Joan Balcome

People come to me in the middle of ordinary weeks. A door slams somewhere in the house and the chest goes tight. The dishes have been in the sink since Sunday. Someone died and everyone stopped asking about it in March. The drinking stopped and the feelings stayed. A marriage that talks about the calendar, the money, the dog, and never the thing underneath. Some people have carried theirs since childhood. Some were handed theirs last month. Children, teenagers, adults, couples, whole families, people in their eighties who were told it was too late for this. If you found one of your own weeks in that list, you are welcome here.

You want someone who listens all the way to the end of the sentence. I do that. I also keep paper and paint within reach, so when the words run out you can draw the thing instead. We look at it together, slowly. That is where the stuck parts start to loosen.

People wait because they decide their reason is too small, or too old, or not the sort of thing therapy is for. Bring it anyway. The first session is a conversation on video from your own couch, no art required, and you leave knowing the second one is your choice. Send me two or three times that suit you. I answer within a day.