Waiting in the wind
Sometimes life carries us into a space where nothing feels steady. The ground beneath us seems to shift, the paths we once knew no longer guide us, and the versions of ourselves we have relied on no longer fit. We are caught between who we were and who we are becoming, suspended in that in-between place where fear, exhaustion, and possibility swirl together.
It is a place that asks us to wait without rushing, to breathe without resisting, and to trust without seeing the landing. I have been in that space, and I know what it feels like to be carried by the wind, unsure where you will land, unsure what parts of yourself will remain when you do. It is a place of both vulnerability and quiet power, of sorrow and awakening.
Waiting in the wind
I wait in this place of realisation.
A tear lingers on my cheek, witness to the pain of hiding, the pain of performing, the ache of feeling both too much and not enough.
I have been too nice, too outspoken, too direct.
I have shapeshifted into many versions of myself, each one a survival, each one a shield.
I am scared of my power.
I am lonely in it.
I do not yet know the way back to myself.
The safety nets that once held me, keeping me from falling, keeping me breathing, keeping me safe, have loosened. Now the wind carries me. And I wait to land somewhere grounded, somewhere whole.
I wait.
I breathe.
I allow myself to feel the exhaustion of this in between. I allow myself to sit with it.
And in this waiting, I realise: I am not lost.
I am transforming.
I am shedding what I no longer need so that the full, unshakable me can take root.
Here, in this pause, I honor the courage it took to survive and the courage it takes to let go.
Here, I rest in the wind and trust the landing will come.
For anyone else navigating that space between who you were and who you’re becoming, it’s okay to wait. It’s okay to feel the uncertainty, the fear, the exhaustion. It’s okay to just breathe and let yourself sit with it. The wind may carry you, but it is also teaching you. And eventually, you will land, steadier, stronger, and more whole than before.
From Fairy Tales to Being Human: A Counselling Journey
A Childhood of Fairy Tales
Once upon a time, before I truly knew what it meant to see another person, I believed in magic. Not the sparkly kind, but the quiet kind, the magic that lives in hope, in stories, in the safe corners of imagination.
Fairy tales were my refuge. When the world felt heavy or unpredictable, I could step into forests and castles and find a rhythm that felt safe. Heroes and heroines faced trials, but there were always rules. Always endings that promised light. Somewhere in those stories, I learned to hope. Somewhere, I learned to survive.
And yes, I liked knowing that even when things got messy, someone, somewhere, would wrap it up neatly.
But those tales were more than childhood fancy, they were companions through shadows I could not yet name. Trauma, loss, fear, they all had a quiet presence in my early years. Fairy tales offered a secret scaffold, a way to carry what I could not speak aloud.
If you have ever found comfort in stories during dark times, know that you are not alone. Therapy can help you carry and understand those hidden pieces of yourself.
Answering the Call to Counselling
When I first heard the call to counselling, it felt like a whisper from a hidden doorway in a familiar forest, a place I had always known but never entered. I imagined the path would be gentle, lined with light, with understanding and clarity at the end.
I soon realised the forest had its own rhythm. The magic was not in rescue, it was in being met, in being seen.
Guides Along the Path
Along the way, I encountered guides. My college lecturer, quiet yet fierce, carried her own light like a hidden lantern. My supervisor, the trickster of the forest, reminded me that models are constructs, rules could bend.
The first time I sat in the client’s chair, my heart fluttered like a thousand tiny birds. I still clung to the hope of a fairy tale ending. But the forest had other plans.
Each encounter stretched me, sometimes wider than I thought I could bear. Yet it taught me the courage of simply being present. And sometimes, presence is all the magic you need.
For anyone considering therapy, know this, transformation is often subtle, quiet, and human. It does not happen in neat endings, but in moments of being truly seen.
The Magic of Being Seen
As I took up my role as a guide, I thought my task was to show others the gentle light. And I still do. But I also came to see that my lens was changing. The tidy endings I once sought became less important. What mattered was sitting with both shadows and light, holding pain and hope in one hand.
The heroes and heroines I meet are layered, alive, tender, flawed, brave, and occasionally stubborn, absolutely human. And that is the point.
Sometimes I still imagine a little sparkly magic sneaking in, just because it likes to. And sometimes, if I close my eyes in the forest, I swear I can see it glowing faintly at the edge of the trees, waiting for me to notice.
Next Steps for You
If you have ever felt lost in your own forest, know that counselling can help you find the light again. Explore your own journey with curiosity, courage, and support.
Remembering Songbird
Remembering Songbird
There are people we meet who stay with us, not because their time was long but because their presence was unforgettable. Songbird was one of those people.
He once described himself as a songbird, and that image has never left me. It captured both his fragility and his strength, the rare quality of a voice that could carry sorrow and beauty in the same breath.
After his passing, I found myself writing. The words came out as a poem, a way of honouring his life and the gift of his song. His story was not easy, and his melody was not always simple to hear, yet within it there was truth, honesty, and a quiet courage.
I had hoped to show him that life could be good, that his story could stretch further. But his song was his own, and perhaps the most I could do was listen. And so I listened, to his pain, his hopes, his doubts, his laughter. I listened for the meaning between the words.
Though his voice has fallen silent, the echo remains. Some songs are brief, but never wasted. For those who loved him most, I hope they know that his song carried, that it mattered, and that it will not be forgotten.
And for me, he will always be Songbird.
Songbird
Songbird came
and sang his beautiful song.
A song that was difficult
to sing along.
His tune held many verses
of a life filled with pain and hurt.
He had good rhymes to sing, of course,
yet this failed to ease his remorse.
You see, the songbird’s song
was short and fast.
He was not sure
if he could make it last.
I hoped I could show him
that life was good.
But he knew something
I never could.
That the song he sang
was the gift he gave,
a song that I was never
meant to save.
He sang a wonderful lament
with great feeling.
I listened to his song
and its meaning.
And the pain that is left
after his song is gone
is of a song
that was difficult
to sing along.