Something that has been playing on my mind for a while is how instant everything has become. If we want an answer, we Google it. If we need therapy, we can speak to an online counsellor within minutes. Some people even turn to TikTok therapists or ask ChatGPT for guidance. We’re surrounded by instant opinions, instant advice, instant solutions. And while these things can offer ideas or reassurance, they can’t replace the slower, deeper process of sitting with ourselves, noticing what we feel, and understanding what those feelings mean.
I’ve also been thinking about how the power of CBT comes in when we allow ourselves to sit with what we’re feeling. Not rushing to fix it, not searching for the quickest answer, but gently noticing our thoughts and emotions and what they’re trying to tell us. This actually aligns so closely with the work I do as a person‑centred counsellor creating space to explore, rather than pushing for a solution. I’ll be honest, I’ve found this difficult at times in my own life. There have been moments where I’ve wanted the answer immediately or wanted something to take the discomfort away. But sitting with myself, even when it’s uncomfortable, has taught me so much more than any instant answer ever could.
And although I miss the waiting and the anticipation, I also find it hard to sit with it at times. Just because something is difficult doesn’t mean it isn’t wise or healthy. Sometimes we need to sit within the unknown to feel what it’s like not to have the answer yet, not to know what comes next, and to let things unfold organically. It’s uncomfortable, and I’m not immune to that discomfort. But I’m learning that the unknown has its own lessons, its own pace, and its own quiet wisdom.
I’ve had a lot of time to reflect lately, and while driving the other day Automatic by Miranda Lambert came on. It really made me miss having to wait being patient having the time to decide whether the thing I absolutely must have is actually something I need in my life.
Person‑centred counselling invites us to be in the moment, to get to know ourselves as we are right now. That song made me reflect on my past and how much I miss some of the simplicities of being a young adult. How would it feel to go back to those times? To not have same‑day delivery? To flick through the Argos catalogue, circle the thing we wanted, write the code on the little slip, and wait our turn to see if it was in stock. I miss that small ritual. I wonder if I’m on my own in that, or whether you feel something similar.
Life felt slower when things weren’t instantaneous. There was more community. Now so much of our communication happens through email, Zoom, or text. I’m not saying one way is better than the other having things at our fingertips can be incredibly useful but I’m noticing the difference.
In the counselling room I encourage clients to slow down and reflect on their thoughts and feelings in the moment. Slowing down during anxiety or difficult times can help us understand what’s really going on for us. Taking things gently and gradually can bring longer‑term comfort. It reminds me of waiting in line at Argos as a child for a toy I’d saved up for, only to hear it was out of stock and I’d have to wait for the next delivery. Patience is something I’ve learned to appreciate sometimes through gritted teeth and a strained smile and I often see similar emotions and explorations in the counselling room. It’s a space I feel extremely privileged to be in.
All of this reflection brought me back to grief. Grief isn’t always about losing a person. It can be about anything we miss or struggle to accept has changed. I truly miss parts of my world I no longer have access to, or ways of living that have simply moved on. I miss writing letters and waiting for a response. I miss the landline ringing and everyone wondering who it might be for. The magic of waiting and wondering seems to have faded, replaced by the magic of how quickly things arrive.
What I keep coming back to is the pace of the counselling room, the slowing, the softening, the moment a client relaxes into the chair. The beauty of patience, wonder, and quiet magic when someone begins to see their hard work supporting them outside the room.
There’s something about Automatic that stayed with me long after the song finished. Not the words themselves, but the feeling that gentle reminder of a time when life unfolded at a slower pace, when waiting was part of the rhythm rather than something to avoid. It nudged me to notice what I miss, what I value, and what I want to carry forward.
Person‑centred counselling offers that same kind of slowing.
A space where nothing has to be instant.
A space where you can arrive exactly as you are.
A space where your pace is the right pace.
I see the magic of that when I work with clients the way someone softens into the chair, the way their breathing steadies, the way understanding grows slowly, quietly, in its own time. It’s a privilege to witness that kind of patience and courage.
So as the world continues to speed up, I’m choosing to honour the moments that ask to be taken gently. To wait in the queue. To print the photos. To sit with myself. To welcome the parts of life that aren’t automatic at all.
And perhaps, as you read this, you might take a moment to notice what you miss what you long for, what you’d like to reclaim, or where you might welcome a little slowness back into your own life.
Sometimes the most meaningful changes grow in the waiting.
And if you have a love for music, are curious about what inspired this reflection, or simply enjoy discovering new songs, I encourage you to give Automatic a listen. It might stir something in you too.
Take Care, Nicole x
