I always have music on when I’m doing counselling admin. It’s just part of how I work. But it’s more than background noise it’s a companion. A nudge. A reminder. A doorway into memories I didn’t plan on visiting that day.
Some songs don’t just play.
They interrupt.
They stop you mid‑sentence, mid‑email, mid‑life.
They pull you somewhere else entirely.
Sometimes they lift you like the moments where I’m suddenly stood in the kitchen, deodorant can in hand, performing like I’m on a West End stage. No audience. No spotlight. Just me, the music, and whatever emotion has decided to show up. Those moments feel silly and joyful and alive.
And then there are the songs that drop you straight into memory.
Recently, songs like The Climb (originally Miley Cyrus, but Jessi Alexander’s version hits differently), Remember Me Beautiful (Brandy Clark), and Love That Makes a Cup of Tea (Gretchen Peters) have done exactly that. They’ve taken me straight back to my mam not in a dramatic, cinematic way, but in the small, everyday ways grief tends to work. The kind of memories that sit quietly until something wakes them.
And Love That Makes a Cup of Tea brings me right back to something very Yorkshire because here, everything can be softened with a hug, a brew, and a biccie. It’s practically a coping strategy. A cultural reflex. A way of saying “I see you” without needing any fancy words.
That’s how my mam loved people. Through the kettle. Through food. Through the kitchen the hub of the house. The place where warmth lived. The place where I’d sit pretending not to listen while she and her best friend talked about life.
Even the things that annoyed me as a teenager have become precious.
Like the tap on the boiler pipes that ran through my bedroom wall her way of saying tea was ready or I was needed to dry up. I’d roll my eyes then. Now? I’d give anything to hear that tap again. It’s funny how grief turns irritations into heirlooms.
As my life has shifted, I’ve found myself recreating what she built. Not consciously. Not as a tribute. Just naturally through baking, cooking tea, chatting with friends at the kitchen tablet, leaving the light on, and playing music that pulls me into memory. My kitchen has become a place she would love. And a place where I feel close to her.
And that’s exactly why Light On in the Kitchen (Ashley McBryde) hits so deeply. Because our kitchen wasn’t just a room it was always open. The light was always on. Someone was always ready to put the kettle on, pull out a chair, and let you talk (or not talk) until you felt a bit more yourself. It was the place you went when you needed comfort, or company, or just to be near someone who loved you without needing you to explain anything.
Those two songs feel like they’re singing about the same thing:
the quiet kind of love that happens in kitchens,
the kind that doesn’t shout,
the kind that shows up with a mug in hand,
the kind that keeps the light on so you know you’re welcome.
The Therapy Bit, But Not the Textbook Version
I could talk about the core conditions. I could talk about congruence and unconditional positive regard. But honestly? You’ve heard that before. I’ve said it before. It’s important, but it’s not the whole story.
Here’s the part that matters to me the part I see in my own grief and in the people I work with:
Healing often happens in the places where your memories live.
Not in the theory.
In the lived experience.
For me, that place is the kitchen.
For someone else, it might be a garden, a song, a smell, a chair, a routine.
Person‑centred counselling isn’t just about the relationship between counsellor and client. It’s about helping people reconnect with the parts of themselves that grief, trauma, or life has made them forget. It’s about giving someone space to explore their own meaning not the meaning the world tells them they should have.
And meaning is rarely found in the big moments.
It’s found in the tap on the pipes.
The smell of baking.
The song that makes you stop mid‑task.
The light left on in the kitchen.
The Songs That Became Part of My Grief Story
Curtain Call (Nashville Cast) the first time I heard it, I couldn’t listen without crying. It felt like my mam was singing it to me. Her final goodbye.
Now? I can sing it. I can imagine her singing it with me. That shift didn’t happen because I “moved on.” It happened because I let myself feel what I felt until it softened.
Sanctuary (Nashville Cast) that’s what her kitchen was. That’s what mine is becoming. A place where people can breathe.
Light On in the Kitchen (Ashley McBryde) this one hits deep. It’s everything my mam did without ever saying it. The welcome. The safety. The warmth. The quiet “I’m here.”
A Mother Like Mine (The Band Perry) the gratitude, the ache, the legacy. The way her love still shapes me.
These songs aren’t just music.
They’re memory.
They’re connection.
They’re grief doing what grief does — teaching you how to carry love forward.
If You’re Reading This and Thinking About Therapy
If any of this resonates the music, the memories, the grief, the kitchen, the longing for the tap on the pipes you’d give anything to hear again you’re not alone.
Therapy isn’t about fixing you.
It’s about giving you space to explore your story.
Your memories.
Your grief.
Your meaning.
Your version of the kitchen light.
If you’d like to talk, I’ll leave the light on.
Take Care, Nicole x
