I’m addicted to what I do
I’ve always had an addictive personality. One hell of a dopamine chaser. How could I not be? There’s no better feeling, and it’s the driving force of what I do.
I’m a confidential adviser and relational strategist. I’ve been doing this for 14 years. Helping people excavate what they won’t admit to themselves, the truths they’ve locked away and pretended don’t have keys.
Sometimes a client sits in front of me and I know what they’re going to say before the words fall from their mouth. The electricity starts in my brain, radiates through my chest. I’m about to see someone fully.
Not because I’m psychic, but because the words are written all over the edges of their bodies. Invisible to them but brightly lit neons for me.
I’ll ask a question or two and wait. The neons appear in sequence, one after another, and I decide which ones matter. Which ones I need to name and which ones can stay exactly as they are.
Lack of boundaries. People pleaser. Internalised misogynist. Scared to take up space. Passive communicator. Won’t charge their worth. Scared of love. Healing from heartbreak. Mourning a passed parent. Burned out parent.
When the one I need arrives, I pounce. Precision and timing, taking advantage of the moment before it expires. I’ve found what I need to help this person, but in that discovery I’m also aware of what’s coming for them.
The warmth travels through my body, brief and electric, because the cost of bringing this awareness means they’re about to realise everything they’ve been avoiding. There’s no light without darkness. No truth without facing our lies. Sometimes they respond with ease, other times sadness. It’s a mixed bag, but one I’m always prepared for.
The questions arrive loudly, whispered directly into my ear. They sound different depending on what we’re working on. Their life, their relationship, their business.
For someone working on their business, I start with the top line question. Full and meaty, room for them to move around in it. “What’s going wrong in your business?” From there, I have a plethora of lanes to take. Each one gets me down to another layer until I’m at the foundation, which always needs breaking. That’s the goal of bringing the demons out. I need to know what I’m getting rid of.
The same applies to relationships. “What’s going wrong in your relationship?”
All of this is happening in my mind. I’m sorting through my approach, landing on it, within the first five minutes. They have no idea.
It didn’t always feel this clean.
Early on, I thought about clients non-stop. They’d show up in my brain during catch ups with friends, during dinners, during moments that should have been mine. And because I keep everything confidential – their sessions, their truths, their demons – I didn’t know what to do with the thoughts. I carried them everywhere until I realised it wasn’t my job to carry them at all.
That’s when they left.
Now, 14 years later, I don’t see them as demons. I see them as parts of the whole. When a session ends, I leave it there. In the room. In the space. I close the door and leave it there to be met when I return.
I’m not numb to the patterns. I’m well versed in them.
But the process only works when it’s met with authenticity and honesty.
Sometimes the neons flicker. They say “look here.” When I do and someone keeps pushing back, they flash hostile. “They’re lying.” “Try again.”
Like when someone says “it didn’t bother me” about something unmistakably traumatic.
I call it out. I tell them they’re wasting our time. I can feel their resistance in my chest, in my body, like I’m coming up against a wall. It happens mostly in couples sessions, but I’ve also seen it in individuals who arrive with the attitude of “you’re not going to be able to fix me.” I don’t work to prove them wrong. I don’t see people as challenges to win over.
Either they want to work with me and alongside me, or they don’t. I’m not here to convince people of anything.
So why do I still crave it?
I love humans. I love their brains, how they think, why they do what they do and why they won’t. How they talk to people, what they’ve learned growing up, the things they hide from the people they love. I love the secrets they keep from their closest friends but feel compelled to tell me. I love knowing how inherently flawed we all are, because it reminds me we’re all just trying our absolute best as we spin around on this fucking planet.
And when the neons finally turn off, when I’ve named every single one, the air in the room changes.
Their posture changes.
Their being changes.
They can finally breathe. They’re sitting in front of someone who sees them fully, and in that moment they give themselves permission. To be accepted. To do what they need to do. To be powerful.
It looks like someone finally getting what they’ve been waiting for their entire life.
“If these words resonated with you and you’d like to receive future essays directly in your inbox, enter your email below to subscribe. For those ready to go deeper, you can explore opportunities to work with me and book via the homepage.”