waiting for her next adventure.

I’ll still put those songs on.

I’ll still sing them badly.

They’ll still transport me to people, places and memories.

The books she helped put into children’s hands don’t suddenly disappear.

Neither does the kindness she inspired.

Or the laughter.

Or the memories.

Or the bloody sparkle.

And maybe that’s part of grief too.

People go. The bits of them we loved get carried forward.

I never met Dolly Parton.

She never knew there was a leopard-print-loving psychotherapist Counsellor in Kent driving around in a Mazda Bongo called Dolly Daydream. 😂

However, she has been part of the soundtrack, humour and colour of my life for years.

So yes.

I’m grieving somebody I didn’t know.

And I’m absolutely okay with that.

Tonight i’m playing her music loudly.

I’ll see that sign in my counselling room.

And Dolly Daydream will carry on having adventures.

Thank you for the music, the books, the kindness, the laughter and all that bloody sparkle, Dolly. ❤️

In a world full of Jolenes, be a Dolly.

The world feels a little less sparkly without you in it.

take gentle care

Lou x

The Leopard Print Bucket That Made Me Realise How Far I’ve Come

I asked my husband Mark to pick me up a soft broom and a bucket.

That’s it.

Not exactly the beginning of a life-changing story, is it? 😂

I’d planned to go myself.

Then ADHD did what ADHD sometimes does.

I got distracted.

Side-tracked.

Did other things.

Suddenly realised how bloody late it was and ran out of time.

So I asked him if he’d grab them for me.

He came to pick me up with a bucket.

And a broom.

And a mop.

And a dustpan and brush.

All in leopard print.

I was absolutely made up.

Honestly, you could have presented me with diamonds and I’m not convinced you’d have got a better reaction.

Because it wasn’t really about cleaning equipment.

Firstly, he’d helped me.

He’d seen that I was running out of time and taken something off my plate.

However, then he’d seen these ridiculous leopard-print cleaning things and thought:

Louise will bloody love these.

And he was right.

That feeling of somebody seeing something and knowing you well enough to know it’ll make you smile is really rather lovely.

And it made me realise something else.

I know I’d love them too.

And that hasn’t always been true.

I didn’t know what I liked

For years, I didn’t really know who I was.

I knew how to fit in.

I knew how to people-please.

I knew how to watch other people and work out what seemed acceptable.

I followed trends.

Adapted.

Masked.

Tried not to be too much.

Tried to get things right.

And I was ashamed of some of the things I genuinely liked.

Including leopard print.

Too tacky?

Too loud?

What would people think?

Now?

I wear it.

I’ve got leopard-print towels, cushions, blankets and bedding.

Apparently cleaning equipment was the natural next stage. 😂

Somewhere along the way, I stopped asking whether other people thought something was acceptable and started asking:

Do I like it?

It sounds ridiculously simple.

For me, it wasn’t.

I had to get to know myself.

“I just want the old me back”

I hear people say this in therapy.

“I want to get back to who I was.”

And I understand it.

Yet when I began doing my own work, I didn’t really have a me to go back to.

I’d spent so much of my life adapting to everybody else that I wasn’t sure who that person was.

I knew who I thought I needed to be.

That’s different.

Alcohol became part of how I coped with all of that.

The noise.

The shame.

The feeling that everyone else had somehow been given instructions for being human and I’d missed the fucking meeting.

For a long time, I genuinely thought I was broken.

And therapy didn’t immediately make that better

This is uncomfortable for me to talk about as a therapist.

Yet I think we need to talk about it. I need to talk about it.

I’ve experienced therapy that harmed me.

I’ve had my confidence knocked.

I’ve had a therapist roll her eyes.

I’ve sat with someone who seemed more interested in telling me how wonderful it was to have a huge lake than actually being curious about me.

I’ve been asked questions in ways that left me feeling stupid for not knowing the answer.

“Why do you think knowing that would be helpful?”

“What do you think?”

Sometimes I didn’t fucking know.

That’s why I was there.

I became so frightened of getting therapy wrong that the very place that was supposed to help me understand myself reinforced the belief that perhaps I really was stupid, difficult or broken.

At my lowest, that shame became incredibly dark.

And looking back now as a therapist myself, one thing really matters to me:

Not every therapist is right for every client.

That isn’t an insult to the therapist.

And it isn’t a failure by the client.

Sometimes two people are simply a terrible therapeutic fit.

I wish some of the people I’d worked with had recognised that.

Instead, sessions continued.

I continued paying.

And I continued believing the problem must be me.

Until I found my person.

Then everything changed

I felt seen.

Heard.

Understood.

Not analysed from across the room.

Not made to feel stupid.

Not expected to perform therapy correctly.

I trusted her.

Really trusted her.

Eventually I could tell her the deepest, darkest, most shame-filled things inside my head.

And she stayed.

I got sober.

I stopped experiencing the night terrors and sleep paralysis that had plagued me my whole damn life.

I learned about boundaries.

Relationships.

My needs.

My brain.

My body.

My history.

I began understanding other people differently too.

And gradually, I started meeting me.

Not some polished, healed version.

Me.

I began accepting quirks I’d previously thought needed fixing.

My body dysmorphia improved enormously.

Did I suddenly wake up believing I was a goddess every morning?

Absolutely fucking not. 😂

I’m 46.

I don’t have a six-pack.

My boobs aren’t perfect.

I’ve got muffin tops.

I love chocolate.

I drink ridiculous amounts of fizzy drinks.

And I have an entirely unreasonable relationship with cookie dough.

I’m also a bit vain.

There. I said it.

Do I love every inch of myself every second of every day?

No.

And strangely, I’m okay with that too.

That’s been one of the biggest changes.

I’m okay with not always being okay

I still feel sadness.

Fear.

Jealousy.

Embarrassment.

Envy.

Shame.

Rejection still bloody hurts.

Sometimes I get things spectacularly wrong.

The difference is that those feelings no longer automatically mean something is wrong with me.

They’re feelings.

I’m human.

I don’t need to fall apart because I’ve made a mistake.

I can repair.

Learn.

Try again.

I can step outside my comfort zone.

I can say what I need.

I can tell someone when something doesn’t work for me.

I can say:

This is how my brain works.

I can be different without automatically deciding different means defective.

And I changed some friendships too

This part hurt.

I started noticing relationships where I was always the one reaching out.

Always organising.

Always checking in.

And when I stopped?

Nothing happened.

That’s painful information.

However, it is information.

I began finding my tribe.

People who check in.

People who know me.

People who accept my ridiculousness.

People I don’t have to chase to prove I’m worth keeping around.

People who love me with the same enthusiasm with which I love them.

Again, none of this means I’m permanently happy.

I don’t actually think that’s the goal.

What I have now is something I value much more.

Peace of mind.

Which brings me back to my leopard-print bucket

My husband walked through the door carrying something that probably cost very little in the grand scheme of things.

And I felt ridiculously loved.

Because he’d listened.

He’d noticed.

He knew me.

He saw something and thought of me, not the version of me he wanted me to become.

That’s why the bucket mattered.

It’s why the broom mattered.

It’s why the bloody leopard-print dustpan & brush mattered.

Being heard matters.

Being validated matters.

Being known matters.

Finding people with whom you don’t have to continually edit yourself matters.

And perhaps the biggest thing I’ve learned is this:

For years, I desperately wanted other people to make me feel lovable.

And I didn’t even really know the person I was asking them to love.

I had to meet her first.

Get curious about her.

Listen to her.

Stop constantly criticising her.

Learn what she likes.

Let her take up some bloody space.

And somewhere amongst all of that…

being loved by other people began to feel very different after I started learning how to love me.

So yes.

My new cleaning equipment is leopard print.

It’s loud.

It’s ridiculous.

It’s probably not everyone’s taste.

And that’s rather the fucking point.

It doesn’t need to be.

It’s mine.

I love it.

And finally…

I know the woman who does. ❤️

stay safe, stay connected & take gentle care

Lou x

I Thought It Was Me. The me behind ADHD Coaching.

For a very long time, I thought I was the problem.

Not that my brain worked differently.

Not that I processed things differently.

Not that I needed different things in order to learn, organise myself, communicate, regulate or feel safe.

I thought there was something fundamentally wrong with me.

And when you’ve spent years watching other people seemingly manage things that feel ridiculously difficult for you, that belief can get pretty bloody convincing.

Why can’t I just do it?

Why am I so sensitive?

Why do I forget things I genuinely care about?

Why can I remember some random thing someone said twelve years ago, yet have absolutely no idea where I put something five minutes ago?

Why can I cope brilliantly with a crisis and then become completely overwhelmed by an email?

Why does rejection hurt so much?

Why can’t I be more organised?

Why can’t I be more like everyone else?

Eventually, “Why can’t I?” can become “What’s wrong with me?”

And that’s where shame gets in.

When different starts to feel defective

I learned to try to fit.

To mask.

To watch other people and work out what I was apparently supposed to be doing.

To work harder.

Try harder.

Be quieter in some places and more acceptable in others.

To hide the bits of myself that seemed too much.

And when you spend enough years doing that, you can become incredibly disconnected from yourself.

You know how to read the room.

You know how to adapt.

You know how to perform “I’m fine.”

You might not have a fucking clue what you actually need.

And for me, there were times I drank on those feelings.

Alcohol could quieten things temporarily. It could soften the edges. It could make things feel easier until, of course, it didn’t.

It didn’t heal the shame underneath.

It didn’t answer the question:

Why does being me seem so much harder than it appears to be for everybody else?

I didn’t need fixing.

I needed understanding.

And I wish I’d known that sooner.

Then you start understanding your brain

Learning about ADHD didn’t suddenly make every difficult thing disappear.

It gave me something enormously important:

context.

Suddenly there were things I could look at differently.

Instead of:

“Why the fuck am I like this?”

I could start asking:

“What does my brain need here?”

That’s a completely different conversation.

And this isn’t only about ADHD.

Many of the people I work with are dyslexic, dyspraxic, dyscalculic, autistic, ADHD, AuDHD, diagnosed later in life, self-identifying, questioning whether they’re neurodivergent, or simply discovering that the way they’ve spent decades forcing themselves to function isn’t actually working for them.

And underneath the labels, I hear so many versions of the same thing:

“I thought it was me.”

Finding your person matters

This is the bit I feel really strongly about.

Whether you’re looking for therapy, ADHD coaching, supervision or another kind of support:

Please find your person.

Not necessarily me.

Seriously.

This isn’t a blog trying to convince you that I’m the magical answer to your ADHD. I’m not.

I’m not the right therapist, coach or supervisor for everybody.

Nobody is.

I want you to find the person you can sit with and eventually think:

“I don’t have to perform here.”

Someone you can tell the embarrassing thing to.

The thing you’re ashamed of.

The thing that doesn’t make sense.

The thing you’ve never admitted to anybody.

The thing you’re frightened will make them think differently about you.

The thing that sounds ridiculous when you say it out loud.

You need someone you can say:

“I don’t understand.”

“That doesn’t work for my brain.”

“Can you explain that differently?”

“I haven’t done the thing we talked about.”

“I don’t know why I keep doing this.”

“Actually, I think you’ve got that wrong.”

And ideally…

“Louise, my brain absolutely fucking hates this.”

Fine.

Let’s find another way.

Because if you’re spending the entire session trying to get therapy or coaching “right”, we’ve probably got something important to talk about.

I work with the person, not my idea of the person

I work with people in their twenties and thirties.

Mums.

Dads.

Professionals.

Retired people.

People in very responsible jobs.

People in the public eye.

People whose lives look incredibly successful from the outside.

People who are barely holding things together behind closed doors.

People who have spent decades masking.

People who have collected diagnoses.

People who don’t want a diagnosis.

People who’ve spent their entire lives believing they were lazy, difficult, chaotic, oversensitive, stupid, too much or not enough.

And I don’t assume they all need the same thing because they happen to share a diagnosis.

That’s really bloody important.

Two people with ADHD aren’t the same person.

Two autistic people aren’t the same person.

Two people with trauma aren’t the same person.

A label might help us understand something about you. It doesn’t tell me who you are.

So I ask.

What helps?

What makes things harder?

How do you learn?

Do you want me to challenge you?

Do you need things written down?

Do you need visual stuff?

Do you need to move?

Do you need humour?

Do you want directness?

Do you need me to slow down?

Do you need to understand why before we talk about how?

And if we try something and it doesn’t work?

We haven’t discovered that you’ve failed.

We’ve discovered something that doesn’t work for you.

That’s useful information.

You don’t need another person to make you feel inadequate

This is probably one of the reasons I’m so passionate about this work.

If you’ve spent your life feeling like you’re getting something wrong, the last thing you need is another professional relationship where you feel you’re failing.

You don’t need someone sitting opposite you thinking:

“If only they’d try harder.”

You’ve probably tried fucking hard enough.

What you might need is curiosity.

Understanding.

Accountability without shame.

Challenge without humiliation.

Someone willing to say, “Okay, that didn’t work. What happened?” rather than, “Why didn’t you do it?”

And sometimes someone who genuinely believes in you while you’re still figuring out how to believe in yourself.

I’ve watched what can happen when someone finds their person

There are people who have chosen me to be that person for a part of their lives.

That is a privilege I don’t take lightly.

I’ve watched people begin understanding themselves instead of constantly attacking themselves.

I’ve seen relationships change.

Boundaries appear.

Shame loosen.

People begin asking for what they need.

People stop apologising for existing.

People recognise that the strategies which helped them survive aren’t necessarily the strategies they want to keep using.

And sometimes I’ve watched someone realise:

“Maybe I wasn’t broken after all.”

I don’t take credit for somebody else’s change.

They’re the one doing the bloody work.

My job is to walk alongside them, bring what I know, challenge when appropriate, remain curious and create a relationship where there’s enough trust for us to look at the difficult stuff together.

And sometimes we laugh a lot along the way.

So this isn’t an advert for me

Well, technically it’s on my therapy website, so let’s not pretend I’m entirely innocent. 😂

But the message I actually want you to take from this is bigger than my practice.

Find your person.

If you’ve tried therapy before and thought it was shit, that doesn’t necessarily mean therapy isn’t for you.

If coaching felt patronising, find somebody different.

If somebody’s communication style doesn’t work for your brain, say so.

If you need something, ask.

If they can’t provide it, that doesn’t necessarily make them a bad practitioner.

And it doesn’t make you a difficult client.

It might simply mean they’re not your person.

Finding the right therapeutic relationship can take time.

You’re allowed to be selective about who gets access to the vulnerable parts of you.

You’re allowed to ask questions.

You’re allowed to have needs.

You’re allowed to say something isn’t working.

You’re allowed to be different.

Because perhaps the question was never:

“How do I become better at being like everybody else?”

Perhaps it’s:

“What happens when I finally understand how to be me?”

And bloody hell, that’s a much more interesting journey.

Reach out if you want a laid back chat to find out more.

Take gentle care,

Louise x

Louise Malyan
Psychotherapist Counsellor | ADHD Coaching | Creative Supervision
Wildfire Counselling & Therapy
Brenchley, Kent & Online
07540 843 727
wildfirecounsellingtherapy.co.uk

It’s Really Big, Isn’t It?

“It’s really big, isn’t it?”

Those were the first words out of my mouth as stood on Cooden beach on Friday afternoon.

Now, before anyone points out the obvious… I know the sea is big.

I’ve spent hours sitting beside it. It’s one of my favourite places in the world.

Yet standing there, knowing I was about to paddle out on it for the very first time…

It felt different. I felt so fearful and small.

The sea suddenly seemed enormous.

Not because it had changed.

Because I had.

And if I’m really honest, the sea wasn’t what frightened me most.

It was me.

The things we don’t always talk about

Over the last few years I’ve put on weight.

Ageing has changed my body.

ADHD means my relationship with food, routine and self-care isn’t always straightforward.

Rejection Sensitivity Dysphoria has a habit of whispering stories that sound incredibly convincing.

“Everyone will notice.”

“You’ll look ridiculous.”

“You’ll be the worst one there.”

“you’re so fat”

“you’re too ugly”

“nobody will like you”

“you’ll get laughed at”

“you wont fit in”

“you are too old & stupid, not fit enough”

“You’ll be the only one who doesn’t know what they’re doing.”

Then there was the swimsuit.

The group.

Walking towards people I’d never met.

A group of women.

I don’t know about you, but for me, that can feel far more daunting than paddling out into the sea.

We don’t just carry paddleboards onto the beach.

We carry every experience we’ve ever had.

The comments about our bodies.

The times we didn’t fit in.

The fear of getting it wrong.

The stories we’ve been telling ourselves for years.

Then something unexpected happened.

I reached out after seeing a post from Goose Kite Surfing & Paddleboarding Hut.

Something about it felt different.

I can’t really explain why.

It simply spoke to me.

Sometimes your gut knows before your head catches up.

From the moment I arrived, something shifted.

My isnt it big line to Paul the paddle board instructor as we stood side by side looking out at the vast ocean wasnt ridiculed. I’d never met Paul before. He didnt laugh. He didnt make me feel stupid. He validated me & held space. Somehow totally getting where I was at.

Paul didn’t just teach me to paddleboard.

He asked me something nobody had asked before.

“How do you learn best?”

That one question told me everything.

He wasn’t trying to fit me into his way of teaching.

He wanted to understand mine.

As someone with ADHD, that mattered more than he’ll probably ever know.

We chatted.

We laughed.

Without even realising it, my shoulders dropped.

My breathing slowed.

My nervous system stopped scanning for danger.

I began to feel safe.

And when we feel safe…

We learn.

Not just on paddleboards.

In life.

In therapy.

In relationships.

Safety changes everything.

Sunrise

Saturday morning arrived painfully early.

5am.

The butterflies were still there.

However, i noticed, this time they were quieter.

There was a whole group of women I’d never met.

A new instructor. The big old sea!!

Again, the stories in my head started…

“Everyone already knows each other.”

“You’ll be the awkward one.”

“you are not good enough”

“look at the state of you in a swimsuit”

“They’ll all be brilliant.”

How wrong I was….

None of it was true.

I was welcomed with open arms.

People chatted.

Laughed.

Encouraged one another.

Nobody cared what size anyone was.

Nobody cared whether I’d only been on a board once before.

They cared that we were all there.

Together.

Watching one of the most breathtaking sunrises I’ve ever seen.

Standing on the water as the world slowly woke up.

For three hours, nothing else mattered.

Not social media.

Not work.

Not body image.

Not whether I was good enough.

Just the sea & being in the moment. The hear and now. Somewhere I’m rarely able to be.

Most of all, I felt safe, understood, welcomed & included.

Falling off

I spent the rest of the weekend practising.

Falling off.

Climbing back on.

Falling off again.

Learning.

Watching.

Trying.

Dave came down.

The instructors kept encouraging.

The atmosphere never changed.

No judgement.

No pressure.

Just kindness.

Then Sunday afternoon arrived.

The wind picked up.

Around 10mph, with stronger gusts of 14mph, blowing across the shore. 😳

I had a choice.

Go home.

Or give it a go.

Everything I’d learnt over the weekend came back.

Not just the paddleboarding.

The encouragement.

The calm voices.

The belief that I could do it.

So I paddled out.

I wobbled.

I was not going anywhere fast. Fighting wabes, wind, trying to stay balanced.

My technique was… let’s politely call it “developing.”

And then…

I stood up.

Not for long.

Not perfectly.

Yet I stood.

I fell in.

I got back on.

I spoke out loud to myself.

I swore. A lot.

And I bloody did it again. I stood up. For much longer this time.

And I paddled. I was wobbling.

The paddle wasn’t even going in the water properly!!

I actually did it.

I cannot tell you how proud I felt.

Not because I looked good.

Not because I’d mastered it.

Because I’d faced something that genuinely frightened me.

The feeling inside me was quite something. I felt it throughout my whole body. And I paddled and I felt it and I loved it!

This weekend wasn’t about paddleboarding.

It was about belonging.

About finding a community where difference wasn’t something to hide.

Where nobody expected perfection.

Where questions were welcomed.

Where encouragement came naturally.

Where laughter was plentiful.

As a therapist, I spend a lot of time talking about the importance of finding people who make your nervous system feel safe. A tribe.

This weekend reminded me that those people exist outside the therapy room too.

Sometimes they’re found standing beside a paddleboard at 5am.

Sometimes they’re complete strangers.

Sometimes they become the people who quietly change the story you’ve been telling yourself.

What I learnt

My body isn’t perfect.

It never will be.

It’s forty-something.

It’s lived.

It’s survived.

It’s carried me through some of the hardest chapters of my life.

Its grown beautiful babies.

Its been hurt & battered.

And this weekend…

It carried me across the sea.

Maybe the bravest thing I did wasn’t standing up on a paddleboard.

Maybe it was turning up in the first place.

Walking towards people I didn’t know.

Wearing the swimsuit.

Believing there might be room for me.

There was.

There is.

And I’ll be going back.

Sometimes courage isn’t about standing up on a paddleboard.

Sometimes courage is simply believing you deserve to take up space.

Maybe your paddleboard isn’t a paddleboard.

Maybe it’s a choir.

A photography club.

A walking group.

A pottery class.

Somewhere you’ve been thinking about joining but the stories in your head keep telling you not to.

I nearly listened to those stories.

I’m so grateful I didn’t.

Take gentle care

Louise x

p.s there is video evidence on my socials! feel free to go see!

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 tv in my room

It’s never just a TV.

People often walk into my therapy room and smile.

“You’ve got a TV?”

I have.

Not because I want people watching Netflix.

Because sometimes words aren’t enough.

Sometimes someone wants to show me a song that explains exactly how they’re feeling.

A YouTube video they’ve watched over and over again.

A TikTok that made them cry.

A photograph they can’t stop looking at.

A memory.

A piece of music that says everything they can’t.

Sometimes therapy means sitting quietly together while we listen to a song.

Sometimes it means watching a two-minute clip and asking,

“What was it about that that spoke to you?”

Sometimes it means seeing the world through somebody else’s eyes instead of expecting them to explain it.

Because our phones don’t just hold information.

They hold our lives.

I looked at my phone recently.

I have over 2,800 contacts.

Two thousand eight hundred people who have crossed my path in some way.

Some still part of my life.

Some I haven’t spoken to for years.

Some I’d forgotten about until I scrolled past their name.

They’re reminders that every one of us carries a history.

And that’s before we even get to social media.

The people we compare ourselves to.

The opinions we’re frightened of.

The comments we replay.

The messages we wish we’d never received.

The ones we desperately hope will arrive.

For many people, that little device in their pocket is full of ghosts.

People who shaped them.

People who hurt them.

People they miss.

People they’re still trying to impress.

People they’re terrified of disappointing.

That all comes into the therapy room too.

Sometimes it’s important to bring that world in.

Sometimes it’s equally important to put the phone face down, let it go quiet for fifty minutes and remember who you are when nobody else is watching.

Both matter.

People often imagine therapy happening in a grey room with two chairs and a box of tissues.

That works for some people.

It never felt like me.

I wanted to create a space that feels human.

Somewhere you can laugh.

Cry.

Watch a video.

Listen to music.

Drink hot chocolate.

Sit with Arthur and Peggy.

Wrap yourself in a blanket.

Or simply breathe.

Not because those things replace therapy.

Because they help create the conditions where therapy becomes possible.

Every single thing in my room is there because I’ve asked one question.

“What might help this person feel safe enough to be themselves?”

Stay safe, stay connected & take gentle care

Louise x

What Project Hail Mary Taught Me About Therapy

I love films that make me think.

Not because they teach psychology.

Because they reveal humanity in places I wasn’t expecting.

Watching Project Hail Mary, I expected space, science and problem-solving.

What I found was a masterclass in curiosity, communication and what it really means to meet another being where they are.

As I watched Grace and Rocky learn to understand one another, I found myself thinking…

“This is therapy.”

Grace isn’t a blank slate.

This really struck me.

Grace arrives carrying his own story.

His own fears.

His own regrets.

His own shame.

As his memories slowly return, he doesn’t simply remember facts.

He has to process them.

He has to grieve.

He has to face the parts of himself he’d rather avoid.

One of the biggest myths about therapists is that we’re somehow detached from being human.

We’re not.

We’ve loved.

Lost.

Made mistakes.

Been hurt.

Healed.

Changed.

I don’t believe being human gets in the way of therapy.

I think pretending we’re not human does. I’m not a blank slate. I dont pretend I am.

That doesn’t mean therapy becomes about us.

Far from it.

It means our humanity allows us to recognise humanity in someone else.

Sometimes I’ll share something from my own life.

Not because I need my clients to know me.

Because occasionally, if it genuinely serves them, it reminds them they’re sitting opposite another human being rather than a textbook.

That decision isn’t casual. It’s an ethical one. Self-disclosure should always serve the client’s needs rather than the therapist’s. Used thoughtfully, it can reduce shame, strengthen the therapeutic alliance and help someone feel less alone. Used carelessly, it can shift the focus away from the client. The difference lies in intention.

Communication begins with curiosity, not expertise.

Grace is incredibly intelligent.

Yet his intelligence isn’t what allows the relationship with Rocky to grow.

It’s curiosity.

He doesn’t assume.

He experiments.

He watches.

He asks.

He changes his approach.

How often do we assume because someone has ADHD, autism, trauma or addiction that we already understand them?

Diagnosis tells us something.

Curiosity tells us far more.

The smartest person in the room becomes the most flexible.

This is my favourite theme.

Grace begins believing mathematics is the universal language.

It isn’t.

So he changes.

Not because he’s wrong.

Because connection matters more than being right.

That’s therapy.

Sometimes we communicate through words.

Sometimes through silence.

Sometimes through drawings.

Music.

Movement.

Gardening.

Puppies.

Cards.

Clay.

Walks.

Laughter.

As a therapist, my job isn’t to insist on one language.

It’s to discover which language my client speaks.

Safety comes before collaboration.

Rocky doesn’t automatically trust Grace.

Nor should he.

Grace gradually changes the environment.

He notices what overwhelms Rocky.

He adapts.

He creates safety.

Only then can they work together.

That reminds me so much of trauma therapy.

People don’t heal because we have good techniques.

They heal because their nervous system begins believing we’re safe enough to risk trying them.

Difference becomes their greatest strength.

They don’t succeed despite being different.

They succeed because they are.

Grace sees problems Rocky can’t.

Rocky sees solutions Grace never would.

Therapy can be like that too.

I don’t need my clients to become more like me.

Nor do they need me to become them.

The relationship works because we each bring something different.

Grace processes his own story.

This is something I thought about deeply.

He isn’t simply remembering.

He’s making meaning.

That’s what therapy often is.

Not recovering every memory.

Not changing the past.

Making sense of what happened.

Accepting our part where appropriate.

Letting go of responsibility that was never ours.

Integrating the story into who we are becoming.

The ending

The film left me with one overwhelming thought.

The greatest challenge wasn’t space.

It wasn’t science.

It wasn’t language.

It was relationship.

A frightened scientist.

A frightened alien.

Two completely different nervous systems.

Two completely different worlds.

No shared culture.

No shared language.

No shared experiences.

Yet they built trust.

Not because either one demanded the other change.

Because both were willing to remain curious.

Maybe that’s what therapy is too.

Not having all the answers.

Not fixing people.

Not becoming experts on someone else’s life.

Simply being willing to say…

“Help me understand your world, and I’ll do my very best to meet you there.”

I don’t know their sadness.

They don’t know mine.

However both of us know what it feels like to be human.

That’s the bridge.

Not shared events.

Shared humanity.

Carl Rogers spoke about congruence. Irvin Yalom writes about “fellow travellers.” Modern relational therapies recognise that therapy is not something done by an expert to a passive recipient; it’s a relationship between two people, each bringing their own humanity into the room.

When Rocky stopped responding…

There was one scene that stayed with me long after the credits rolled. I’m not gonna lie, I sobbed.

Rocky is unconscious.

Grace doesn’t know whether he’s asleep, critically ill or dying.

He sits beside him.

He talks to him.

He pleads.

He bargains.

He gets angry.

He tries to make sense of what’s happening.

He keeps checking for signs of life.

And even though Rocky can’t answer…

Grace keeps showing up.

Watching it, I found myself thinking…

I’ve sat in my own version of that place.

Not because my clients are there unconscious in front of me.

Its because sometimes therapy can feel like sitting beside someone while they fight a battle that I can’t fight for them.

There are sessions that stay with me.

Clients whose stories I continue to process long after they’ve gone home.

Times I’ve taken my thoughts to supervision because I care deeply and want to make sure I’m helping, not simply reacting.

There are moments where progress seems impossible.

Moments where someone feels stuck.

Where I wonder whether they’re beginning to believe there is hope.

And then…

One day…

Something shifts.

It might be a smile.

A different way of speaking about themselves.

A boundary they never thought they’d set.

A moment of laughter.

A sentence that begins,

“I’ve noticed…”

It’s only a tiny change.

Yet inside, I’m doing exactly what Grace did.

That metaphorical hug.

The quiet tears.

The overwhelming feeling of,

“You’ve done it.”

Not because I did it.

Because they did.

They found a way through.

People sometimes imagine therapists finish a session, close the door and move straight on to the next person.

I suppose some might.

I can only talk from my perspective - I don’t.

I carry pieces of our clients with me forever.

Not because I’ve lost my boundaries.

Because I care.

The difference is that I don’t carry them alone.

I have supervision.

Colleagues.

Reflection.

My own therapy.

That’s how I honour my clients without asking them to look after me.

Perhaps that’s another thing Project Hail Mary reminded me of.

The strongest relationships aren’t built on having all the answers.

They’re built on staying.

Remaining present.

Holding hope.

And never giving up on someone, even when they can’t yet see what you can.

“One of the greatest privileges of being a therapist (and there are many!!) isn’t having the answers. It’s having a front-row seat to human beings rediscovering themselves.”

The hardest part was saying goodbye.

For all the science.

For all the problem-solving.

For all the laughter.

The part that broke me was the goodbye.

Grace asks Rocky how his species says goodbye.

Not because he wants Rocky to become more like him.

Because he wants to honour Rocky’s way of doing it.

He meets him where he is.

Isn’t that therapy?

People often think the hardest part of therapy is talking about trauma.

Sometimes it isn’t.

Sometimes it’s ending.

Whether someone has been with me for six weeks, six months or six years, endings matter.

Relationships matter.

And pretending they don’t would never ever sit comfortably with me.

I don’t forget my clients.

I wonder how they’re getting on.

I hope they’re happy.

I hope life has become a little kinder.

Being invited into someone’s life, especially at one of its darkest points, is an extraordinary privilege.

One I never take for granted.

That’s why endings deserve to be acknowledged.

To be spoken about.

To be felt.

Because saying goodbye to someone who has mattered isn’t weakness.

It’s evidence that the relationship mattered.

Then the film did something unexpected…..

Grace is heading home.

The mission is complete.

And suddenly…

He discovers Rocky is in trouble.

He has a choice.

Carry on towards the familiar.

Or turn around and head back into the unknown.

There are no guarantees.

No certainty.

No map.

Only his gut.

And his relationship with Rocky.

He turns around.

Not because it’s logical.

Because it’s right.

Watching that, I smiled.

Not because I’ve travelled across space to rescue an alien.

Its because I recognised something.

There have been moments throughout my career where I’ve followed my gut rather than the obvious path. Turned in a different direction from the earthlings!

Offering a different kind of therapy.

Working outdoors.

Using creativity.

Sitting in hammocks.

Introducing Arthur, Peggy and Steve.

Sometimes sharing a small part of my own humanity when I believe it will genuinely help a client feel less alone.

None of those decisions came from a textbook.

They came from asking one question.

“What does this person need from me right now?”

That doesn’t mean abandoning ethics.

Quite the opposite.

It means holding ethics and humanity together.

Grace didn’t return because he couldn’t bear to let go.

He returned because the relationship had changed him.

I think therapy changes us too.

Not in ways that blur boundaries.

In ways that deepen our compassion.

Every client leaves something behind.

A new way of understanding the world.

A reminder of human courage.

A lesson I didn’t know I needed.

And I hope, in some small way…

I leave something with them too.

Perhaps that’s the real mission.

Not to rescue.

Not to fix.

Simply to meet another human being so completely that, when it’s time to part, both people leave changed.

Perhaps this is where the real story begins…

For most of the film, Grace’s goal is simple.

Get home.

Back to Earth.

Back to what he knows.

Back to what he thought his life should be.

Isn’t that what so many of us are trying to do?

To get back to who we were before the trauma.

Before the grief.

Before the addiction.

Before the diagnosis.

Before life changed.

Yet that’s not where Grace ends up.

He doesn’t return to Earth.

He ends up somewhere he never imagined.

Rocky’s planet.

A place that once felt impossible.

Completely different.

Completely unknown.

And yet…

When we see him there, he isn’t surviving.

He’s smiling.

He’s laughing.

He’s teaching a room full of curious young aliens.

He’s found purpose.

He’s adapted.

He’s become someone he never expected to become.

Watching that final scene, I realised something.

Maybe healing isn’t always about finding our way back.

Maybe it’s about discovering that life can still be beautiful somewhere we never planned to be.

I think about the clients I’ve worked with over the years.

None of them asked for or wanted trauma.

Or loss.

Or addiction.

Or anxiety.

Or ADHD.

Or the things that brought them into my therapy room.

Yet I’ve watched so many of them build lives they couldn’t even imagine when we first met.

Not because the past disappeared.

Because they discovered they could still grow around it.

I think about my own life too.

There have been times I’ve had no map.

No certainty.

Only a quiet feeling that this next step somehow felt right.

Starting my own practice.

Working differently.

Choosing creativity.

Choosing relationships over rigid technique.

Trusting my gut when I couldn’t yet see where it was leading.

If you’d told me years ago that I’d be sitting in a hammock with a client…

Or planting vegetables with a teenager…

Or helping someone understand trauma through puppies, blankets and cups of hot chocolate…

I’d probably have laughed.

Yet here I am.

And I wouldn’t change it.

The truth is…

None of us know what the next chapter holds.

Not me.

Not my clients.

Not Grace.

Not Rocky.

Life has a habit of surprising us.

Sometimes painfully.

Sometimes beautifully.

All any of us can really do is keep showing up.

Stay curious.

Be willing to adapt.

Care deeply.

Own it & repair when we get it wrong.

Celebrate when we get it right.

And trust that perhaps…

Just perhaps…

Being fully human is enough.

Because maybe the destination was never the point.

Maybe the relationships we build along the way are.

If you’re in a chapter of your life where nothing looks the way you thought it would… don’t be too quick to believe the story is over.

You might simply be on a different planet than the one you planned for.

And who knows? It might turn out to be the place where you finally become yourself.

Stay safe, stay connected & take gentle care

Louise x

When the Internet Decides How You’re Feeling

A photograph. Thousands of opinions. And a reminder that none of us really knows what’s going on behind someone else’s eyes.

Yesterday I shared a post about a photograph of Victoria Beckham at the football.

You’ve probably seen it.

The internet certainly did.

One image. One facial expression. Thousands upon thousands of comments telling her how she felt.

“She’s miserable.”

“She doesn’t want to be there.”

“She looks fed up.”

“Poor David.”

“She should smile.”

It fascinated me.

Not because it was Victoria Beckham, but because it reminded me just how quickly we decide we know another person’s inner world.

As a therapist, I spend my working life discovering that the first story is very rarely the whole story.

So I wrote about it.

I wrote that maybe she was having the time of her life.

Maybe she was exhausted.

Maybe she was overwhelmed.

Maybe she was simply concentrating.

Maybe nothing was wrong at all.

The truth is, none of us knows.

That post reached far more people than I ever expected. Within a few hours, on tiktok alone it had over 35,000 views. On facebook & instagram, I lost count.

And then something interesting happened.

People started making assumptions about me too.

Some people understood exactly what I was trying to say.

Others decided they knew my motives.

Apparently I was defending celebrities.

Apparently I was overthinking.

Apparently I was trying to be controversial.

Some questioned why I was using AI to help structure my ideas, as though that somehow meant the thoughts weren’t mine.

It was strangely ironic.

I’d written a post about assumptions.

And within hours, assumptions were being made about me.

For a moment, I felt myself being pulled away from why I’d written it in the first place.

I wanted to explain.

Defend.

Correct.

Prove.

Show people they’d misunderstood.

If you’ve ever put yourself out there, you’ll probably recognise that feeling.

Your nervous system starts whispering:

“They’ve got the wrong idea.”

“You need to explain.”

“Make them understand.”

Except here’s what I’ve had to remind myself.

My purpose was never to win an argument.

My purpose was to encourage curiosity over certainty.

To remind people that human beings are infinitely more complex than a single photograph.

When I remembered that, the noise became quieter.

Not because the comments stopped.

It was because I stopped letting them become more important than the reason I showed up.

That’s something I see in therapy all the time.

We spend so much energy trying to manage how other people see us that we lose sight of who we actually are.

We explain ourselves until we’re exhausted.

We justify every decision.

We carry guilt that isn’t ours.

We become performers in our own lives.

Sometimes the bravest thing we can do is allow ourselves to be misunderstood.

Not because it feels good.

It usually doesn’t.

But because we know our own truth.

And perhaps that’s what I’d say to Victoria Beckham, if I ever had the chance.

If there was something going on that day, I’m sorry people decided they knew your story from one frozen moment.

And if there wasn’t…

I’m sorry people still decided they knew your story.

Either way, you don’t owe the internet an explanation.

None of us does.

A photograph captures a fraction of a second.

It doesn’t capture grief.

It doesn’t capture anxiety.

It doesn’t capture exhaustion.

It doesn’t capture ADHD masking.

It doesn’t capture chronic pain.

It doesn’t capture relationship dynamics.

It doesn’t capture what happened five minutes before or what happened when the camera disappeared.

It captures light.

That’s all.

The rest is projection.

Maybe there’s something we can all become a little more curious about.

The next time you catch yourself thinking, “Look at them…”

Pause.

Ask yourself, “Do I actually know?”

Because the answer is probably no.

As therapists, as parents, as partners, as friends, and simply as human beings, we’ll always understand each other better through curiosity than certainty.

And if this blog has made you think differently before making your next judgement, then it has done exactly what I hoped it would.

A few questions to sit with

• Have you ever felt judged by people who only knew a tiny part of your story?

• How much energy do you spend trying to make other people understand you?

• What would it be like to trust that your worth doesn’t depend on everyone agreeing with you?

• Where might curiosity serve you better than certainty this week?

If you’ve spent years feeling misunderstood, judged or like you have to explain yourself just to be accepted, therapy can be a place where you don’t have to perform. A place where your whole story matters, not just the snapshot.

If that sounds like something you need, I’d love to offer you a free introductory call to see whether we’re the right fit.

Stay safe, stay connected & take gentle care

Louise x

There Is No Shame in Needing Someone

On Saturday I ran the Maidstone Mote Park cancer research 5K Muddy Run in memory of my mum.

I laughed.

I cried.

I questioned my life choices somewhere around the second hill.

I got covered in mud, lost my hat and crossed the finish line with emotions I still can’t quite put into words.

On the drive home I found myself thinking about something that comes up a lot in my counselling room.

The idea that asking for help somehow means we’ve failed.

It doesn’t.

If anything, I think it’s one of the bravest things we can ever do.

People sometimes assume that because I’m a therapist, I must have everything figured out.

That somehow I don’t get anxious.

That grief doesn’t knock the wind out of me.

That trauma doesn’t touch me.

That because I spend my days helping other people, I must have reached some magical place where life no longer hurts.

I wish it worked like that.

It doesn’t.

I’m human before I’m a therapist.

I’m a daughter who misses her mum every single day.

I’m someone who has lived through trauma.

Someone with ADHD.

Someone in recovery.

Someone who still has days where life feels incredibly hard.

And Saturday reminded me of that.

As I was running, there were moments where grief hit me so suddenly it took my breath away.

Not because I was going backwards.

Not because I wasn’t coping.

However because love doesn’t disappear just because somebody dies.

Grief is love that no longer has somewhere physical to go.

And that’s okay.

One of the things I’m most grateful for is that I don’t carry any of this on my own.

I have an incredible therapist.

I have an incredible supervisor.

Both have walked alongside me through some of the hardest moments of my life.

They’ve celebrated with me.

Challenged me.

Held hope for me when I couldn’t find it for myself.

They’ve asked the difficult questions.

Helped me make sense of things.

Reminded me to be kind to myself.

And helped me become not only a healthier person, but a better therapist.

People sometimes ask me if therapists have therapy.

Absolutely.

Or at least, I do & believe we all should.

Not because we’re broken.

Because we ask people to trust us with the most vulnerable parts of their lives.

That is an enormous privilege.

One I never take lightly.

I hold stories of trauma.

Abuse.

Addiction.

Loss.

Fear.

Shame.

Relationships.

Hope.

Every single week.

Those stories matter.

The people telling them matter.

And I have a responsibility to make sure I’m the safest, healthiest and most present therapist I can possibly be.

Therapy helps me do that.

Supervision helps me do that.

Neither is a tick-box exercise.

They’re part of who I am.

Part of how I live.

Part of how I work.

I honestly don’t know where I’d be without them.

Not because they have all the answers.

Its because none of us are supposed to carry life on our own.

And that’s the message I want everyone to hear.

Whether you’re a therapist, a teacher, a parent, a police officer, a nurse, a builder, retired, eight, eighteen or eighty…

There is no shame in needing someone.

There is no shame in saying,

“I’m struggling.”

“There are things I don’t understand.”

“I need support.”

In fact, I think there’s incredible strength in it.

For the therapists reading this…

Please don’t believe you have to have all your ducks in a row before you deserve support.

You don’t.

You are allowed to have your own story.

You are allowed to have difficult days.

You are allowed to need therapy.

You are allowed to need supervision.

You are allowed to be wonderfully, beautifully human.

And for anyone reading this who’s been thinking about reaching out…

Please hear me.

The strongest people I know aren’t the ones who carry everything on their own.

They’re the ones who have the courage to let somebody walk beside them.

That’s what changed my life.

It’s why I do the work I do.

Because somebody once sat beside me when I needed it most.

Now I have the privilege of doing that for other people.

Whether you’re looking for therapy to make sense of your own life, or you’re a counsellor looking for supervision that supports the whole of you, not just the work you do…

Please know this.

You don’t have to have everything figured out before you reach out.

You just have to be willing to take the first step.

Sometimes the bravest words we’ll ever say are simply…

“I think I need a bit of help.”

And I promise you…

There is absolutely no shame in that.

Stay safe, stay connected & take gentle care

Louise x