Some months back, before I broke my ankles, I set out on a cycle ride along a familiar route, expecting a routine journey. But as I pedalled on, boredom began to creep in, urging me to stick to the planned path for the sake of safety. Just as I was about to resign myself to the monotony, a signpost for an unfamiliar destination caught my eye. I hesitated, but curiosity won out, and I veered off course. The ride that followed was unexpectedly challenging, with steep hills that pushed me to my limits and downhill stretches that left me clinging to my brakes. But despite the unexpected twists and turns, I made it through.

The experience of navigating unfamiliar roads and recalibrating my sense of direction reminded me of the journey many of us undertake in therapy. Just as I found myself in an unknown village, needing to orient myself based on landmarks and intuition, so too do we often find ourselves lost in our own emotional landscapes, unsure of where we are or how to find our way home.

In my work as a therapist, I approach each session much like that exploratory bike ride. Rather than focusing on diagnosing specific ego states or fitting experiences into neatly labeled boxes, I pay attention to the ebb and flow of conversation. I listen for the areas we skirt around, the emotional "No Entry" signs we repeatedly pass by. These are the streets we’re often too scared to explore, the painful memories we avoid because of the fear that they might lead to more hurt.

I had a client, Michelle, who embodied this reluctance. She had endured a painful and difficult childhood, a troubled adolescence, and a traumatic early adulthood. Yet, in our sessions, she would only allude to these experiences, steering the conversation away whenever we approached one of those emotional “No Entry” signs. One day, as we bypassed yet another such street, I gently asked her, "Tell me, Michelle, where does that particular street take us? It's about the twelfth one we've passed."

"Nowhere," she responded, quickly shifting the topic to something more comfortable. But this time, I didn’t let it go. I pushed a little harder, asking her what lay down that street, and though she resisted, I persisted. Eventually, tearfully and slowly, Michelle began to talk about her childhood and the deep hurt she had experienced. She expressed her anger at what had happened to her, and her frustration that no one had ever acknowledged her pain.

At the end of the session, I asked her how she was feeling. "Bleeding knackered!" she replied, exhausted but relieved. It was a hopeful sign—a signal that she could bear to walk down this painful street, knowing that I was there to walk with her. Our work is ongoing, but Michelle’s emotional map is expanding. More streets are becoming accessible to her, though there are still many yet to explore. But together, we will continue to navigate those roads less travelled.

While I can’t claim to have lived through experiences as harrowing as Michelle’s, I do know what it feels like to be neglected, to fear loneliness, and to avoid the streets in my own emotional landscape that seem too painful to explore. These experiences inform my work as a therapist, where I bring not just empathy but also my own lived experience. I, too, have my "No Entry" streets, and I understand how daunting it can be to face them.

But here’s the thing: it’s by exploring those painful memories that we find the potential for healing. Just as my unexpected detour on the bike ride led me to new and uncharted places, so too can facing our emotional “No Entry” signs lead us to a deeper understanding of ourselves and, ultimately, to healing.

If this resonates with you, if there are streets in your own emotional landscape that you’ve been too afraid to explore, know that you don’t have to walk them alone. I’m here to help. Together, we can navigate those roads less traveled and find the healing that lies beyond them.

Do get in touch, by email or phone, if I can help you with your own journey.