The bell rings, and Ms Leam rests against her desk. A dim ray of daylight finally pierces the grimy windows. She wiggles her toes, a feeble attempt to shift the damp sock to the side, cold water clinging to her skin. Her stomach rumbles, and she remembers the now cold, limp piece of toast left on her passenger seat.

There is speculation about the rise in diagnoses of both neurodivergence and mental health concerns, sometimes met with dismissive responses: talk of the “snowflake generation,” or “it wasn’t like that in my day,” or that young people should “just get on with it.”

Will had been dropped off 5 minutes ago by his pastoral lead, and since then, he hadn't said a word. He had nodded twice. So that was something... Wasn't it?

I took a deep breath. I've been counselling for a while, but it's still disconcerting in talking therapies when I'm the only one talking.

September often brings mixed emotions. The seasonal shift is here: cooler breezes, earlier evenings, the occasional hoodie spotted in the street. And yet, everyone feels differently about it. Sometimes, we even feel conflicting things ourselves.

The voice droned on, something about failure and choice, hard work and resilience. Words she’d heard before, too many times.

Her eyes drifted down. The firm plastic seat pressed into her thighs. The chill of the concrete floor seeped through her shoes. Tights itched against her skin. A pen rolled slowly between her fingers, a strand of hair brushing her earlobe, whispers of irritation.

Syed paused, psyching himself up for the shot.
The tension was palpable in the small room, dust settling on the vast wooden board. For a moment, nothing outside this space existed.

I have met with several clients over the years who have found themselves living partially in the quiet of night.

This September, I am hosting a relaxed workshop with Online Events exploring the complex systems our young people exist within, as well as the systems we navigate as professionals supporting them.

A couple of weeks ago, perusing Instagram left me full of longing, a touch of jealousy of sandy beaches, blue skies, and the ease of holidays.

Now that I have had my break, I swipe past those posts, pleased people are happy, but that tug to be elsewhere has eased. What I crave now has shifted; I am ready for the next season.

🌿I recently picked up "Writing Works: A Resource Handbook for Therapeutic Writing Workshops and Activities," edited by Bolton, Field, and Thompson. It’s a practical, insightful book full of ways to use writing, narrative and poetry as therapeutic tools. One of the many exercises invites us to revisit a classic intervention - the unsent letter.

☀️ Rest and Reflection
I’m in the final couple of weeks before my summer break, and, like many people at this time of year, my mind is juggling a lot.

Air

I used to think panic attacks were dramatic, flailing arms, gasping for air, people rushing in to help. My school counsellor taught me otherwise.

I’d been having them for months.

Limbs would freeze, but inside my heart was racing, my vision blurred, my breaths shallow, and an impending sense of doom, while life carried on around me.

Breakfast time. I can’t settle. My brain is hopping from thought to thought.

Hmm, this toast is nice. Do we need more bread? I wonder if I eat too much bread. Does that carb thing actually hold much value? Depends on the nutritionist, I suppose. And the body. What will I have for lunch?

We were once sold Freud’s idea of the blank slate, the therapist as neutral, anonymous, and removed, simply the therapist. In some training, this still lingers as an ideal. But we know now this can’t be entirely true. The blank slate is a myth. So much is inferred the moment we enter the room: from body language, clothing, tone, room setup, word choice, when we smile - and when we don’t. None of this is neutral. It’s all relational data.

Everything was scratching at my nerves: the harsh lights, the constant noise, the unspoken judgment. I’d forgotten my homework, hadn’t done my hair, and had a toothpaste stain down my sleeve. I felt like all eyes were on me, whispers behind my back. A small part of my brain knew it might not be true, but that didn’t stop it from feeling true. My best friend, my only friend, was off sick, and school without her felt like trying to breathe with less oxygen.

Exams wind down, the final term begins, and summer whispers on the horizon.

If you missed it, I recently shared a post on navigating the post-exam crash, that odd feeling of emptiness after the adrenaline fades and revision ends. It’s not always beach days and bliss, but with care and awareness, the good moments can truly feel good.

A few shots down and a warm beer in my hand. The house party is pleasantly blurry at the edges, people moving to the beat, bouncing with freedom and escapism. Arms slung over shoulders, couples tucked into corners. Gossip is loudly whispered into ears, and squeals chorus into the night.

Teenagers are getting a lot of airtime lately, and it’s oddly polarised.

Particularly since the release of Netflix’s Adolescence, there's been a surge in panic about how vulnerable, lost and dangerous young people are. Yes, adolescence can be a time of fragility, confusion, and change. But the series leans into a narrative that casts the whole year group as broken or difficult, and that's simply not true.

Sam stood by the green school gate, propped against a wall, pretending to check his phone. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. He pinched the skin on his thigh through his trouser pocket, hard, trying to stop the tears falling. If anyone saw him crying, especially his mates, he’d never live it down.

I was scrolling Facebook Marketplace for new-to-me office chairs, I still haven’t found them, when I came across a faded, brown, formal wooden-framed armchair. The kind my Grandpa would have had.