𝓥𝓲𝓸𝓵𝓮𝓽

We met with Rebekka the next morning - just ourselves - after the therapy group session.

I told her about Clara's self-harm. Rebekka set her up with a friend of hers who was also a therapist, but one that specialized in mutilation.

They decided to meet after the group sessions.

The sunlight filtered through the blinds, casting a warm glow on the room that felt comforting.

The new therapist, Mariah Kendrick, was gentle, a conversation that was filled with empathy and understanding.

Her office was a sanctuary of sorts, a place where the walls seemed to absorb the pain, and the windows allowed hope to filter in.

Mariah started the session with a simple question, “What brought you here?” Her tone wasn’t just professional curiosity; it was an invitation to share, to unburden.

As Clara spoke, her words were hesitant at first, nervous to let someone in. But as the minutes passed, her voice grew steadier. She talked about the moments of overwhelming pressure, the nights of endless turmoil, and the brief relief that came with self-harm.

Mariah listened, her notes minimal, her attention complete. She nodded at the right moments, offered words of comfort when the silences grew too heavy, and when Clara finished, Mariah spoke, “I’m here with you, Clara. You’re not alone in this.”

They discussed strategies, not just to stop the self-harm but to understand its triggers. Mariah introduced the idea of a journal, a safe place for Clara to express her thoughts when they became too much. They explored mindfulness techniques, grounding exercises, and the concept of self-compassion.

As the session drew to a close, it seemed as if a weight had lifted off Clara's shoulders.

Mariah scheduled their next meeting, and we both left the office.