Finding a therapist who understands the experiences, the relationships, the culture and the pressures that shape Black lives can change what's possible in the room. I'm not a neutral observer of any of that. I grew up in Trinidad and Tobago, I've lived most of my adult life in London, I've raised children here, and I spent years as a mental health nurse before I trained as a psychotherapist, working with a lot of Black people who had reached the system far too late and been misread when they got there.
So when you talk about the look you got in the meeting, the aunt who thinks therapy is for white people, the exhaustion of code-switching from the moment you leave the house, or the weight of being the first in your family to do almost anything, I don't need it translated. That's the practical meaning of culturally matched therapy: less time explaining, more time on what you actually came for.
It doesn't mean I assume anything. Being Black is not one experience, and I won't decide what yours has been. It doesn't mean every session is about race, either. Some of my Black clients barely mention it; they came about a divorce, a job, a father, a low mood that won't shift, and what they wanted was simply to bring their whole self and not have to leave part of it at the door. You set the agenda. Race, culture, faith and family are in the room if and when you want them to be.
What I do bring is a person-centred way of working: no worksheets, no programme, no diagnosis handed to you in the first ten minutes. You talk, I listen properly, and I ask the questions that help you hear yourself. When something you describe is racism, I'll call it racism, and we'll look at what it did to you rather than whether it happened. And I won't flinch. Very little you can say will be something I haven't heard, or lived.