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The bell chimed as I pushed my way through the heavy wooden door. 

The room was small and rectangular. The front wall was mostly windows, displaying new arrivals and vintage finds for passers-by to peruse. To my left and straight ahead were overflowing floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. To my right, a tiny checkout counter, staffed by two people deep in debate about the believability of a timeline in a book they were reading. 

“Dude, there is no way she could have made it from the river to the castle in three days. Look at the map. She would’ve had to climb through two mountain ranges. It’s not possible!” 

“That might be true if she were human, but you’re forgetting about her abilities! She could easily navigate one mountain per day without using up all her strength!” 

Relief washed over me when I realized they had barely registered my entrance, too engrossed in their conversation to acknowledge my presence. I felt like a stranger in a strange land, quietly questioning if I was nerd enough to enter their sacred space. 

I’d been debating visiting the small sci-fi/fantasy bookshop for a few weeks. 

I’ve been on a fantasy kick lately, usually buying my Kindle books on Amazon. But every time I buy an ebook from Amazon, a tiny part of my soul withers and dies. Supporting local bookstores brings me joy, but they don’t sell ebooks! What is a Kindle lover to do?! 

Then I had an idea that will undoubtedly win me a Nobel Peace Prize—I would buy the physical book from a local bookshop, rent the Kindle book from my local library, and donate the physical book when I finished reading the series! Everybody wins! 

Last week, it was time to buy a new book, so I made my way to the fantasy bookshop, not realizing until I stepped inside that I wasn’t sure I belonged. 

Buying Kindle books, binge reading on my LoveSac, texting my friend Natalie our equivalent of the “she couldn’t really get to the castle in three days” conversations, maybe even telling you about my fantasy addiction via these emails—that’s my comfort zone. 

Stepping into someone else’s territory to admit to real human strangers that I’m obsessed with fantasy romance novels stripped me down to raw vulnerability.

My therapist’s brain clicked into meta-processing mode. What is happening here? What are you feeling? What is this really about? 

My body was defaulting to embarrassment and fear that my presence was making other people uncomfortable. I wanted to be in that shop, but my discomfort was distracting me from the pleasure of being present. 

I focused on easing my anxious thoughts as I browsed the shelves. I found what I was looking for… and suddenly worried the people at the checkout counter would think this was the dumbest book in the entire store.

I looked down at my body, wondering if I had metamorphed into my 7th-grade self. I hadn’t. 

My stomach growled, reminding me that it was time for dinner. I couldn’t stand around the shop all night. I needed to walk the four steps to the checkout counter and face my doom. 

They were now debating the amount of food you’d need to fuel this harrowing three day river-to-castle journey. The man at the register wore a worn flannel button-down and circular wire-rimmed glasses. He turned and smiled, “What do you think? Would two apples, some cheese, and a canteen of ale be enough to get over two mountain ranges?” 

“Uhh…” 

They were speaking to me. My 7th-grade self shivered in her boots. 

“I guess it depends on the amount of cheese,” I said with a shrug. 

His laugh was a kind, quiet rumble through the store. “Fair enough! Okay, you ready to check out?” I nodded, placing my book on the counter with a tentative smile. 

“Ooh yeah, I haven’t read this one yet, but the second just came out in paperback.” 

He held up the book and showed it to his friend, “You read this one yet, Jenny?” “No, not yet, but it’s on my list. You’ll have to let us know how it is when you come back for number two!” 

And just like that, my discomfort melted away. My 7th-grade self retreated to wherever she lives in my nervous system; my confident, grown-up self slowly weaved her way back into my body.

Maybe it was two years of social isolation rearing its awkward head, but I’d forgotten about the risk we take any time we step into new, unfamiliar territory. And more importantly, I’d forgotten about the healing power of being seen.

It reminded me of what it’s like for our clients when they first start coming to therapy. 

Honestly, therapy clients go through their own epic journey before they ever start the therapy process… 

First, they must type their deepest secret into Google. Next, they scroll through your website, mentally preparing themselves to send you an email asking for help. Finally, they arrive in your office, where they are the stranger in the strange land, unsure if it’s safe to be their truest self with you. 

And this, in my humble opinion, is where most therapists really screw up. 

Because we’re taught that it’s not okay to be our most authentic selves with our therapy clients, we show up in these moments of raw vulnerability as shells of ourselves. We wear a therapist costume, hiding our most human parts from the vulnerable person who’s braved the journey to join us in the therapy room. 

This kind but distant clinical persona gives most clients the impression that we are whole and they are broken—and let’s be honest, we all know that’s a giant load of bullshit. 

If the flannel-wearing bookshop cashier would’ve met my gaze with an ounce of pretentiousness or aloofness, my vulnerable brain would’ve confirmed my insecure fears, and I would’ve left the store in a shame spiral.

It was his humanness that melted my fears and insecurities. It was his authentic interaction with Jenny and his friendly inclusion of me in their conversation that made me feel like I belonged. 

How can we bring more of this authentic humanness into our therapy practices? How can we shed our clinical cloaks without abandoning our clinical boundaries?

This is the core question we seek to answer in Next-Level Therapist. 

Together, we explore who we are underneath our therapist personas. Then, we intentionally choose which parts of our true selves we want to weave into our clinical work; which parts of our humanness we feel safe sharing with our clients. 

We unpack the ways patriarchy, capitalism, and graduate school have forced us into tiny, stifling boxes. Then we blow up those boxes with dynamite and step into the world as our fully expressed, most unapologetic therapist selves. 

Of course, we do a LOT more than that in Next-Level Therapist… but tbh, this is my favorite part of the process. Bringing more humanness into our therapy practices makes this work more joyful and sustainable for you and makes the therapy process much safer for your clients. I think that is a truly magical combination. 

If you’re interested in taking your private practice to the next level by becoming more self-expressed and diversifying your income streams, I’d love for you to join the Next-Level Therapist waitlist. 

I will be sending personal emails to every person on the waitlist very soon to say hello and give you early access to the brand spankin’ new Next-Level Therapist registration page. 

This is your last chance to join the waitlist for early access to the program, so if you’ve been thinking about working with me… just like I was thinking about wandering into that fantasy bookshop… please consider this your warm invitation to come inside and say hello. I’ll be waiting at the counter if you’d like to chat 😊