It’s always some version of the same one: “What actually happens in a session?”
For a long time I answered it literally. I’d describe the structure, the timings, the shape of the hour. People would say thank you, and then not book.
Eventually I worked out that almost nobody asking that question wants an itinerary. They’re asking something else, in the only words that feel acceptable to use.
The question underneath
What they’re actually asking is: will I be safe, will I be made to do something I don’t want to do, and will you think there’s something wrong with me?
Those are difficult questions to type to a stranger. “What happens in a session?” is a socially comfortable container for all three, which is why it’s the one that arrives.
So it deserves both answers.
The literal answer
Here’s the shape, since the practical version does matter.
We talk first, and for longer than you’d expect. What brought you, what you’ve tried, what’s going on in your body and your life. Often a third of the session. For some people the conversation turns out to be where the work happened.
We agree what will and won’t happen. Explicitly, in plain language, before anything begins. Including what’s off the table. This isn’t a formality to get past — it’s the part that makes everything after it possible.
Then something fairly undramatic. Usually breath. Often lying down or sitting with attention on sensation. Sometimes movement. Slower than you’ll expect and quieter than you’ll expect.
I check in throughout. Out loud, in ordinary words. Do you want to continue, do you want to slow down, what’s happening right now.
We settle before you leave. You shouldn’t walk out wide open. Closing is part of the session, not an afterthought.
And we talk about the next day or two. What might come up, what to do if something does.
That’s it. An observer would find most of it boring.
The real answer
Will you be safe? Yes, and the reason isn’t my good intentions — it’s structure. Screening beforehand. Agreement in advance rather than improvised in the moment. Continuous check-ins. Supervision behind me. Insurance. Limits on what I work with and people I refer to. Good intentions are what everyone claims; structure is what you can check.
Will you be made to do something you don’t want to? No, and more specifically: you’ll be asked far more often than you expect whether you want to continue. A number of people find being asked harder than being told, because it means knowing what you want in real time — and plenty of adults have very little practice at consulting themselves.
Declining doesn’t need a reason and doesn’t need to be justified. “I’d rather not” is a complete sentence here. If I ever respond to that by explaining why your reluctance is something to work through, you should leave and not come back.
Will I think something’s wrong with you? No, and I’d gently point out that the worry itself is extremely common — which tells you something about how widespread it is.
Nothing you bring will be the strangest thing I’ve encountered. Not the numbness. Not the thing you’ve never told anybody. Not the fact that you can’t remember the last time you felt anything much. These are ordinary presentations, and the private conviction that you’re uniquely broken is itself one of the most common things people arrive with.
The questions nobody asks but should
While we’re here.
What are you not qualified to help with? — you should get a specific answer.
What happens if I become distressed during a session? — this should be procedural, not atmospheric.
Who supervises you? — a name, or at least a yes.
Can I stop partway through and still be welcome back? — the answer is yes, and it’s worth hearing someone say it.
What if I don’t feel anything? — very common, not a failure, and genuinely useful information about where to start.
None of these are rude. A practitioner who finds them irritating has told you something that would have cost you several months to find out otherwise.
This week
If you’ve been circling this for a while, do the small version of the thing.
Write the question you’d actually be embarrassed to ask. Not the polite one — the real one underneath it. The one about your body, or about whether this is normal, or about something you’ve never said out loud.
Then send it. To me or to anybody else you’re considering.
You’ll learn more from how someone handles that question than from anything on their website — and if the answer is good, you’ll have already done the harder half of starting.
Questions by email are free and I don’t treat them as a sales opportunity. People frequently ask three or four over a fortnight before deciding, and some decide not to, which is a perfectly good outcome.
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