A place that is entirely yours.
Individual counseling at Redeeming Stories — unhurried, undivided, and built around your story.
The wall didn’t go up all at once.
The wall you’ve spent a lifetime building didn’t go up all at once, and it won’t come down that way either. I don’t handle the bricks. What I do is stand alongside you, and together we build the scaffolding — something sturdy enough to hold you as you decide, one brick at a time, when you’re ready.
Each brick comes down carefully. We look at it. We clean it up. And then the question becomes: what do you want to build with it now?
Some people build sculptures. Others, sailing ships — or a patio, or a home. The form is yours to choose. But the shift is always the same: what was once stacked up to keep the world at a distance becomes something that allows you in — to yourself, to others. Walls keep people out. What you build next makes room for intimacy, and for the kind of boundaries that actually provide safety rather than isolation.
You might be carrying something like this.
No two people are alike — and yet over the years, I hear many of the same themes. People find their way to individual work for all kinds of reasons, but what’s underneath is often some version of the same thing: stuck. Stuck in a pattern, a relationship, a feeling, a life that looks fine from the outside and feels hollow from the inside. Here are some of the things I actually hear:
- Why do I keep getting into these crazy relationships?
- I seem to be stuck in life — I can’t make the changes I know I need to make.
- I overthink everything. I can’t just do something without running through every possible way it could go wrong or end in disaster.
- Everyone else seems to be succeeding. I feel like I’m failing at life.
- My family tells me I should be grateful. And yet I still feel empty inside.
- I’m at the top of my game — great family, great job, everything I worked for. So why do I feel so hollow?
- All my friends are getting married and having kids. I’m starting to wonder if something is wrong with me.
- If God is supposed to be loving, why does he allow people to do such horrible things to each other?
- I don’t think I’ll ever get another dog. I can’t go through that kind of loss again.
- My partner died years ago. Why can’t I just move on?
- What is wrong with me that I can’t seem to get my shit together?
- Why do I keep watching porn when I know it violates my morals and values? I hate how degrading it is — and yet I keep coming back to it.
Undivided attention is rarer than it sounds.
One of the things I love most about individual work is this: it’s entirely yours.
No agenda but your own. No one else to consider, no experience to share the space with. Just your story, your pace, your focus for the hour. For many people, that kind of undivided attention is genuinely rare — maybe unlike anything else in their week.
What I’ve heard more than once is that I’m a good listener. When I hear that, I think back to a training I did years ago built around a single idea: listening exquisitely. It stayed with me because it named something I’d already come to believe — that listening is an art, not just a skill.
To listen well is to hear the words and hold the space. Emotional space. Energetic space. Sometimes spiritual space. It means attending to what’s being said and to what isn’t. It means reading the body as carefully as the language. And it means letting someone feel — maybe for the first time in a long time — genuinely heard and seen.
That’s what I’m here to offer.
What happens in the room.
Most people who’ve seen other counselors tell me fairly quickly that this feels different. I’m not sure I can fully explain why, except to say that I don’t hide behind the cloak of professionalism — even when I am also well boundaried. I’m down to earth, I use regular language, and I’m open about my own life in ways that some therapists aren’t. What I’ve found is that when I’m comfortable being myself — without pretense — people feel permission to do the same. You don’t have to manage my reactions or hide parts of yourself to protect me.
In a first session, after the paperwork is out of the way, I go over the Agreements — the ground rules for how we’ll work together. One of them that people always notice: “Spelling and grammar doesn’t count.” I put that one in for myself, because I’m genuinely terrible at both, and giving myself permission to be okay with that takes away the shame. It also sets a tone: this is not a place where you’ll be judged for how you say something.
We also talk about honesty — and the different levels of it. I can tell you I don’t like Portland, Oregon, and that’s an honest statement. Or I can tell you I don’t like Portland because I had some traumatic experiences there. Both are true. But one gets us somewhere. The more you can challenge yourself to reach for that deeper honesty, the more this work will give back.
Sessions are 60 or 90 minutes, held in my office in Wilder, Vermont — or via telehealth for clients across Vermont, New Hampshire, Michigan, and Washington. The work is relational at its core: whatever approach we use, it begins with the relationship between us.
“The role of the therapist is more as cheerleader for the unfolding of the soul rather than as expert in identifying pathology, in interpretation, or in problem solving.”
— Rob Fisher
Ready to begin?
The first step is a free 20-minute phone consultation. No commitment, no pressure — just a conversation to see if we’re a good fit.
Begin the conversation