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

Why I Supervise the Whole Therapist, Not Just the Client Work

When I first qualified as a counsellor, I thought supervision was about one thing.

Bringing client work.

Talking about ethical dilemmas.

Making sure I was working safely.

And whilst all of those things are incredibly important, over the years I’ve realised something else.

The quality of our work isn’t just shaped by what we know.

It’s shaped by who we are.

I’ve sat with counsellors who are carrying shame because their diary isn’t full.

Counsellors who quietly wonder if they’re good enough.

Counsellors who compare themselves to every therapist they see on social media.

Counsellors who love the work but secretly hate trying to market themselves.

Counsellors who are terrified of niching because they’re frightened nobody will choose them.

Counsellors who are exhausted from trying to fit into someone else’s idea of what a therapist should look like.

And here’s the thing…

None of that stays outside the therapy room.

It comes into our work.

It influences the risks we take, the boundaries we hold, the clients we attract, the fees we charge, the confidence we have and the way we show up.

You cannot separate the therapist from the therapy.

And yet, so often, that’s exactly what supervision tries to do.

We’re Human Before We’re Therapists

Somewhere along the way, many of us absorbed the idea that being a “good therapist” meant being calm all the time.

Having the answers.

Never doubting ourselves.

Never making mistakes.

Never feeling overwhelmed.

I don’t know any therapist who genuinely lives like that.

We’re human.

We have histories.

Families.

Trauma.

ADHD.

Grief.

Imposter syndrome.

Financial worries.

Big dreams.

And days where we question everything.

Pretending those things don’t exist doesn’t make us better therapists.

Understanding them does.

You’re Not On Your Own Between Sessions

Life doesn’t only happen once a month.

Neither does supervision.

Sometimes you’ll walk away from a supervision session feeling clear, confident and full of ideas… and then three days later something happens.

A client discloses something unexpected.

You have a safeguarding concern.

You leave a session wondering if you handled something well.

Your confidence takes a wobble.

Or perhaps life outside of the therapy room suddenly feels overwhelming.

I don’t believe you should have to carry that alone until your next supervision session.

That’s why my supervisees know they can reach out.

Whether it’s a WhatsApp message, an email or arranging a quick call, I’m here.

Sometimes all we need is someone to say, “You’re okay. Let’s think this through together.”

Sometimes we need another perspective.

Sometimes we simply need to know someone is in our corner.

Supervision, for me, isn’t a once-a-month appointment.

It’s an ongoing relationship built on trust, support and knowing you don’t have to navigate this profession on your own.

Because when you feel supported, your clients benefit too.

There Isn’t One Right Way to Be a Therapist

This is probably the thing I’m most passionate about.

For years, therapy has been portrayed in one particular way.

A quiet room.

Two chairs.

A box of tissues.

A therapist sitting opposite with a notebook.

And for many people, that’s wonderful.

However…! …….it isn’t the only way.

At Wildfire, therapy might happen in a cosy room with a hot chocolate.

Walking through seven acres of countryside.

Sitting amongst flowers.

Using therapeutic cards.

Working with metaphor.

Creating.

Reflecting.

Going out somewhere different, a lake, a park, maybe a place of interest.

Sometimes walking.

Sometimes talking.

Sometimes not.

Because people are different.

If we believe every client is unique, why would every therapist work in exactly the same way?

I don’t want counsellors to become copies of someone they admire.

I want them to become more themselves.

Because your individuality isn’t something to hide.

It’s often the very reason your ideal clients will choose you.

Your Business Matters Too

This is the part supervision often forgets.

You can be the most skilled therapist in the world.

Yet if nobody knows you exist…

You can’t help anyone.

I know how vulnerable it feels to put yourself out there.

To write a post.

To make a video.

To hear that little voice saying,

“Who do you think you are?”

“I sound ridiculous.”

“What if nobody books?”

I’ve had those thoughts too.

So we’ll talk about them.

We’ll think about your business.

Your confidence.

Your niche.

Your website.

Your social media.

Your fears.

Because growing a private practice isn’t separate from being a therapist.

It’s part of it.

Creativity Isn’t About Being Artistic

One of the biggest myths I hear is that creative therapy means paints, glitter and craft.

It doesn’t.

Creativity is simply another way of helping people make sense of themselves.

Sometimes through making a drink.

Sometimes that’s through images.

Sometimes through metaphor.

Sometimes through walking.

Sometimes through nature.

Sometimes through silence.

Sometimes through a simple question that changes everything.

That’s why I also offer optional monthly Creative Supervision Kits.

Not because I want everyone to work the same way.

Just because I want counsellors to build confidence in discovering what fits them.

Therapeutic cards.

Nesting dolls.

Symbolic objects.

Reflective exercises.

Resources that deepen both your own reflection and your work with clients.

Supervision That Develops the Whole Therapist

So yes…

Bring your client work.

Bring your safeguarding questions.

Bring your ethical dilemmas.

We’ll absolutely explore them.

Yet also bring…

The self-doubt.

The imposter syndrome.

The excitement.

The business ideas.

The fear of being visible.

The dreams you’ve almost talked yourself out of.

Bring the whole of you.

Because that’s who I’m interested in supporting.

Not just the counsellor.

The person behind the therapist.

And when that person grows…

Your clients feel it.

Your confidence grows.

Your practice becomes more authentic.

And the work becomes not only safer…

Its richer, more connected and more uniquely yours.

Because the world doesn’t need another therapist trying to be somebody else.

It needs therapists who are brave enough to become themselves.

If that sounds like the kind of supervision you’ve been looking for, I’d love to meet you.

Whether you’re newly qualified or experienced, individual or group supervision is available, with flexible sessions throughout the month and optional Creative Supervision Kits to support your development.

Let’s grow your confidence, your practice and your business together.

Stay safe, stay connected & take gentle care

Louise x

If this resonates, you’re not on your own.

Pull up a chair.

I've got you.                                          

If you’re tired of carrying it alone, I’m here.

We can take it at your pace. No pressure. No fixing. Just space to be human.

📧 louisemalyancounselling@gmail.com

🌐 www.wildfirecounsellingtherapy.co.uk

Free, no-obligation intro chat, just to see if we’re the right fit.

Kids? They Don’t Need Fixing. They Need Understanding.

Why I’m Creating Wildfire Growing Space

I’ve been thinking about this for a long time.

Every week I meet young people who are described as “school refusing.”

I don’t like that phrase.

Because it suggests choice.

It suggests defiance.

It suggests that a young person has simply decided they don’t want to go.

That isn’t what I see.

What I see are young people whose nervous systems have reached their limit.

Young people who desperately want friends, who want to laugh, who want to fit in, who don’t want to be known as “the one who doesn’t come to school.”

No child wakes up thinking,

“I’d really like everyone to be cross with me today.”

No child dreams of feeling isolated.

No child wants to watch their parents become more worried every single morning.

Behind every young person struggling to attend school is a story.

And that’s the story I’m interested in.

Somewhere Along the Way…

Somewhere along the way we’ve become so focused on attendance figures, behaviour points, targets and outcomes that, too often, we stop asking the most important question.

What is this young person trying to tell us?

Behaviour is communication.

Withdrawal is communication.

Silence is communication.

Anger is communication.

Avoidance is communication.

The behaviour is rarely the problem.

It’s usually the symptom.

The School System Isn’t Built for Every Brain

Schools do an incredible job with limited funding, increasing demands and enormous class sizes. I know many teachers who care deeply and work tirelessly for their pupils.

Yet the system itself wasn’t designed with every child in mind.

Many young people are expected to sit still for long periods.

To learn in one particular way.

To cope with constant noise.

To manage busy corridors.

To switch lessons every hour.

To tolerate uncomfortable uniforms.

To revise independently.

To organise themselves.

To remember homework.

To cope with changing friendships, social media, exams, expectations and comparison…

All whilst their brains and bodies are still developing.

For many children, that’s manageable.

For others, particularly those who are neurodivergent, highly sensitive, carrying trauma, living with anxiety or simply wired differently, it can feel overwhelming.

Not because they’re incapable.

Because their nervous system is working incredibly hard just to get through the day.

We’ve Learnt More About Brains Than Our Systems Sometimes Reflect

Over the last few decades, we’ve learnt far more about trauma, attachment, ADHD, autism, sensory processing and emotional regulation.

We know that children learn best when they feel safe.

We know that stress affects memory, concentration and problem-solving.

We know that movement can help some young people think.

We know that some children process information better visually, practically or through experience rather than simply listening.

We know sensory differences are real.

Yet many families still tell me they feel as though their child is seen as “lazy”, “difficult”, “attention seeking” or “not trying hard enough.”

Imagine hearing those messages about yourself when you’re already trying your hardest.

That becomes shame.

And shame changes the way children see themselves.

Instead of thinking,

“I’m struggling.”

They begin believing,

“I am the problem.”

Parents Are Hurting Too

Then there are the parents.

The ones making phone calls before work.

The ones sitting outside school in the car park hoping today might be different.

The ones comforting panic attacks.

The ones trying to persuade a child whose whole body is saying “I can’t.”

The ones being told to be firmer.

To put consequences in place.

To make them go.

As though love and determination alone can override a nervous system in survival mode.

Parents often arrive in my counselling room exhausted.

Not because they don’t care.

Because they’ve been carrying this alone for so long.

Many tell me they feel judged.

Like they’ve somehow failed.

They haven’t.

Why Wildfire Growing Space Exists

This isn’t another classroom.

It isn’t somewhere to earn points.

It isn’t somewhere young people have to sit still, put their hand up or explain themselves before they’re ready.

It’s somewhere they can breathe.

A place where muddy hands are welcomed.

Where growing vegetables can become a conversation about hope.

Where creativity becomes expression.

Where there is no pressure to make eye contact or find the perfect words.

Sometimes the deepest conversations happen while planting seeds.

Sometimes healing begins whilst painting.

Sometimes trust is built walking side by side rather than sitting opposite one another.

That’s what Wildfire Growing Space is about.

Not fixing children.

Creating the conditions where they can begin finding themselves again.

Why I’m Different

I don’t believe every young person needs another professional asking, “What’s wrong with you?”

I think they need someone curious enough to ask,

“What has life been like for you?”

My work isn’t about labels.

It’s about understanding.

It’s about recognising that behaviour makes sense when we understand the story behind it.

It’s about seeing the child before the attendance record.

The human before the diagnosis.

The young person before the behaviour.

Every child deserves at least one adult who genuinely wants to understand them.

That’s who I want to be.

My Hope

My hope isn’t simply that more young people return to school.

My hope is much bigger than that.

I hope they rediscover confidence.

I hope they find people who accept them.

I hope they stop believing they’re broken.

I hope they realise they are not “too much.”

Or “not enough.”

I hope they remember who they are beneath the anxiety, the masking, the overwhelm and the shame.

Because I’ve watched what happens when someone finally feels safe enough to be themselves.

That’s when growth begins.

And that’s exactly why I’ve created Wildfire Growing Space.

Not because young people need fixing.

Because they deserve somewhere they can finally belong.

Stay safe, stay connected & take gentle care

Louise Malyan

Wildfire Counselling & Therapy

Sometimes Healing Looks Like a Different Room

As I sit here writing this, on my last morning in Wales, I can’t help but look out of the window.

Snowdon stands proudly to the left of me, surrounded by her tribe of mountains, the lake below sparkling diamonds in the morning sunshine.

It’s breathtaking.

And if I’m honest…

My heart hurts a little.

Not because anything has gone wrong.

Quite the opposite.

Because something has gone very, very right.

It Started With A Different Room

I’ve come here for the last few years.

I’ve always stayed in the same room.

It’s become familiar.

Safe.

Predictable.

So when I arrived this year and was told I’d be in a different room, my ADHD brain did exactly what ADHD brains often do.

“Why?”

“What have i done wrong?”

“What’s happened?”

“Where am I?”

“I wasn’t expecting this.”

Change, for many neurodivergent people, isn’t simply about liking or disliking something.

It’s a feeling. An uncontrollable feeling.

Your nervous system notices before your thinking brain does.

Your heart races.

Your mind scans.

Your body asks questions long before words appear.

It’s not being awkward.

It’s not being difficult.

It’s your brain trying to work out if you’re safe.

Then I opened the door.

A double bed.

A beautiful writing table.

A bath.

An actual bath!

I stood and cried my eyes out. Then I laughed out loud.

Because it was better than I’d ever imagined.

As I write this now, I’m sitting at that very table.

The one I didn’t know I needed.

Safety Changes Everything

What fascinated me most wasn’t the room.

It was me.

Normally, unexpected change would have had me asking questions, trying to make sense of it, perhaps feeling unsettled for much longer.

This time…

I didn’t.

It took me a couple of days to realise why.

Trust.

I trust Gaynor.

I trust Tanja.

I trust Evie.

More importantly…

I feel safe with them. Feel. Not know. FEEL.

They’re part of my tribe.

That doesn’t stop my ADHD.

It doesn’t magically stop my nervous system noticing change.

My heart still raced.

I still felt confused for a little while.

Yet underneath it all sat something much stronger.

“I’ll be OK.”

That wasn’t me talking myself into feeling safe.

It was my body already knowing.

You cannot force that feeling.

You cannot positively think your way into safety.

Safety is experienced.

It’s built.

It’s earned.

One relationship at a time.

Finding Your Tribe

This week has reminded me that belonging isn’t about everyone being the same.

Far from it.

We’re all wonderfully different.

Different personalities.

Different stories.

Different ways of working.

Different strengths.

Different quirks.

Yet we’re connected by one common purpose.

Helping people.

Creatively.

Compassionately.

Differently.

Doing no harm.

I watched people quietly hold one another through vulnerable moments.

Celebrate one another’s successes.

Laugh until our stomachs hurt.

Dance with complete joy & abandndment.

Offer a hand without expecting anything in return.

Not to fix.

Not to rescue.

Simply to say…

“I’ve got you.”

That’s what tribe feels like.

The Lake

Every single day I swam in the lake.

That magical lake.

Cold enough to wake every cell in your body.

Calm enough to settle your soul.

This week I ticked something off my bucket list, I even learnt to paddleboard.

I Stood up first time!

With the patience of one very lovely mermaid imp who somehow managed to teach me without ever making me feel silly. I will be forever grateful for what she gave me. Money cant buy that.

There was laughter.

Lots of it.

Wobbles whilst trying to stand on one leg.

Falling in.

Trying again. And again and again. Jill & the patience of a saint to wait with camera held aloft!

Exactly how learning should feel.

No judgement.

Just encouragement.

Isn’t that what we all deserve?

Coming Home Different

I’ve made new friends.

Spent precious time with people who already hold a very special place in my heart.

One hug in particular…

The hug.

The one that filled something inside me I’d been carrying for a long time.

Someone who has quietly held my hand through one of the hardest chapters of my life.

Sometimes people have no idea just how much they mean to you.

I hope she knows.

Because Tracie, I certainly do.

Why Leaving Hurts

Today I feel sad.

A little flat.

Like I’ve left something behind.

Years ago I’d have judged myself for that.

Told myself to pull myself together.

Get on with it.

Not anymore.

These feelings make perfect sense.

When we experience genuine safety…

When we feel seen…

Accepted…

Loved exactly as we are…

Leaving hurts.

Not because something is wrong.

Because something mattered.

Sadness is often love with nowhere to go for a while.

So instead of fighting it, I’m treating it gently.

The Photograph Keeper

Anyone who knows me knows I’m always taking photographs.

Not because I’m trying to live through my phone.

Because memories matter to me.

They help tell my story.

This week I’ve taken hundreds.

Little moments.

Tiny details.

Reflections on the lake.

Mountains.

Friends.

Laughter.

I realised something this morning.

I don’t have to recreate this week.

I don’t have to cling onto it.

I don’t have to chase it.

These memories already belong to me.

No one can take them away.

Instead, I can make space for new ones.

That’s growth.

That’s healing.

Not desperately trying to relive what was.

Yet trusting that life still has beautiful chapters waiting to be written.

What Wales Reminded Me

Wales will always have a piece of my heart.

Not just because of the mountains.

Or the lake.

Although both are utterly magical.

It has my heart because of the people.

Because of what my nervous system learnt here.

That safety exists.

That my tribe exists.

That I don’t have to become someone else to belong. Here I was allowed to be authentic.

I simply have to be me.

Perhaps that’s what I hope every client eventually experiences.

Not becoming a different person.

Finally feeling safe enough to be the person they’ve always been.

Stay safe.

Stay connected.

And take gentle care.

Louise

X

The kids are not broken. The system is.

Are Phones Really the Problem?

I saw a joke post on Facebook recently about the proposed social media ban for under 16s.

The punchline was that if teenagers can’t scroll TikTok or YouTube anymore, we’ll see a resurgence in some traditional British pastimes:

Drinking cheap cider in parks.

Setting fire to things.

Throwing random objects into canals.

Knock-a-door-run.

Hanging around outside corner shops trying to convince strangers to buy cigarettes.

It was meant to be funny.

And to be fair, I laughed.

Yet underneath the humour sits something much bigger.

Because whilst social media absolutely has risks, I think we’re in danger of looking at the symptom and missing the wider picture.

I Remember 2020

When Covid hit, we closed schools.

We closed clubs.

We closed youth groups.

We closed sports.

We closed communities.

We closed almost everything that helped young people connect.

For many children and teenagers, the only thing left was technology.

Their phones became classrooms.

Their phones became friendships.

Their phones became support networks.

Their phones became connection.

For nearly two years many young people learnt how to socialise through a screen because there was no alternative.

Then we reopened the world and expected them to simply switch back.

Yet human beings don’t work like that.

The Children I See

As a therapist, I see the impact every day.

Young people struggling with social anxiety.

Young people terrified of public transport.

Young people who panic in shops.

Young people who don’t know how to join groups or conversations.

Young people who missed huge chunks of normal social development.

Not because they chose to.

Because circumstances took those opportunities away.

Many were isolated during some of the most important developmental years of their lives.

We talk about lost learning.

I think we’ve underestimated lost living.

School Refusal Isn’t Usually About Home

One of the things I hear most often is discussion around school refusal.

Families are fined.

Parents are blamed.

Children are labelled.

Yet often what I hear from the young person is something entirely different.

They aren’t refusing home.

They’re refusing an environment that feels overwhelming, unsafe, exhausting or impossible to navigate.

There’s a difference.

That doesn’t mean attendance doesn’t matter.

Of course it does.

However, punishment without understanding rarely creates change.

Support does.

Curiosity does.

Compassion does.

We Know So Much More Now

Here’s the thing that frustrates me.

We know more about trauma than ever before.

We know more about neurodivergence than ever before.

We know more about nervous systems than ever before.

We know that behaviour is communication.

We know children don’t wake up in the morning thinking:

“I’d like everyone to dislike me today.”

Children do well when they can.

And when they can’t, something is usually getting in the way.

Yet many are still being punished for symptoms rather than supported with causes.

The child who can’t sit still.

The child who talks too much.

The child who forgets things.

The child who melts down.

The child who shuts down.

The child who avoids school.

The child who masks all day then self-harms privately to cope with the exhaustion.

I hear these stories every week.

Social Media Is Not The Villain Or The Hero

Do I think social media can be harmful?

Absolutely.

Algorithms can be dangerous.

Bullying exists.

Comparison exists.

Predators exist.

Misinformation exists.

Companies absolutely need greater accountability for what is posted and how young people are protected online.

That conversation matters.

However, I don’t think social media is entirely the enemy either.

Because for many young people it is where they found their tribe.

The autistic teenager who suddenly realises they’re not broken.

The ADHD teenager who finally understands why their brain works differently.

The young person questioning their identity.

The child with a niche special interest nobody in school understands.

The teenager lying awake at 2am feeling utterly alone until they discover thousands of people experiencing exactly the same thing.

Connection matters.

Humans need connection.

Always have.

Always will.

When We Remove Connection, We Need To Replace It

If social media access is reduced, then we need to ask ourselves an important question.

What are we replacing it with?

More youth services?

More mental health support?

More community groups?

More safe places to belong?

More understanding within schools?

More accessible therapy?

Absolutely nothing…. Which scares me.

Because if we simply remove a source of connection without creating another one, young people will naturally look elsewhere.

Humans are wired to seek belonging.

If they can’t find it in one place, they’ll search for it somewhere else.

Sometimes in healthy ways.

Sometimes in unhealthy ones.

The Real Conversation

I don’t think this is really about phones.

I think it’s about connection.

I think it’s about belonging.

I think it’s about understanding.

I think it’s about creating environments where young people feel safe enough to be themselves.

Where differences aren’t punished.

Where support arrives before crisis.

Where behaviour is met with curiosity rather than shame.

Because children are not the problem.

Most are doing their absolute best with the tools available to them.

Perhaps the real question isn’t:

“How do we get children off their phones?”

Perhaps it’s:

“How do we create a world they genuinely want to engage with?”

That feels like a much more important conversation.

And one worth having.

Stay safe, stay connected, and take gentle care.

Louise x

If this resonates, you’re not on your own.

Pull up a chair.

I've got you.                                          

If you’re tired of carrying it alone, I’m here.

We can take it at your pace. No pressure. No fixing. Just space to be human.

📧 louisemalyancounselling@gmail.com

🌐 www.wildfirecounsellingtherapy.co.uk

Free, no-obligation intro chat, just to see if we’re the right fit.

The Unexpected Gift of Taking Two Weeks Off

For the first time in over two years, I took two weeks off work.

Even writing that feels strange.

If you know me, you’ll know sitting still isn’t exactly my natural state. My brain likes projects. Ideas. Learning. Creating. Doing. I genuinely love my work and feel incredibly privileged to do what I do.

So the thought of taking two whole weeks away from it felt uncomfortable.

Really uncomfortable.

In fact, I almost didn’t.

Part of me felt guilty.

Part of me worried about clients.

Part of me felt like I should be doing something productive.

And part of me simply didn’t know what I would do with myself.

The original plan had been to go abroad.

That didn’t happen.

And if I’m honest, I’m glad it didn’t.

Because what I actually needed wasn’t distraction.

I needed space.

Space to breathe.

Space to think.

Space to feel.

Sitting With What Is

Anyone who has experienced grief will know that sometimes keeping busy becomes a survival strategy.

And sometimes that’s exactly what we need.

However sometimes, eventually, we need to stop running.

Not because we’re doing anything wrong.

Just because there are feelings quietly waiting for us.

So instead of rushing off somewhere sunny, I found myself sitting with my own life.

With my thoughts.

With my grief.

With my hopes.

With the reality of what has been one of the hardest periods of my life.

And strangely, it was exactly what I needed.

Not easy.

Not comfortable.

Yet totally needed.

It Started With Some Weeding…

Like many things in life, it started small.

A bit of weeding.

Just a few hours outside.

A chance to clear my head.

Or so I thought.

Fast forward a little and what started as pulling weeds became something much bigger.

Much deeper.

I found myself creating.

Building.

Planning.

Learning.

Growing.

Not just a garden.

Myself.

What surprised me most was how therapeutic it all felt.

No pressure.

No expectations.

No deadlines.

Just me, the dogs, the land, and whatever the day brought.

The Therapy of Growing Things

As therapists, we often talk about growth.

Healing.

Change.

The seasons of life.

But gardening has made me experience those things in an entirely different way.

You can’t rush a seed.

You can’t force a flower.

You can’t demand a rose bloom because you’re ready for it.

And for someone with ADHD who likes ideas to happen immediately, that has been quite the lesson.

Patience.

Now there’s a skill I am still working on!!

The garden doesn’t care how quickly I want something to happen.

Nature moves at its own pace.

And perhaps there’s something beautiful in that.

Because healing works in much the same way.

People don’t heal because someone tells them to.

They heal when they’re ready.

When conditions are right.

When they’ve had enough safety, support, nourishment and time.

A New Love Affair

What I didn’t expect was to completely fall in love with it.

Not perfection.

Not pristine borders.

Not magazine-worthy gardens.

The process.

The learning.

The mistakes.

The excitement of something new appearing.

The joy of seeing wildlife arrive.

The creativity.

The connection.

The peace.

I have learnt more in a few months than I ever imagined possible.

And the more I learn, the more I realise how little I know.

I think that’s true of most things worth doing.

Seven Acres of Perspective

When you have seven acres, you very quickly realise something.

It is never going to be finished.

There will always be another project.

Another idea.

Another area to improve.

Another season arriving.

And weirdly, I find that comforting.

For years, I think I unconsciously viewed life as something that would eventually be “done.”

That one day everything would be sorted.

Perfect.

Complete.

But life isn’t like that.

Neither are people.

Neither is healing.

Neither is grief.

Neither is a garden.

They’re all works in progress.

And perhaps that’s exactly how they’re meant to be.

What I Learnt

I learnt that rest isn’t laziness.

I learnt that doing nothing sometimes creates space for something important.

I learnt that grief still arrives when it wants to.

I learnt that fresh air genuinely helps.

I learnt that puppies make everything better.

I learnt that reading for hours is not time wasted.

I learnt that I still love learning as much as ever.

I learnt that creating something with my hands grounds me in a way I hadn’t fully appreciated before.

I learnt there are many ways to process feelings.

Talking is one.

Writing is one.

Walking is one.

Gardening is one too.

And perhaps most importantly, I learnt that I don’t need to have everything figured out.

A Lifetime of Learning

One of the greatest gifts this time has given me is a reminder that I don’t need to rush.

I don’t need to master everything immediately.

I don’t need to know all the answers.

I can simply stay curious.

Gardening has introduced me to an entirely new language.

Mulching.

Companion planting.

Dead hedges.

Perennials.

Pollinators.

So many things I had never even thought about before.

And I love that.

Because I hope I never stop learning.

As a therapist.

As a human.

As a daughter carrying grief.

As a wife.

As a friend.

As someone trying to navigate life the best they can.

The garden will continue to grow.

The land will continue to evolve.

The therapy space will continue to evolve alongside it.

And so will I.

Not perfectly.

Not quickly.

Just steadily.

Season by season.

Just as nature intended.

💚

Stay safe, stay connected and take gentle care.

Louise x

The Part of You That Still Wants Connection

This image stopped me scrolling.

Two adults sitting back to back.

Hurt.
Frustrated.
Disconnected.

Yet inside them, their younger selves are reaching for one another.

Wanting connection.

Wanting comfort.

Wanting to know they’re still loved.

As a therapist, I look at this image and think, “This is what so many arguments are really about.”

Because most disagreements aren’t actually about the dishes, the text message, being late, the forgotten birthday card, the money, the holiday, or whose turn it was.

They’re about something much deeper.

“Do I matter to you?”

“Am I important?”

“Do you see me?”

“Am I safe with you?”

“Will you still love me if I’m upset?”

Most people don’t walk into an argument consciously thinking those things.

Instead, we get angry.

Defensive.

Critical.

Silent.

We withdraw.

We slam doors.

We say things we don’t mean.

Or worse, we say nothing at all.

And underneath it sits that vulnerable part of us desperately trying to be heard.

Trauma Doesn’t Stay In Childhood

One of the biggest misconceptions I hear is that we should simply “grow up” and leave childhood behind.

If only it were that simple.

The reality is that our nervous systems remember.

If you grew up feeling unheard, criticism may hit harder.

If you grew up walking on eggshells, conflict may feel terrifying.

If love was inconsistent, distance may feel unbearable.

If your needs weren’t met, you may struggle to ask for them directly.

So when something happens in adulthood, it isn’t always just the adult part of us responding.

Sometimes it’s the ten-year-old.

The eight-year-old.

The frightened teenager.

The child who learned they weren’t enough.

And suddenly an argument about something seemingly small feels enormous.

Not because you’re dramatic.

Not because you’re broken.

But because your nervous system is responding to more than what is happening in the present moment.

We All Want To Be Chosen

I often work with couples who are exhausted.

Not because they don’t love each other.

But because they’ve become trapped in a cycle.

One person pursues.

The other withdraws.

One gets louder.

The other gets quieter.

One demands answers.

The other shuts down.

Both feel alone.

Neither feels understood.

And both are often standing there saying exactly the same thing underneath:

“Please choose me.”

“Please understand me.”

“Please don’t leave me emotionally.”

That’s why communication matters so much.

Not perfect communication.

Not textbook communication.

Human communication.

Learning to say:

“I’m hurt.”

Instead of:

“You never care.”

Learning to say:

“I need reassurance.”

Instead of:

“You don’t love me.”

Learning to say:

“I’m scared.”

Instead of:

“Fine. Whatever.”

Simple in theory.

Incredibly hard in practice.

Especially if nobody ever taught us how.

Pride Is Expensive

One thing this image captures beautifully is pride.

That stubborn place where neither person wants to move first.

Neither person wants to apologise.

Neither person wants to be vulnerable.

We’ve all been there.

I’ve been there.

Yet the irony is that most of the time, both people are hurting.

Both people want resolution.

Both people want connection.

And both are waiting for the other person to make the first move.

The longer that happens, the more resentment builds.

The more stories we create.

The more disconnected we become.

The Goal Isn’t To Win

This is something I talk about regularly in couples work.

The goal isn’t to win.

If someone wins and someone loses, the relationship loses.

The goal is understanding.

Curiosity.

Compassion.

Being willing to step into your partner’s shoes for a moment and see the world through their eyes.

Not agreeing with everything.

Not tolerating abuse.

Not abandoning your own needs.

But seeking understanding before defence.

Because most people soften when they feel understood.

Therapy Is Often About Helping The Adult Hold The Child

The inner child concept gets thrown around a lot online.

For me, it’s much simpler than people make it.

It’s about recognising that younger parts of us still exist.

The scared parts.

The lonely parts.

The ashamed parts.

The parts that learned survival strategies long before we had adult resources.

In therapy, we gently explore those parts.

We help them feel heard.

We learn where they came from.

And slowly, we stop expecting our partners, friends, children, parents or colleagues to heal wounds they didn’t create.

Instead, we learn how to care for ourselves differently.

How to communicate differently.

How to connect differently.

The Privilege Of Being Human

What I love most about this image isn’t the adults.

It’s the children.

Because despite everything, despite the hurt, despite the backs being turned, despite the silence…

The children are still reaching.

Still hopeful.

Still believing connection is possible.

And honestly?

I think there’s something beautiful about that.

Because healing isn’t about never arguing.

Relationships aren’t about never disagreeing.

It’s about finding your way back to each other afterwards.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Maybe that’s what healthy relationships really are.

Not perfection.

Just two imperfect people willing to turn around.

💛

If this resonates, whether in your relationship with a partner, friend, family member or even yourself, therapy can help you understand the patterns underneath the conflict and find new ways forward.

Stay safe, stay connected and take gentle care.

Louise x

Wildfire Counselling & Therapy
Tunbridge Wells & Online