Therapy is a space I return to because I believe in it. In practice. In the body. In relationship. In what happens when we give space to what's usually kept below the surface.
As a therapist, I hold space for others every day — for grief, joy, trauma, self-discovery, transformation, rupture and repair. But I don’t believe I can accompany people into those vulnerable places unless I’m also willing to go there in myself.
And I have. I still do.
Over the years, I’ve explored a wide range of therapeutic experiences to get closer to what’s real in me. I’ve tried different modalities to feel, to understand, to soften, to stay open. I’m trained as an art therapist, so I already view therapy as something dynamic, creative, and fluid. The same goes for my own process. Sometimes it looks like talking. Sometimes it looks like movement, imagery, silence, or mess. Sometimes it doesn’t “look” like anything at all — but I can feel something shifting.
That’s what matters to me: the shift. The moment something hidden becomes seen. The feeling of being met without being fixed. The chance to notice a pattern, befriend a part of myself, or allow space for something that has waited years to be acknowledged.
Those moments make me a better therapist. Because they keep me connected — to myself, to the work, to the people who sit across from me.
Because here’s the truth: so much of therapy depends not just on skill, but on presence. And presence comes from having done your own work.
When a client is moving through something deep, I know how to stay with them, because I’ve stayed with myself in those places. Not perfectly. Not always gracefully. But I’ve stayed.
And that matters.
What also matters to me — maybe more than anything — is care. I care a lot. About the people I work with. About how I show up. About the integrity of this process. I’m not interested in performance or persona. I don’t believe in putting on a “therapist voice” or hiding behind neutrality. I bring my real self into the room — grounded, honest, engaged.
It’s something I’ve noticed and, frankly, struggled with in parts of this field: how often therapists seem to be disconnected from themselves. There’s a performative polish that can creep in — the perfectly worded reflections, the calm tone, the safe distance. But what clients need isn’t polish. They need presence. They need real care. And they can tell the difference.
I never want to be someone who appears emotionally available but isn’t actually there. I never want to be so protected by my role that I stop being impacted by the work.
To avoid that, I keep doing my own work. I stay in relationship with my process — not just for professional development, but because it keeps me emotionally alive. It keeps me human. And it reminds me what it feels like to be held in a space that’s real.
That’s what I hope to offer to others. Presence. Attunement. An authentic relationship where something meaningful can happen.
So yes, I engage in therapy myself. As a practice. As a form of care — for me, and for those I work with.
Because if I want to meet people exactly where they are, I have to be willing to keep meeting myself, too.