No Map, Just Practice: The Ongoing Work of Inclusive Therapy
What does it mean to belong—and what happens when we don’t? In this reflection, I explore how therapy can either echo exclusion or offer a space of genuine welcome. As a queer, white, working-class-raised therapist, I reflect on the assumptions I’ve made, the ones I’m unlearning, and the ongoing, imperfect practice of making room for all of us.
There’s a quiet harm that happens when someone enters a room, a system, a society—and can’t find themselves reflected there. That subtle, daily abrasion of being misnamed, misunderstood, unseen.
I know that feeling.
As a queer woman raised working class, I’ve felt it in therapy rooms, in education, in spaces where I had to soften my voice, translate myself, hide my hunger for something different. And now, as someone who moves through the world as white and middle class, I also know what it is to benefit from systems I didn’t build, but still carry with me. I miss things. I assume things. I still do.
This is the tension I sit with: both outsider and insider. Both shaped by exclusion and complicit in exclusion. That’s not comfortable to write. But feels necessary.
Therapy is meant to be a place of safety, a place to be heard without judgment. But we can’t assume it is safe for everyone—not without asking some difficult questions.
Who designed this space? Who was it designed for? Whose lives, bodies, identities, and truths are centred here? And whose are not?
The truth is, therapy in the UK—like many of our institutions—is rooted in white, Western, middle-class values. Ideas about what a “healthy” life looks like. What counts as trauma. What kind of healing is valid. These assumptions can shape our work in quiet but powerful ways.
And I’ve carried those assumptions into the room. I’ve assumed that quiet and privacy are universally safe. That two gender boxes on a form are enough. That my language is neutral, when it’s often anything but.
As a wise friend said to me: assumption is the mother of all fuckups.
So I’m learning. Unlearning. Slowly, imperfectly. Sometimes defensively, if I’m honest. But I’m trying to stay open. To let the discomfort do its work. To meet it not with defensiveness, but with curiosity.
Inclusivity isn’t a tick-box. It’s a daily practice. It’s messy. It changes you. It asks you to listen more than you speak. To expand your understanding beyond your own lived experience. To recognise that gender, race, class, disability, neurodivergence, and culture aren’t peripheral to the therapeutic process—they are the ground it happens on.
It also means noticing the subtler things. The assumptions baked into our forms. The language that defaults to nuclear families. The therapy rooms designed around quietness and stillness, without asking if those conditions feel safe for everyone.
Because when someone is told—by systems, by headlines, by silence—that they don’t belong, therapy must offer something different. A counterspell. A quiet but steady refusal to collude with shame or erasure.
A space that says:
There is nothing wrong with you. There never was. You are welcome here.
That’s not something I’ve arrived at. It’s something I practice.
No map. Just the work. The returning. The commitment to keep noticing, keep listening, keep making room.
If you’re looking for a therapist who holds space with honesty, care, and a commitment to ongoing learning, you’re welcome to reach out.
You can find out more about how I work, or get in touch to book a session here:
www.julieridlingtontherapy.com