I left boarding school carrying not just my school blazer and a polished sense of privilege but also a deep well of shame, confusion, and a fractured sense of self. On the surface, I appeared to be articulate, capable, and respectable. Inside, I bore the marks of humiliation, the kind that blurs discipline with worthlessness, strength with cruelty, and authority with moral truth.

For years, I didn’t fully grasp the depth of this wound. Like many men from similar backgrounds, I worked hard, sought success, and took pride in my independence. I learned to appear competent and confident. But beneath it all was a sort of ache, a dislocation within the nervous system. Something in me recoiled from intimacy and bristled at the thought of vulnerability. I knew how to dominate a therapy room, but I didn't know how to be genuinely held in it.

Eventually, the suffering that had been hidden beneath the surface started to emerge. It guided me, initially cautiously and then with growing urgency, towards psychotherapy, meditation, and the slow, patient process of disentangling the internalised narratives I had been fed…

Decolonising therapy does not mean claiming purity. It involves being more honest about the frameworks we inherit, the harm we may unconsciously continue, and the ways even our most well-meaning practices can bear the mark of dominance. It is about prioritising the voices of those most affected by colonisation, racism, and intergenerational trauma, and following their lead.

The call to decolonise is resonating across disciplines, including education, the arts, and, increasingly, psychotherapy. What does it mean to decolonise therapy, a practice already linked with healing and care? Can something that seems harmless still cause harm?