Before I was a therapist I was a secondary school teacher, which is excellent training for both. Ten years in Birmingham classrooms taught me how to hold a room, how to spot the child who is coping too well, and how much can change when one adult is genuinely, reliably on your side. Eventually I wanted to do that one person at a time, properly, so I retrained, and I have never once missed marking.
I work with adults who are tired of white-knuckling their own lives. The strong friends. The eldest daughters. The ones who organise the funeral and never quite get round to grieving. Serious therapy for people who are often very funny, because humour is not the opposite of depth, it's frequently the doorway to it.
Why joy belongs in therapy
Somewhere along the way we decided that healing has to be beige. Quiet room, low voice, a box of tissues and an atmosphere of mild emergency. I think that idea keeps a lot of people away, and I think it's wrong. The nervous system does its best work when it feels safe, and safety, for most of us, looks like warmth. So my room has plants and colour and tea, and sometimes we laugh properly. Then, because you feel held, we go to the hard places. That's the order it works in.
Culturally responsive, in my own words
I'm a Black British-Ghanaian woman, and my practice holds space for the things that phrase carries. If you want a therapist who understands the weight of being the eldest daughter, the family WhatsApp, the code-switching, the being the first to do everything, you're in the right place, and you won't spend half your sessions translating yourself. And if that isn't your story, you're equally welcome. Good therapy meets the person who actually walks in.
You'll find me in a bright first-floor studio on York Road in Kings Heath, or online from wherever you are.