The First 1,000 Days – Why They Matter More Than We Realise We often talk about childhood shaping the adult self, but there’s a particular window of time – conception through to around age three – that’s quietly doing some of the heaviest lifting in human development. Neuroscientists call it “the first 1,000 days”. Attachment theorists call it the foundation of relational life. Parents often call it a blur. For therapists, it’s where so much of the story begins. Brain Building in Real Time A baby’s brain at birth is a work in progress. In the first three years, neural pathways are being created at lightning speed – around a million new connections every second. These aren’t abstract; they are the literal wiring for emotional regulation, stress response, and relational safety. Allan Schore, whose work has been pivotal in linking neuroscience and attachment, describes these years as a “critical period” for right-brain development – the part of the brain most involved in emotion, bodily states, and non-verbal communication. He writes: “The infant’s early interactions with a primary caregiver are essential regulators of brain development and the emotional self.” (Schore, 2001) Every cuddle, every soothing tone of voice, every moment of attuned eye contact is laying down the architecture of the child’s inner world. But, of course, real life isn’t a lab, and this is where it gets complex. When Life Gets in the Way The idea that the first 1,000 days “shape everything” can be terrifying for parents. Especially when we remember that the early postpartum period is often messy. Maternal mental health struggles, birth trauma, financial stress, relationship changes – all of these can impact a caregiver’s ability to offer consistent attunement. Sue Gerhardt, in Why Love Matters, reminds us that this isn’t about perfection but about pattern. Babies don’t need flawless care; they need “good enough” care – attunement more often than not, and repair when misattunements happen. However, when the environment is chronically stressful, when a caregiver is emotionally unavailable due to depression, anxiety, or their own unresolved trauma, the baby adapts. Some become hyper-vigilant, their nervous systems primed to detect threat. Others dampen their needs, disconnecting from their own emotions to avoid overwhelming the caregiver. These adaptations aren’t “bad behaviours”; they’re survival strategies. Decades later, these patterns walk into the therapy room as the anxious client who can’t self-soothe, the avoidant client who can’t tolerate closeness, the people-pleaser who learned to earn love by erasing themselves. The Caregiver’s Story The first 1,000 days aren’t just about the baby – they’re about the caregiver’s story too. Those early interactions are a dance between two nervous systems, and the caregiver’s capacity for attunement is deeply influenced by their own attachment history. This is where Fraiberg’s “ghosts in the nursery” show up. A mother who was never comforted may find her baby’s crying unbearable. A father who learned to suppress emotion may struggle with his toddler’s meltdowns. These are not failures; they are echoes. And, just as importantly, they offer moments for healing. When a parent can notice their reaction, seek support, and try again, they create what Selma Fraiberg called “angels in the nursery” – moments of intergenerational repair that change the trajectory for both parent and child. For Therapists Understanding the first 1,000 days changes how we listen to clients. Suddenly, the “symptoms” of adult life – panic, dysregulation, relationship struggles – aren’t problems to fix but messages from a nervous system wired in a particular environment. It invites different questions: What was the emotional climate of their early years? What support did their caregivers have? How did their tiny self adapt to the emotional availability (or unavailability) around them? Attachment-based therapy gives us the tools to work here safely, offering co-regulation and a “second chance” at the attunement that might have been missing. In the therapy room, we can become what Schore calls an “external regulator” – helping clients rewire those early pathways in the safety of relationship. Hope and Resilience If you’re reading this and thinking about all the ways things can go wrong, take a breath. Attachment isn’t about perfection; it’s about relationship and repair. The nervous system is plastic. Healing is always possible. For many adult clients, therapy is the first place where someone sees beyond their behaviour to the need beneath. That moment of being met – “You make sense. You always made sense.” – is profoundly reparative. If you find yourself leaning into these ideas, if your curiosity lights up when clients’ stories touch those earliest years, the Level 5 Diploma in Attachment-Based Psychotherapeutic Counselling is designed to take you deeper. We explore: The neuroscience of the first 1,000 days. How early attachment patterns shape adult relationships and emotional regulation. Working with “ghosts in the nursery” in therapy. Offering co-regulation and corrective experience in the therapy room. For many counsellors, understanding this developmental window is like finding a missing piece of the puzzle. It turns theory into compassion and gives you the tools to work at a profound level of depth. Because those first three years aren’t just the beginning of a child’s story – they’re the blueprint. And as therapists, we have the privilege of helping clients redraw it with safety, attunement and hope.

Recently, I’ve been watching my little angel, aka sausage, my two-year-old granddaughter, navigate the enormous transition of becoming a big sister. It’s been a front-row seat to the sibling dance: the tug-of-war between love and curiosity, excitement and jealousy, all wrapped in a tiny body with even tinier words to express it. There have been moments of tenderness , a small hand stroking her sisters head, and moments where big feelings spill out in ways that might, on the surface, look like “naughty” behaviour. But here’s the thing: there is no such thing as naughty. Behaviour as Communication Kate Silverton’s There’s No Such Thing as Naughty captures what attachment theory has been telling us for decades: behaviour is not the problem, it’s the message. A two-year-old doesn’t have the language to say, “I feel displaced, I’m scared I’ve lost my place in the family, and I don’t know how to manage this flood of feelings.” Instead, they show us: through tears, clinging, perhaps even through pushing boundaries. It isn’t defiance; it’s communication. As I’ve held space for my granddaughter in these moments, I’ve been reminded that our work as therapists with adults isn’t so different. So many of the “difficult” behaviours we encounter, withdrawal, anger, control, are also communications of unmet attachment needs, only expressed through an adult nervous system that learned long ago how to survive. Early Patterns and Emotional Regulation What I see in my granddaughter is the raw formation of emotional regulation. At two, she is learning to borrow the calm of her parents, her Grumps, and me when her own feelings are too big. Those moments of co-regulation – being held, soothed, named and seen – are literally wiring her brain. This is where attachment is not abstract theory but embodied reality. Sue Gerhardt, in Why Love Matters, describes how consistent emotional attunement builds the neural pathways for self-soothing. The opposite is also true: when those needs are missed or misread, the child adapts – often in ways that echo into adulthood and into the therapy room. For Counsellors and Therapists For us as practitioners, There’s No Such Thing as Naughty is more than a book about children – it’s a reminder to look beneath behaviour in every client we meet. The client who avoids intimacy may be communicating: “Connection once hurt me.” The client who explodes in anger may be saying: “I was never heard unless I was loud.” The client who endlessly pleases might be showing: “Love always had strings attached.” When we hold behaviour as communication of attachment needs, we soften. We see the child within the adult. And in doing so, we open the possibility for repair – offering a therapeutic relationship that models safety, attunement and new ways of regulating. Back to My Little Angel/Sausage Watching my granddaughter become a big sister has been a gentle reminder that the dance of attachment begins early and never really stops. We are always learning – to trust, to be seen, to love and to be loved. So when I see her act out, I don’t see “naughty.” I see a little heart saying, “Help me. Hold me. Show me I still matter.” And isn’t that, in some way, what we all long for – no matter our age? 💛 For Therapists: If this resonates and you want to explore how early attachment patterns shape behaviour and emotional regulation in depth, you can dive into these themes in our Attachment-Based Psychotherapeutic Counselling Diploma. It’s designed for counsellors and therapists who want to bring attachment theory to life in their work with both adults and children.

When Daughters Become Mothers: The Attachment Story Behind the Pram When a daughter becomes a mother, it isn’t just a change in role, it’s a seismic shift in the heart, the mind, and often the sense of self. It’s a chapter where the past, present, and future meet in the smallest of bundles. Recently, I became a Grannie again, and as I’ve watched my daughter cradle her newborn, I’ve been reminded of something I see so often in the therapy room: motherhood has the power to awaken our deepest attachment patterns. The Tender Trigger of Motherhood For many women, holding their baby for the first time brings a tidal wave of love, a sense of connection they didn’t know was possible. For others, it stirs something far more complex – a quiet ache. When a daughter becomes a mother, she may feel the weight of her own unmet attachment needs: Was I held like this? Did anyone soothe me in this way? What did love look and feel like when I was this small? John Bowlby described our first relationships as the “secure base” from which we explore the world. When those bonds were inconsistent or painful, motherhood can bring those memories to the surface in visceral, unexpected ways. Sleepless Nights, Shifting Selves, and Mother Nature’s Design Alongside these attachment stirrings are the realities of new motherhood – the sleepless nights, the endless feeds, the bone-deep exhaustion. These aren’t just physical challenges; they can shake a woman’s sense of identity to its core. There is also something profound happening neurologically. Mother Nature, in her wisdom, narrows a new mother’s focus entirely onto the baby. Hormonal surges and neurological changes essentially dim the parts of the brain that were previously occupied with career, social life, or self-pursuits. It’s a survival mechanism, a biological prioritisation of the newborn. But this protective fog often adds to the sense of disorientation. I hear so many mothers say, “I just need to get back to who I was.” And yet, the painful truth is… you can’t. Not because you’ve lost yourself, but because you are becoming someone new. The woman you were before has been asked to make space for a new persona, one shaped by sleepless nights, fierce love, and the vulnerability of raising a human. For first-time mothers, this transition can feel like both a birth and a death: the arrival of a baby, and the quiet goodbye to the version of themselves that existed before. The Layers of Generations Watching my daughter navigate this, I see more than a new mum and her baby. I see the little girl she once was. I see myself as a young mother. I see the echoes of the women who came before us. David Wallin, in Attachment in Psychotherapy, reflects on how becoming a parent confronts us with “the parents we had, the parents we wish we’d had, and the parents we fear we might become.” Attachment isn’t held in isolation; it threads through family lines, carrying both safety and wounds across generations. A Doorway to Healing Here’s the hopeful part: when daughters become mothers, they are offered a doorway to healing. The raw awareness that bubbles up – those unmet needs, the identity shifts, even the fear, can become the starting point for repair. Through gentle reflection, support, and conscious connection with their own child, mothers can begin to offer themselves the safety and soothing they might have missed. In doing so, they’re not just nurturing their baby; they are reparenting their own inner child and reshaping the story for future generations. Dan Siegel calls this “making sense of your story so you don’t hand it down unconsciously.” The work isn’t about perfection; it’s about awareness. A Note to New Mums (and Grannies Too) If you are in this season, please know: you are not broken. Feeling lost, fearful, or raw doesn’t mean you are failing, it means you are human. You are standing in one of life’s most tender thresholds, where love and vulnerability meet. As a Mother, a Grannie and a therapist, I am in awe of this process – the courage it takes, the tenderness it requires, and the quiet, generational healing it can bring. 💛 For Therapists: If these themes resonate with your work and you want to deepen your understanding of attachment, identity, and intergenerational healing, explore these ideas in our Attachment-Based Psychotherapeutic Counselling Diploma. This experiential training is designed for therapists who want to bring attachment theory to life in their practice and help clients navigate these powerful life stages.

🎵 The Healing Power of Music: When a Song Becomes a Secure Base “In the absence of a secure attachment figure, music can act as an emotional surrogate, facilitating affect regulation and providing a sense of presence and containment.” — MacDonald, Hargreaves & Miell, 2012, p.87 I don’t know about you, but I’ve often found myself transported by a song to a memory, a mood, or sometimes a place inside me I didn’t even know needed a visit. A single chord can unlock tears I’ve been holding in for weeks. A lyric can feel like it was written just for me, in a secret language only my nervous system fully understands. Sometimes, it’s not even about the words — it’s the feeling of being accompanied of not being alone. When I lost my Dad, music took on a whole new level of meaning. The songs chosen for his funeral were carefully selected. I wanted them to tell his story. Each song held a thread of him — the man he was, the humour he carried, the values he lived by. There was something deeply comforting about using music to honour his life. It felt like a language we had shared, silently, over the years. As the notes filled the space, it was as if they created a bridge between us, between memory and presence, between grief and celebration. In fact, Elvis Presley’s Bridge over Troubled Waters was one of the songs. And long after the service, those songs became emotional anchors for me. They still do. I only have to hear the opening bars and I’m right there again — not just at the funeral, but with him. Sometimes I cry. Sometimes I smile. But always, there’s that strange, sacred ache of being connected to someone who’s gone, through something that lives on. Music gave me a way to keep a thread of attachment alive — not in a stuck way, but in a very human, very healing way. It helped me feel him, contain the grief, and stay present with all the feelings that came. As an attachment-based therapist, I’ve spent years discussing with clients the vital importance of safe, attuned, and consistent relationships. We talk about secure bases, affect regulation, containment, rupture and repair. We talk about people as the medium of healing. And yet, often, what brings a client to tears in the room isn’t a relational memory involving a person. It’s a song. “Music was my parent,” someone poignantly reflected. “It raised me when no one else did.” It made me think of the above quote, nestled quietly in an academic paper, but shouting out a truth many of us have known intuitively for a long time. Music — in the absence of secure human attachment — becomes something of a stand-in. Not a poor substitute, but a true emotional surrogate. A way of being held. Music as an Attachment Figure When we think about attachment figures, we typically consider people — a parent, caregiver, partner, or therapist. Someone who “gets us,” who responds to our emotional cues, who shows up over time. Someone who soothes, who helps us learn how to make sense of our internal world. But if you didn’t grow up with someone who could offer that? Or if your attachment figure was inconsistent, frightening, absent, or emotionally unavailable, your developing self will still seek out something to help you regulate. Human beings are wonderfully creative in that way. And music? Oh, music steps in. It doesn’t judge. It doesn’t tell you you’re too much. It doesn’t get overwhelmed by your sadness or your anger or your longing. It’s there, day or night, whenever you need it. And crucially — it’s predictable. When a child lacks predictability and attunement in their human relationships, their nervous system is constantly on high alert. Hypervigilance and internalised shame often replace comfort. But music offers a pattern. Rhythm. A melody that knows where it’s going. An emotional journey that is held safely, not abandoned halfway through. It’s not hard to see how this becomes a kind of attachment experience. Music, in these moments, becomes a presence. A soothing, shaping, and containing other. Affect Regulation Through Sound MacDonald, Hargreaves, and Miell (2012) make a vital point: music helps us regulate. And in attachment terms, this is big news. Affect regulation is not just about calming down. It’s about knowing what we feel, tolerating it, and knowing it won’t destroy us (or anyone else). For many of us, we learnt how to regulate with someone — a co-regulating adult who helped us learn that emotions are manageable and meaningful. But if that didn’t happen? You may find a teenager alone in their room, blaring out The Smiths or Nirvana — not just because they like it, but because it’s doing something. It’s holding their anger. It’s resonating with their ache. It’s giving voice to something that, in the outside world, feels unspeakable. Or the child who insists on listening to the same lullaby every night, long past what’s considered “age-appropriate.” Because that song is what keeps them from falling apart in the dark. Or the adult, decades later, who hears a certain piece of music and feels like they’ve come home, not to a place, but to a version of themselves they forgot existed. Music doesn’t fix the wound. But it holds it. And in doing so, it offers a kind of regulation many of us didn’t even know we were missing. A Personal Reflection (and a Little Carole King) I can’t write this blog without a bit of personal honesty. There have been moments in my life when music has reached me in a way that words from others simply couldn’t. When everything felt too much — not dramatically, just that quiet overwhelm — a song has sometimes landed right in the middle of it all and brought me back to myself. I remember one day in particular, sat in the car feeling frayed at the edges, and a Carole King song came on. “You’ve got a friend”. That line just caught me. It felt like someone had reached through the fog and simply been there. No need to explain myself, no need to make sense — just met with gentleness. And isn’t that what so many of us are craving, deep down? To be met like that. To feel that, even when things are messy, someone (or something) is holding a bit of space for us. The Neuroscience of Musical Holding Neuroscience has a lot to say about why music works like this. Our brains love patterns. Rhythm and repetition are deeply regulating to the nervous system. Think of the way we rock babies, or how a lullaby soothes — it’s all about predictable, rhythmic, sensory input. Music activates the limbic system, where emotion lives, and connects it with the prefrontal cortex, where we make meaning. When we listen to music that mirrors our inner state, we feel validated. When the music then shifts, moves, uplifts — it can take us with it. It’s emotional co-regulation, but with a speaker instead of a person. There’s something profound in that. The Songs That Saved Us So many clients I’ve worked with have shared “the song” that got them through. It’s rarely just a catchy tune. It’s usually deeply symbolic. Often, they don’t even know why it mattered — they just know it did. One woman spoke of a lullaby her mother used to hum before everything fell apart. She hadn’t heard it in years, but when she did, she broke down. Not because it reminded her of her mother as she was, but because it reminded her of what could have been. Another client shared how punk music helped him express a rage he’d never been allowed to show. It wasn’t about rebellion — it was about recognition. In these moments, music functions not just as a backdrop, but as a witness. A container. A holding environment. Using Music in Therapy (With a Light Touch) As therapists, I think we can sometimes underplay the role of music in our clients’ emotional ecosystems. We ask about childhood, relationships, trauma, inner child work — but how often do we ask, “What songs are meaningful for you?” I sometimes invite clients to bring in a piece of music that resonates with them, especially if they struggle to put their thoughts into words. It opens a door. It gives shape to the unspeakable. And for many, it’s safer than direct confrontation with the past. However, we must tread carefully. Music can also be triggering — it can access painful memories, states of overwhelm, or dissociation. As ever, it’s about pacing and attunement. But used gently, music can become part of the therapeutic relationship — a shared space of connection and reflection. Music as a Bridge Music is a bridge between parts of ourselves, between past and present, between pain and meaning. It can help us integrate experiences we never thought we could face. It can provide a rhythm where once there was only chaos. And for those who grew up without a secure attachment figure, it can offer a sense of being with — of presence, of being held. So, the next time you find yourself moved to tears by a song or humming something from years ago without quite knowing why, pause. That might be your nervous system recognising something. That might be your younger self saying, “Ah… there it is. I remember. I’m not alone.” References: MacDonald, R., Hargreaves, D. J., & Miell, D. (2012). Musical identities. Oxford University Press.

As therapists, many of us have encountered moments in the therapy room where a client’s longing feels intense—maybe even overwhelming. Perhaps they ask for more contact between sessions, seek reassurance repeatedly, or test the boundaries of the therapeutic relationship. At first glance, these behaviours can be labelled as “needy,” “regressive,” or even as boundary violations. But what if they’re not that at all? What if, as David Wallin writes in Attachment in Psychotherapy, this isn’t “just a request for attention” but instead “a protest against disconnection”? This single sentence changed the way I attune to my clients—and to myself. It reframes a familiar struggle not as pathology, but as relational communication. Understanding the Attachment System To appreciate the depth of Wallin’s reframe, we need to come back to basics: attachment is a survival strategy. The infant’s cry, the child’s cling, the adult’s emotional plea—they’re all signals from a nervous system wired to protect itself from abandonment. When someone feels relationally unsafe, their attachment system is activated. And what does that system do when the connection is threatened? It protests. Loudly, subtly, or even silently—but it protests. Wallin’s genius lies in recognising that these so-called “attention-seeking” behaviours are, at their core, protests against the threat of relational loss. They are bids for attunement, safety, and reassurance. Beyond Pathology: Seeing the Longing Beneath the Strategy Reframing these moments through the attachment lens allows us to see the human longing beneath the behaviour. The clingy text? Not neediness. The boundary-pushing in session? Not manipulation. These may be deeply embedded, early-learned strategies designed to protect the person from a familiar wound: disconnection. In a securely attached system, seeking comfort isn’t dangerous. But for those with anxious, avoidant, or disorganised patterns, asking for connection feels vulnerable—sometimes even life-threatening. So when a client makes a strong request for our attention, we might ask: What are they really telling me about their internal world? Is this a plea not just for presence but for repair? What This Means in Practice In my work with clients—especially those with anxious-preoccupied or disorganised attachment histories—Wallin’s reframe has helped me: Soften my stance in moments of resistance or intensity. Validate the client's protest without reinforcing old patterns. Stay relationally present, rather than reflexively enforcing clinical boundaries. Model secure attachment, where needs are not shamed but explored with curiosity. It’s a subtle shift, but a powerful one: from seeing behaviours as problematic to seeing them as protective. The Therapist’s Inner World Of course, this reframe also requires us to turn inward. Our own attachment histories may react strongly to a client’s intensity. We may feel overwhelmed, drawn in, or tempted to pull away. That’s why it’s vital we do our own attachment work in supervision and therapy. Because when we can recognise our own defences and relational triggers, we’re better able to meet our clients' protests not with fear—but with firm, compassionate presence. Becoming a Storied Self Ultimately, Wallin’s work helps us guide our clients toward what Dan Siegel calls “mindsight”—a coherent narrative of self. By helping clients name their attachment strategies, explore their origin, and gently update them in the present, we help them move from protest to presence. We help them become what Wallin so beautifully describes as a “storied self.” Reflection for Practitioners When a client pushes against your boundaries, can you pause and ask, “What’s being protested here?” How might your own attachment style respond to these moments? In what ways can you offer secure relating in the face of disconnection? If you're curious about learning more about attachment styles in adult therapy, particularly through the lens of the therapeutic relationship itself, I cannot recommend Wallin’s work highly enough. His book doesn’t just illuminate theory—it invites us to practise therapy from a deeply human, deeply relational place. I’d love to hear from other therapists—has attachment theory changed the way you hear your clients’ needs? Or your own?

Your client doesn’t arrive in therapy with a diagnosis neatly wrapped in clinical terms. They come with something far more complex—a nervous system shaped by experience. They bring a story lived through relationship: through the unmet gaze of a distracted parent, the unpredictability of care, the comfort of consistency, or the rupture of neglect. And that story often doesn’t appear first in words. It shows up in the body. As therapists, when we approach our work through the lens of attachment theory, we begin to see more clearly. We develop what you might call “attachment night vision”—a capacity to see in the relational dark. To pick up on cues that live beneath the surface: the slight freeze before answering a question, the urgency in a client’s text between sessions, the quiet dread that follows moments of connection. All of it speaks. Attachment as a Somatic Story Attachment isn’t just an idea. It’s lived and felt. It’s the tight jaw that forms when vulnerability arises. The collapse in posture when disappointment lands. The way someone pulls back emotionally when another gets too close. For some clients, early caregiving taught them to rely on hyper-independence. For others, it meant staying hyper-attuned to the emotional states of others. Still others grew up in environments where care was mixed with fear—leaving the nervous system in a state of confusion, not knowing whether to reach out or shut down. When we understand attachment, we begin to decode these responses not as pathology, but as adaptation. The Power of the Attachment Lens Working with an attachment-informed approach gives us more than theory—it gives us a clinical compass. It reminds us to ask: What did this client learn about relationships? About safety? About need and expression? When we view our clients through this lens, we gain: A deeper sensitivity to body-based signs of distress or disconnection Greater empathy for behaviours that might otherwise seem ‘resistant’ or ‘dysfunctional’ Clarity in pacing the therapeutic relationship to build trust and safety over time Insight into how our own attachment systems are activated in the room From Insight to Integration Therapy shifts when we move from behaviour to meaning. From what the client is doing to why their system is doing it. This shift allows us to respond differently—to hold space with more patience, to ask different questions, to validate not just thoughts but felt experiences. And it’s not just our clients who benefit. As therapists, developing attachment night vision can profoundly change how we work. It deepens our capacity to stay present in moments of rupture. It helps us recognise when the therapeutic relationship itself is being used to test safety. And it allows us to offer something potentially reparative: a steady, attuned presence that wasn’t always there before. Staying Curious, Staying Present Attachment theory doesn’t give us quick fixes. But it provides us with a map. And when we pair that map with somatic attunement—listening to the breath, tone, gesture, and stillness—we become more than interpreters of words. We become companions to the nervous system. We begin to understand not just the story our client tells us but the one they’ve lived in their body for years. That’s the real work. Not diagnosis, but deep listening. Not analysis, but relationship. And it begins when we look with care—even in the dark. How does attachment inform your work with clients? Are you noticing more somatic signs in the therapy room? We’d love to hear how you're integrating this understanding into your practice.  #AttachmentTherapy #SomaticPsychotherapy #RelationalHealing #TherapistTools #ClinicalPractice #TraumaInformedCare #CounsellingTheory #MentalHealthProfessionals #TherapyBlog #AttachmentLens #NervousSystemHealing

In the therapy room, words can only take us so far. Often, it’s the body that tells the deeper story. When someone grows up in an environment where connection was unsafe, inconsistent, or overwhelming, their nervous system learns to adapt. These adaptations may manifest as tension in the jaw, a frozen chest, restless legs, or an inability to feel much of anything at all. We see clients who dissociate during moments of intimacy, who brace themselves even when recalling “ordinary” childhood memories, or who struggle to stay present when discussing relationships. These responses are not just habits—they're survival strategies formed in response to early relational environments. Attachment Theory: A Map for the Body John Bowlby’s work on attachment theory helps us make sense of these patterns. He showed us that the drive for connection is biologically hardwired—and that when this drive is met with fear, neglect, or inconsistency, it doesn’t disappear. Instead, it reroutes. The child adapts to whatever helps them maintain some form of connection or safety, even if it comes at the cost of shutting down emotional or bodily awareness. From this perspective, the somatic responses we see in therapy—avoidance, tension, shutdown, overactivation—aren’t just symptoms. They’re the body’s intelligent attempts to stay safe in a world that didn’t always feel safe. And they persist into adulthood, long after the original threat is gone. Why the Somatic Approach Matters Working somatically in attachment-based psychotherapy means we pay close attention not only to what clients say, but to what their bodies are doing—how they breathe, move, and react in the room. It means we help clients slowly build awareness of their bodily states, without overwhelm or shame. And it means we recognise that emotional healing often needs to be felt, not just understood. Clients with avoidant attachment may struggle to notice or name sensations; they’ve learned it’s safer not to feel. Clients with anxious attachment may be overwhelmed by somatic states and need support in finding stability and containment. Those with disorganised attachment histories might flip between activation and collapse, often without warning. An attachment-informed lens allows us to hold these responses with compassion and precision. Safety First: The Power of Co-Regulation The therapeutic relationship itself becomes the ground for this work. Co-regulation—being with the client in a way that helps calm and anchor their nervous system—is essential. Through tone of voice, pacing, breath, and attunement, we offer a relational experience that says: It’s safe to be here. You don’t have to manage this alone. This work is subtle, slow, and deeply relational. It’s not about applying a technique—it’s about a way of being with another person. A way that respects the body’s history, honours its adaptations, and gently invites it into new ways of relating. Where Story Meets Sensation When we bring somatic awareness into attachment-based psychotherapy, we create a space where story and sensation can meet—where old survival patterns can soften, and where new forms of connection can emerge. So the question isn’t whether to work somatically—it’s how to do so in a way that honours attachment, trauma, and the profound wisdom of the body. Are you integrating somatic approaches into your attachment work? We’d love to hear how. Want to learn more? Check out our Attachment Training #AttachmentTherapy #SomaticPsychotherapy #TraumaInformedCare #BodyMindConnection #NervousSystemHealing #RelationalTherapy #TherapistCommunity #MentalHealthBlog #PolyvagalTheory #TherapyTools #CounsellingSkills #HealingThroughConnection

Exploring the Role of Dreams in Attachment-Based Psychotherapy How often do you invite your clients to bring their dreams into the therapy room? In attachment-based psychotherapy, dreams are more than fleeting night-time images. They offer a profound entry point into the unconscious—revealing emotional truths, unresolved attachment wounds, and early relational dynamics that may not be easily accessed through conscious thought or dialogue. For therapists working with an attachment lens, dreams can serve as powerful tools for deepening the therapeutic process and enhancing emotional integration. Why Dreams Matter in Attachment-Based Therapy John Bowlby, the founder of attachment theory, described the attachment system as largely unconscious—formed through early experiences with caregivers and carried into adulthood. These patterns continue to shape how individuals relate to others, especially in moments of stress or emotional vulnerability. Because dreams often bypass the rational mind, they can reflect these hidden patterns more directly, bringing to light emotions and memories that might otherwise remain buried. Jungian psychology adds another dimension. Carl Jung viewed dreams as a bridge between the conscious and unconscious—a natural form of inner communication that can guide healing and self-understanding. For clients with insecure or disrupted early attachments, dreams may present images of abandonment, threat, comfort, or intimacy—symbolic expressions of deep-seated emotional themes. Therapeutic Opportunities in Dream Work Working with dreams in psychotherapy doesn’t require decoding or fixed interpretations. Instead, dreams can be treated as "living communications," as relational moments that invite exploration. Cundy writes about the unique capacity of dreams to carry disavowed attachment trauma into the therapeutic space. When held sensitively, they can support the reprocessing of painful experiences and the reformation of internal working models. By inviting clients to bring their dreams into sessions, therapists open up new possibilities for connection, meaning-making, and emotional repair. Dreams can evoke strong affect, surface forgotten narratives, or even shift how a client views themselves in relation to others. In this sense, they are not simply reflections of the past but dynamic opportunities for growth in the present. Using Dreams in Your Practice To use dreams effectively in attachment-based work: Encourage clients to share any remembered dreams, however fragmented. Explore the emotional tone and relational themes present in the dream. Hold the dream collaboratively—allowing multiple meanings to emerge. Stay attuned to how the dream reflects or interacts with the therapeutic relationship. Ultimately, dreams can deepen the therapeutic encounter and provide a creative, symbolic way to access the emotional world of your clients. How do you approach dreams in your practice? Whether you work primarily from an attachment, psychodynamic, or integrative approach, dreams can enrich the work in unexpected and meaningful ways. They are not only expressions of the self but invitations—to listen more closely, to feel more fully, and to relate more openly.

The body content of your post goes here. To edit this text, click on it and delete this default text and start typing your own or paste your own from a different source.