When One Door Opens Another: Why I Don’t Stick to Just One Type of Therapy

How I Work

I work integratively. That means I draw from a range of therapeutic traditions, not because I can’t decide, but because I don’t believe there’s one singular map for being human.

Some of the most meaningful shifts I’ve seen, in clients and in myself, have come from unexpected places. One moment of visualisation might uncover something deeply transpersonal. Another session might call for grounding in the practical tools of CBT. Sometimes, a breakthrough emerges not from insight, but from the steady, silent presence of the relationship itself.

Psychodynamic work sits at the core of my practice. We explore how past relationships shape present patterns—and how those internalised dynamics can subtly show up in the therapy room. It’s a powerful way of making the unconscious conscious.

Alongside this, Object Relations theory and Internal Family Systems (IFS) help illuminate the inner world we carry: the internalised "objects" or "parts" that form our cast of protectors, critics, exiles. These frameworks help us name and relate more compassionately to the voices within us—especially when they echo people from our past. This is the terrain of projection: seeing others not as they are, but as who they remind us of. Therapy helps soften that lens.

Jungian and Transpersonal approaches offer a different kind of depth. They invite us into the imaginal, the symbolic, the soulful. One of my most powerful early experiences in therapy came during a transpersonal visualisation. It unlocked a wave of preverbal grief linked to early separation from my mother—something I couldn’t have accessed through language alone. That experience opened a door. Through it, I followed the thread into more traditional psychodynamic work, allowing me to explore and contextualise what I’d felt so viscerally.

Not long ago, a client shared a dream of a technicolour jungle, rich with light and life. The image stayed with him. We followed it, not to interpret it away, but to honour what it was pointing to: a part of him long buried, now stirring. That dream led us into work with parts, with early defences, with unprocessed loss—and eventually, into a gentle mourning of what had been missed. The healing wasn’t theoretical. It was lived. Felt. Shared.

Existential therapy brings something else. It reminds us that life offers no ready-made meaning. We create it—through choice, through presence, through responsibility. That might sound at odds with a transpersonal view of the soul, but to me, they can co-exist. Even if I believe in a deeper Self, I still have to live that Self in this world, with all its limitations and freedoms. Stardust and mortality aren’t enemies. They belong together.

Attachment theory underpins all of this. Rooted in the work of Bowlby and Ainsworth, it gives us a framework for how early bonds shape our ability to love, to trust, to feel safe. These patterns show up not just out there in life, but in here, in the therapy relationship itself. That’s why the work has to be relational.

And finally, person-centred therapy reminds me of something simple but vital: that healing often begins when we feel truly seen. No fixing. No pressure. Just care.

So I don’t follow one map. I carry a few. And I listen carefully—to your story, to your needs, to what’s emerging.

Because sometimes, one door opens another.