Taking a real break has never come easy for me. In some ways, private practice makes it even harder. Time off means no pay or squeezing my caseload into fewer days. Sometimes it means knowing my Monday clients won’t be able to come in at all. When I worked in nonprofit and community mental health settings, the pressure was different but just as heavy. If a client was in crisis, on the verge of a breakthrough, or just beginning to build momentum in therapy, I felt a deep responsibility to be there.

The truth is, the system isn’t set up for fairness, and it would be nice to have PTO (‘Paid Time Off’-UK!). But I also know that my biggest barrier to rest is me. Underneath it all are my childhood experiences with financial insecurity and being a parentified child who was raised to be overly responsible for other people. For me, taking time off has become not just a necessity, but an act of healing and resistance.

Reflection Question: What does rest mean to you? And how does it shape the way you care for yourself, as much as for others?

The irony of this title is not lost on me — I am, after all, short AF, (cough, just about 5’)

Eating disorder work takes time, years. One session alone rarely shifts the ground. But here is a tool I lean on: “What if this were the first and last time we were meeting? Would this make a difference to this session?”

I use this not as evidence-based practice, but as practice-based evidence: a way of shaking loose the repetition, the Groundhog Day rhythm that cases can so easily fall into. I wonder how often this question brings forward narratives that might have stayed buried if we had assumed we would always “have more time.”

Of course, there is a strong evidence base for single session therapy, just not usually in Eating Disorder work. If you want to hear more, I would point you to Katy Stephenson and colleagues at The Single Session Thinking Network, who speak brilliantly about making every session count. You can check out a conversation with her here: The Systemic Way podcast .

For me, The Power of Short lies in asking if the concept of limited-time services has the potential to change the shape or outcome of a session. Does it sharpen the questions, draw out what matters, or uncover narratives that would otherwise be untold?

Because short does not mean rushed. Short can mean distilled. Short can mean potent. And short, whether it is in the height of your therapist or the length of your intervention, can sometimes make all the difference.

What’s one small thing that reliably makes your day better (coffee, music, a walk, etc.)?

Send us your answer here!

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