There are moments in life that stay with you, not because they were grand or eventful, but because something inside you shifted. One of those moments happened on the very first day of my therapy training. We were asked to write down something we’d never told anyone before, something we didn’t feel good about. Just a few words, scribbled on a small piece of paper. Easy enough, I thought. I felt strangely composed as I folded it over and over, sealing it in, not really considering where this exercise might be going. But then came the second part.
We had to place our papers in the centre of the room. I can still recall the plummeting feeling in my stomach, the wave of nausea, the sudden chill. This was no longer just a private exercise. My secret was now sitting there with everyone else’s, one among many on a little island of shame and sorrow and regret.
And then came the part that rattled me the most: We had to pick one up. A stranger was about to read my secret, and I theirs. How horribly exposing this all felt, how anxiety-provoking. I shakily unfolded my chosen piece of paper, still deeply preoccupied with who had mine – as if connected to it by an invisible thread that would betray me if I dared to meet anyone's gaze. And I wasn’t alone. The room was thick with feeling. No-one was ready for this. I remember the tightening in my chest, things feeling unreal, as I struggled to shift my focus to the paper I was actually holding. I didn’t know who it belonged to, and it didn’t matter. I realised I was holding something raw and sacred.
It was a hard, important lesson. One I carry with me still – hold people’s stories with care. Because we all have them. We all have parts of ourselves we’ve kept folded away, believing they’re too messy, too dark or too much. And when someone shares one of those parts with us, even in the most subtle or quiet of ways, it’s a privilege. A moment to regard (guard) with reverence.
This is what therapy often is. Sitting with another human being, paper in hand. Finding the courage to unfold it in front of them. It takes enormous bravery to let a stranger into the dim recesses of our inner world, the dusty, untouched corners. To risk being misunderstood, or worse, not met with compassion. The fear can be intense: What if they flinch? What if they judge me?
But sometimes, letting someone else hold your paper brings an unexpected sense of relief. It is no longer only yours. It doesn’t erase what’s written on it, but it gives your story space to breathe. And, in time, the paper feels a little less heavy, and the ending could be changed. It’s no longer tightly folded, buried, festering in the dark. You’ve let it breathe in the open air, and someone sat beside you while you did it. This is no small thing. This is the quiet revolution of therapy - the gentle untangling that comes from being witnessed, by the steadfast presence of another, as you slowly unfurl your paper.
So if you’ve ever found yourself in that trembling moment – unsure whether to reach out, whether to share - please know, you’re not the only one. This is our common humanity, we all have our folded pieces of paper, and deserve to have them held with care.
