A Cat Named Wendy: Life and Death in a Counselling Room

I didn’t move. To Emmy, I’m fairly sure nothing changed - but inside, my heart froze. Just for a beat, and then it jump-started at double speed. My body tightened, and my breath vanished. At that moment, it felt like her life was in my hands. Maybe it was.

She had said it quietly: “I can’t do this anymore.”

She had shared similar before. But this time, the words were heavier. Final. Carried by something deeper than exhaustion. Woven into them was the weight of decision, and I felt it.

She had no one apart from her Dad; her Mum had left years ago, she couldn’t deal with Emmy’s Dad any more, claiming she’d had enough; she deserved a life, and that life didn’t include her daughter. Her Dad covered the basics; there was a roof over her head, food in the kitchen, she had clothes that fit, and he turned up for parent’s evening. On paper, everything was fine.

Emmy had shared painful stories, apart from one time she needed pressure on a wound, her Dad hadn’t touched her in 4 years. He barely looked at her, Emmy looked too much like the woman who broke his heart, the woman he had come to hate.

When Emmy left school, she went home to silence; no contact, no support, nothing. She had managed this for years. Emmy came to counselling because her best friend walked away. Nothing too dramatic, she had simply moved on to the popular group, not an uncommon thing to happen, especially in year 9 when young people are playing with identity. But for Emmy, it was a collapse; her anchor had gone. Her grades had slipped, she stopped answering questions in class, she walked the corridors like a ghost, and then her class tutor had suggested counselling.

It took months for her to trust me. When she did, I allowed myself a quiet celebration, a small moment of pride that she had let me in. A small part of me regretted that later. That intimacy, that trust, came with weight.

We had discussed safeguarding. I’d spoken with the school’s child protection lead, and he’d consulted social services. On paper, it met the criteria for neglect, and she had shared comments of suicidal ideation. Emmy didn’t want the referral. Social services had contacted her dad; he’d said all the right things - and the case went no further.

Her skin had grown grey over the last 2 weeks, her movements sluggish, I had watched hope dwindle. I knew she was struggling, but whilst I was terrified, I wasn’t shocked. And even though I had done all I could, followed protocol, and escalated concerns, that fear didn’t go anywhere.

She nodded when I asked her if she had plans to end her life, but wouldn’t tell me what. She said she only had me to say goodbye to - and that she was sorry.

My heart broke.

I didn’t understand that expression before, but it hurt. The thought of her dying pulled at me in ways I hadn’t anticipated. It felt more than losing a friend, almost like losing a child.

This young person with so much time in front of them, with a story only I truly knew, a trust only I had been gifted, a sense of responsibility which, at this moment, in this room, felt only mine.

I allowed myself a moment of helplessness, I wasn’t sure which was mine and which was hers. We sat in silence, both under the same heavy blanket of emotion.

Then I spoke.

“I see you, Emmy Davison.”

She looked up, confused.

“Do you think I know you — the real you?”

She nodded, slowly. Then again, more firmly.

“Do you trust my opinion?”

A quiet hum of agreement.

“The real you is caring. Observant. Creative. You’re a storyteller, I’d be shocked if you didn’t end up working with words somehow. You’re easy to be with. You make me smile, even when we talk about the hard stuff.”

I took a breath. She was still watching me, wide-eyed.

“I see you in a little house, with big windows and shelves full of books. A desk with a clicky-clacky keyboard. Plants on every windowsill. And a cat that roams the bookshelves called…”

I waited.

“A cat called…?” I prompted.

“Wendy,” Emmy smiled. “A cat called Wendy.”

“We can’t fix the now,” I told her. “It’s shit. We both know that. But I know you. And I know there’s a chance for a cat called Wendy. Because you’re capable of that. You just need to hold on. And if you can’t… I will. I’ll hold the hope.”

I exhaled, hoping that the threads of her that I had woven together, had created a story she could believe in. I haven’t offered anything substantial; I hadn’t named a career, loved ones or friends, but a feeling of a home of her making.

I watched her closely. After what felt like a lifetime, she exhaled. Her shoulders dropped. Something in her, just a little, came back.

In a short while, the bell rang, and she left the room.

And I prayed, silently, that it had been enough to get her to the next session.

Tears pricked at my eyes. I blinked them back just as a colleague popped their head in.

“Got a minute?”

“Always,” I said.

Note

This story is drawn from a blend of real experiences, anonymised and altered to protect the identities of those involved. Emmy is not one person but an echo of many young people I’ve worked with, those navigating loneliness, emotional neglect, and the immense pressure of surviving in silence.

As a counsellor, these moments sit heavily. The line between safeguarding and trust is often blurry, we are trained to put our young clients first, and to follow policy and procedure. But the emotional reality is far messier. Sometimes, what a young person needs most is someone to truly see them. To hold space. To hold hope.

This piece is not a commentary on the failings of systems but on the heroism of young people who keep showing up. And on the emotional toll, and privilege, of being trusted with their stories.

If you are supporting a young person in distress, please reach out to your safeguarding lead, clinical supervisor, or ethical body. And if you are holding too much, share that as well. Our well-being is a large part of the safeguarding equation too.