01/04/2026
When people ask what led me into the mental health field, I often give a fairly vague answer. The truth is, the reasons are layered and deeply personal, and for a long time I’ve kept that story close.
As therapists, we’re trained to be thoughtful about self-disclosure. Our role is to hold space for our clients’ stories, not centre our own. But sometimes sharing something of ourselves can deepen trust and remind someone they’re not alone in their humanity.
The real reason I feel such a strong pull to support people with their mental health is my Dad. 💙
My kind, clever, quietly funny Dad - the one with the terrible dad jokes and the man who consistently beat Carol Vorderman on Countdown.
He also carried something incredibly heavy for most of his life.
In 1990, during the first Gulf War, he was taken hostage. Captured in August and released in December, he returned home to us just before Christmas.
I was a young teenager and remember the relief of having him home, but I didn’t understand the deeper impact of what he had been through.
Like many people of his generation, he carried on. He didn’t seek help and rarely spoke about it.
Looking back now, with the understanding I have as a therapist, I can see the signs I didn’t recognise then - the emotional withdrawal, the anxious need to know what was happening and when, the narrow window of tolerance for stress.
When trauma isn’t processed it doesn’t simply disappear. It often lives on in the nervous system, shaping how we experience safety, stress and connection.
My Dad was 66 when we first noticed signs of confusion. By 71 he was living in residential care, and by 73 he required specialist nursing care after being diagnosed with a rare and complex form of dementia.
Alongside the cognitive changes came a huge resurgence of the PTSD symptoms that had never truly been processed. At one stage his needs became so complex that only one extraordinary nursing home felt able to support him. Their patience and humanity have meant more to our family than I can express.
He has faded now and we know we are in the final chapter of his life.
Sometimes I wonder whether things might have been different if he’d received the support he needed after 1990. Of course, are no certain answers, but through my work I see how trauma leaves an imprint – not just in memory, but in the body and nervous system.
My Dad never really had the chance to process what happened to him. But the work I do today, supporting people to explore their stories and make sense of what they’ve lived through, feels like a continuation of his legacy.
And if sharing a little of that story encourages even one person to seek support, then it feels like the right time to tell it.
