Lodestone Therapies

13/05/2026

Mental Health Awareness Week. I’ve been chewing on a few things around it, but particularly the way we talk about “labels”. I’ve recently seen some really reductive, dismissive and shortsighted opinions presented as fact within certain wellbeing spaces online. Labels described as a “full s...

18/03/2026

Reposting this from Autistic Girls Network.

For too long, autism has been framed through deficit
– what’s “missing,” what needs to be “fixed.”

But that story is far too small.

Autistic ways of being often bring a kind of high-definition experience of the world
– deep feeling, sharp pattern recognition, honesty, creativity.

Not always easy.
But not broken.

The stories we’re given about ourselves matter.
They shape how we see ourselves, and what we believe is possible.

So when autism is framed only through limitation, people learn to shrink.
When it’s understood as difference, new stories open up.

I see this shift every day now… in myself, and in the people I work with.

And in those new stories, there is space for meaning, agency… even brilliance.

Autistic brains are brilliant.

Imagine experiencing the world in vivid, high-definition, noticing details others might miss, thinking deeply, feeling intensely, and seeing patterns, beauty, and possibilities everywhere.

We’re celebrating the incredible strengths, perspectives, and creativity autistic girls bring to the world, not “despite” being autistic, but because of it.

Curious what a “high-definition” brain can look like? Check out the uplifting blog on our website exploring the richness, depth, and brilliance of autistic ways of thinking, link in the comments.

08/03/2026

A longer post (sorry not sorry) for International Women’s Day.

The women who hold stories.

The ones who:
• believe you the first time.
• sit steady when something unspeakable is spoken.
• don’t rush you into silver linings.
• don’t mistake survival for strength to be praised.
• don’t tidy up what was never theirs to clean.

In my life, it has often been women who have held me at the edges of things.

In grief.
In the slow re-writing of who I am allowed to be.

Women who didn’t flinch when the story was complicated.
Women who let it stay complicated.

And in my work now, I think often about the responsibility of that.
To hold someone’s story without shrinking it.
Without polishing it.
Without looking away.

Because when women are able to hold truth safely, something important happens.

People speak.
Silence breaks.
Stories that were once hidden begin to change the world around them.

This year’s theme for is “Give to Gain.”

And I think about the countless ways women give this kind of care, courage, and attention to truth.
Not always loudly.
Often quietly.
But the gains ripple far beyond the moment.

Safer rooms.
Stronger communities.
A little less silence than there was before.

In a world where power too often protects itself, there are women who protect truth.

In therapy rooms.
In kitchens.
In friendship.
In courtrooms.
In classrooms.
In voice notes sent late at night when the house is finally quiet.

Holding a story is sacred work.

And then some women choose to tell their own stories first. When no one else will speak. The courage that takes.

So someone else listening realises they are not alone.
So silence loosens its grip on the truth.

Women have done that for me.
I try to do the same.

History shows us how long truth can be ignored when power is invested in keeping it quiet.

And yet, again and again, powerful men will fall and the patriarchy will crumble for the same reason…

History changes when we refuse silence.

Today I’m grateful for the women who have held my story.
For the women who have spoken theirs first.

And for the women who refused to drop the thread when the truth became inconvenient.

Because history turns on moments like that.

Not when power speaks.
But when women refuse to drop the story.

25/02/2026

Clinical Supervision (Home Edition)

I often find myself being supervised by four Labradors. At the moment I’m in the process of beginning to write a journal article. Each of my Labradors makes their presence known often through admin hours like this.

One is often asleep across my feet. One might be pressed against my leg with unwavering commitment. One might be across the room from me, sighing and snuffling. One appears when snacks are mentioned or there’s a cuddle spot that’s become free.

None of them comment on my theoretical framework. Not one queries my methodology.

But they are doing something important.

They are regulating the room.

Warmth. Proximity. Steady presence.
No fixing. No analysing. No rushing to resolution.

Just staying.

In narrative work, we talk about identity as story. But stories don’t unfold in critique alone.

They unfold in safety.

Before we can re-author who we are
after loss, after diagnosis, after the map tears - we need somewhere our nervous system can settle.

Sometimes that place is therapy.
Sometimes it is a relationship.
Sometimes, apparently, it is four Labradors and a laptop.

As I write about identity and belonging, I’m reminded:

Insight is powerful.
But safety is foundational.

And occasionally, the most sophisticated intervention in the room is simply presence.

Picture description: Malcolm, my 6 year old black Labrador. His face is resting on a grey cushion. His eyes only slightly open. He’s super chilled out.

18/02/2026

I heard Marcus Mumford say some things this week that landed (link in the comments).

“You can’t live someone else’s experience, but you can be proximate to it.” And “really we’re all just walking stories and all of us want to be heard in some way.”

That’s therapy, really. At least it’s what I constantly strive to lay the right foundations for. And, as a person who also happens to be a therapist it’s what I want and need to experience in my own therapy.

I can’t feel what you feel. I can’t climb inside your history or carry it for you. And honestly, if I tried, it would get messy fast.

But I can sit close.

Close enough that you’re not so alone in it.
Close enough that the hard stuff doesn’t echo quite so loudly. Close enough that your story gets heard - sometimes chapter by chapter.

It’s not about me having the right answer. It’s not about silver linings or five tidy stages or “have you tried gratitude?”

It’s about being steady while you say the thing you’ve never said out loud. It’s about staying when it gets uncomfortable. It’s about not flinching.

You keep your experience. I don’t take it over. But I will sit beside it with you.

That’s the work. Proximity over possession.

And maybe the question is this:
Who in your life feels close enough to sit beside your story without trying to rewrite it?

28/01/2026

I’ve always valued rhythm and repetition.

As an autistic person, routine-based rituals help me orient myself in the day. They create a sense of predictability and steadiness that allows everything else to move a bit more freely.

This isn’t just a neurodivergent thing though. It’s a human thing.

Rituals give shape to time. They help us transition, ground, and settle, especially when life feels uncertain or emotionally noisy. A morning wander. Cup of tea at a certain time. Music while cooking. A familiar route home. Small acts, repeated, that quietly tell the nervous system: "you’re safe" here.

In therapy, rituals might reveal themselves as places of regulation rather than control. They’re not necessarily about superstition or perfection. They might be about continuity, meaning, and care.

What small ritual helps you feel more like yourself on ordinary days?

It's worth noticing what we return to, even on ordinary days.