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Month: August 2025
When I take time away from work, I often find myself drawn to stories that help me slow down and reflect. Recently, while browsing Netflix, I came across the documentary about the Titan submersible. Like many, I’ve long been captivated by the Titanic — its promise, its grandeur, and ultimately, its tragedy.
But what I didn’t expect was how this documentary would stir something much deeper — a quiet kind of grief, layered and unfolding. As a counsellor, I’m always curious about how certain stories awaken emotions we thought were long-settled.
What’s always struck me about the Titanic is the sharp contrast between the classes on board: the elegance of First Class, the community spirit below deck, and that haunting final image — the band playing as the ship went down. The music offered comfort amidst the chaos, a final act of connection.
As I watched the Titan story unfold, I realised this wasn’t just a documentary about a modern-day tragedy. It was a descent to a grave site — a place where over 1,500 lives were lost, where social class no longer mattered, where stories were frozen in time. And then, as history repeated itself in a different form, old grief met new grief.
Among those lost on the Titan were people united by hope, curiosity, and a deep connection to the Titanic’s story. Shahzada and Suleman Dawood, a father and son, shared a dream of seeing the ship’s resting place together. Paul-Henri Nargeolet, a French explorer, had dedicated much of his life to preserving its history. Hamish Harding was a seasoned adventurer passionate about historic milestones, and Stockton Rush, CEO of OceanGate, dreamed of making deep-sea exploration more accessible. Their journey was more than a quest for adventure — it was a search for meaning, connection, and something far larger than themselves.
There’s something haunting about watching people descend into the depths not just of the ocean, but of our collective memory. The wreckage of the Titanic holds more than twisted metal. It holds the weight of dreams lost, warnings unheard, and lives forever changed.
I was struck by how grief ripples. It touched not only the families left behind but also the employees and engineers who had invested their time, passion, and faith into the Titan project. For them, the loss went beyond life — it was the collapse of a vision. This kind of grief — quiet, complex, often invisible — deserves space too.
What struck me personally, while watching the documentary, was the connection to Wallace Hartley, the Titanic’s bandleader, who played with the Huddersfield Philharmonic Orchestra. Knowing this adds a quiet intimacy to the story—realising someone from a familiar local place became part of that haunting final performance. It’s a reminder that history isn’t always distant; sometimes, it lives right on our doorstep.
As the ship went down, survivors recalled hearing the hymn Nearer, My God, to Thee. That song, meant to comfort in the final moments, reminds me how — whether in music, memory, or conversation — we often reach for connection in the face of grief.
And grief, I’m reminded, doesn’t only come with the loss of a life. It can be the loss of belief in a dream, the weight of warnings unheeded, or the moment when history echoes into our present and touches something raw. Sometimes, a story like this doesn’t just inform — it awakens something old within us.
As a counsellor, I often sit with people navigating grief in its many forms. It isn’t always loud or obvious. It can be quiet, hidden, or long-buried. But it’s always real. And though it can feel heavy and isolating, grief also carries the potential for connection — both to others and to ourselves.
If this story stirred something in you, know you’re not alone. Grief can surface in unexpected ways, and sometimes just naming it is a step toward healing.
If you’d like a safe, supportive space to explore what’s on your mind, I offer person-centred counselling to help you navigate those feelings — whether they’re fresh or from long ago.
Take Care
Nicole
While completing some admin in my van during my 9–5 job, I was approached by someone working in their garden. What started as a casual interaction quickly became a moment that reminded me of something vital — the quiet, profound power of talking and the impact of person-centred counselling outside the therapy room.
From Small Talk to Real Connection.
They put down their gardening tools and leaned on a nearby wall. I closed my notebook, set my pen aside, and gave them my full attention. Our short exchange turned into a much longer conversation — one filled with warmth, depth, and honesty.
I won’t share the details — they aren’t mine to tell — but by simply being present and open, this person shared parts of their life that clearly carried emotion, weight, and history.
We laughed, reflected on challenges, and talked for nearly half an hour. Before leaving, we shared a handshake, and I gently let them know that if they ever wanted to talk in a safe and confidential space, they could get in touch.
The Reminder: Presence Is Enough.
As I drove back to the office, I felt a wave of gratitude. It was one of those grounding moments — a reminder that what people often need most is not advice or analysis, but being present in therapy or simply listening in everyday life.
This person didn’t need a professional “solution.” They didn’t need statistics or a list of coping strategies. They simply needed another human being to listen — to truly hear them. A sounding board. A vessel.
And that day, I had the privilege of being that.
Trust, Stories, and Person-Centred Pride.
When someone trusts you with their story, there’s often a mix of feelings. In the therapy room, themes that arise can be deeply emotional, even heavy. But alongside that, there’s also a deep sense of honour, and quiet pride — that someone has trusted you enough to share part of their world.
It’s not my job to direct or fix. It’s my role to walk alongside someone while they explore — allowing them the freedom to take whichever path they choose, in their own time.
Supervision and the Call to Be Human.
A recent supervision session reminded me again how powerful it is to simply be human in the therapy room. Not perfect. Not all-knowing. Just present.
We can let go of the pressure to have all the answers. What one client brings will be totally different from the next. Instead, we offer ourselves — grounded, real, and available.
A Quick Note on Person-Centred Counselling.
Person-centred therapy, developed by Carl Rogers, is based on the belief that people have the inner resources to grow, heal, and find their own answers — when given the right conditions. As a counsellor, I don’t give advice or direct someone’s path. Instead, I aim to offer a relationship rooted in empathy, acceptance, and authenticity — so clients can explore safely and in their own time.
That’s what I experienced during this encounter. It was a reminder that therapy isn’t about “fixing” someone — it’s about creating the space where they feel heard, seen, and valued for exactly who they are.
“The curious paradox is that when I accept myself just as I am, then I can change.”
— Carl Rogers
Being Human, Not the Expert.
Another voice that’s always inspired my approach is Tony Merry, who famously said:
“Being person-centred is not about doing therapy — it is about being a certain kind of person in a certain kind of relationship.”
This lands even more deeply when I reflect on the pressures of daily life — managing clients, relationships, work, and my own expectations.
The most healing thing I can offer is myself — honestly, fully, without pretending to have it all figured out. That’s congruence. That’s authenticity. And for many clients, that’s enough.
Final Words.
I take great pride in the work I do. And when working with clients, I remain committed to offering a real, human, and compassionate approach.
Whether it’s in a therapy room or during a surprise conversation on a quiet street, I believe in the healing power of being seen, heard, and accepted — just as we are.
If you’re looking for a safe, non-judgemental space to explore your thoughts, feelings, or challenges, I’d be honoured to walk alongside you. Whether you’re experiencing anxiety, grief, burnout, or simply need someone to listen, counselling can offer a place to feel truly heard and supported. You don’t have to have it all figured out — you just need a space to be yourself. Please don’t hesitate to get in touch for person-centred counselling and mental health support.
Take care,
Nicole
Grief doesn’t always arrive with a clear ending. Sometimes, it lingers in the space between knowing and not knowing — in the silence, in the uncertainty.
Recently, I watched the documentary about Amy Bradley, who disappeared from a cruise ship in 1998. It was a heartbreaking and haunting story — not just because of the circumstances, but because of what it reveals about long-term grief, and how it lives alongside hope.
Amy’s family has spent over two decades living in that space. For them, time seemed to freeze in 1998, while the rest of the world continued on. Watching them speak reminded me how grief can suspend us — keep us tethered to a moment, while everything and everyone around us moves forward.
When I lost my mum, I remember feeling that same stillness. It was as though I had stopped, but the world hadn’t. Different circumstances, of course, but I can relate to that feeling of being out of step with time — of life continuing while your own heart feels paused.
Amy’s story has recently resurfaced through Netflix and social media. While that visibility might bring a renewed sense of possibility, I imagine it also reopens old wounds. The emotional toll of seeing hope rise again — only to possibly be met with silence — must be incredibly complex.
One moment that stayed with me was when Amy’s brother reflected on the impact of this grief on their family. It made me think about how the loss of a loved one — especially in uncertain circumstances — doesn’t just touch the past. It reaches into our futures. It shapes decisions. It influences how we move through the world.
Grief doesn’t always arrive after death. Sometimes, it comes when someone is missing. Or when we’re left with questions that don’t have answers. That, in itself, is its own kind of grief.
It’s not always visible. It doesn’t always follow a timeline. And often, it’s carried quietly — wrapped up in hope, confusion, love, and fear.
For those living with this kind of grief, I just want to say:
You are not alone. Your experience is valid. You don’t need to have clarity or closure to honour what you’re feeling.
As a person-centred counsellor, I deeply value the uniqueness of each individual’s grief journey. My understanding of grief comes not only from working alongside clients navigating loss but also from my own personal experience. This dual perspective informs my approach: creating a compassionate, non-judgemental space where you can explore your feelings at your own pace.
If you find yourself holding unanswered questions, or carrying grief that feels ambiguous or isolating, know that you don’t have to walk this path alone. When you feel ready, I welcome you to reach out and arrange a session — a safe space to be heard, supported, and understood exactly as you are.
I’m thankful you took the time to read and share this moment.
Nicole