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Tuesday 7:30pm - 9pm Wednesday 7:30pm - 9pm Saturday 4pm - 8pm Sunday 1pm - 7pm

https://www.remadeintherapy.co.uk/

Remade in Therapy, 143a Arthur Road, Windsor (2025)

05/12/2025

The garden is you.

Most of us spend our years running through fields with torn nets, lungs burning, desperate to catch what flutters just out of reach i.e. love, success, peace, meaning. We curse the butterflies for being elusive, never noticing the weeds choking our own soil, the broken fence, the dry earth beneath our feet.

Mending the garden is quiet, unglamorous work. It is facing the parts of yourself you’ve neglected, such as the fear you drown in noise, the resentment you water daily, the dreams you abandoned because someone once laughed. It is learning to sit still when everything in you wants to chase or run away. It is choosing discipline over distraction, truth over comfort.

And something strange happens when you finally kneel in your own dirt and tend to what’s yours. The frantic need softens. The hunger turns into space. You stop begging the world to give you what you lack because, slowly, you are no longer lacking.

That’s when they come.

Not because you captured them, but because you became the kind of place where beauty feels safe to land.

The butterflies were never the point.

The garden was.

When the garden is whole, everything else finds its way and so do you.

04/12/2025

They are the quiet ones who refuse to outsource their mind. While others scroll for distraction or collapse into routine, these individuals choose friction i.e. a dense book at midnight, a lecture on quantum physics between shifts, learning a new language in the early hours before anyone else wakes. They trade comfort for competence, entertainment for depth.

Formal education hands you a map drawn by someone else. Self-education teaches you how to burn the map and read the stars. Degrees expire but curiosity compounds. The autodidact doesn’t wait for permission, a classroom, or a teacher’s approval. They move at the speed of obsession because they have a thirst for knowledge.

History favours them. Da Vinci, Ramanujan, Frida Kahlo, Malcolm X in his prison cell - none waited for an institution to validate their hunger. In today's world they are the coder who learned Python from YouTube and quietly outgrew a six-figure job, the immigrant who mastered English from library books and built a company, the teenager dissecting philosophy while their peers chase trends.

They carry an unfair advantage in that time is no longer their enemy, but their raw material. Every spare hour is an investment in a future version of themselves that most people assume requires luck or privilege.

Underestimate them at your peril. They are not louder, richer, or better connected, they are just relentlessly, stubbornly, voluntarily becoming more. And when the world shifts (as it always does), they won’t be asking for directions.

They already taught themselves the way - they became the map.

03/12/2025

What if hunger was a love language?

Not the polite hunger of a dinner date, but the raw, animal kind that doesn’t ask - it demands.

We’re taught to fear it. To silence it with snacks and screens, to rename it “cravings” so it sounds harmless. We say “I’m starving” when we mean “I’m half-alive,” because real hunger feels too close to need.

But what if that gnawing was the truest thing your body ever told you?

Feed me wonder.
Like seeing lightning that forces you to pull over, breathless, staring at the sky like it might speak.

Feed me passion.
The kind that ruins plans and restarts hearts. The kind that makes you run through rain without caring who sees, that turns ordinary Tuesdays into small revolutions.

Feed me a life that doesn’t taste like settling.

That’s the real hunger - the one we numb with scrolling and small talk. “Fine” is the cruelest word we ever learned.

Love, real love, speaks fluent hunger.

The self that finally quits apologising for wanting more. That turns every stove on high. That seasons everything with garlic, risk, and loud, unapologetic laughter.

Imagine if we stopped shaming hunger and started translating it.

Feed it.

And let it feed you back.

02/12/2025

The Universe isn’t on a budget.

Look up on a clear night and try to feel stingy. You can’t. There are a hundred billion galaxies visible in the little patch of sky you can cover with your thumb at arm’s length, and each of those galaxies contains, on average, another hundred billion stars. That’s not careful allocation; that’s reckless, extravagant generosity. Trillions upon trillions of suns, most of them burning for billions of years, flinging away the energy of a billion nuclear bombs every single second, and almost none of it lands on anything at all. It just pours out into the cold and keeps going, forever.

The universe makes elements in supernovae and then scatters them like confetti. It grows forests no one will see, carves canyons no one will hike, ignites quasars that outshine entire galaxies just to feed black holes that swallow everything and ask for more. Waste, on a human scale, is a vice. On a cosmic scale, it’s the signature style.

And yet here we are, tiny, anxious, busy primates, born from the debris of that profligacy. Every atom in your body was once inside a star that exploded for no reason other than it had too much and could not contain itself. Your carbon, your oxygen, the iron in your blood - all of it lavish freebies from a universe that refuses austerity.

Perhaps that’s the thought that should unsettle us.

We treat scarcity as the fundamental law, when everything we know was forged in abundance so obscene it feels almost indecent. We hoard time, money, love, praise, second chances, as if the ledger must balance. But the ledger was never designed to balance. The house always wins by giving everything away.

What would it feel like to live as if the Universe isn’t on a budget?

To create without constantly auditioning for worthiness.
To give without first calculating what we can afford to lose.

To burn as brightly and uselessly as a star that no one will ever name.

The Universe is not careful with its miracles.
Perhaps the provocation is simple - neither should we be.

01/12/2025

Your energy is not random.

We tell ourselves we’re accidents i.e. bad luck, old wounds, late-night mistakes. We call it “realistic.” But what if none of it was noise? What if every tremor, every reckless leap, every wrong person you loved too hard was signal?

The stars are not scattered carelessly - they are locked in ancient gravity, sending light that left before your grandparents were born yet arrives the exact night you look up and ask, “Am I lost?” That is choreography, not coincidence.

Your DNA is a four-billion-year sentence that remembers your ancestors tasting fire and crossing ice. You are its latest chapter, not its typo.

Time is a loom. The universe pulled a billion threads across centuries so you could sit here, now, feeling the hair rise on your arms because something in you recognises the truth.

The cosmos is both artist and architect. It sculpted you with the patience of mountains and the recklessness of nebulae, then gave you free will as the final stroke. So the artwork could choose whether it loves being alive.

You were never an afterthought.

You are the echo of the first explosion, still traveling.

You are the point - don't ever forget.

30/11/2025

The body remembers everything, a clenched jaw, knotted stomach, shoulders braced for a blow that never quite stops coming. Trauma lives in physiology, not just memory.

An intentional breath is a quiet uprising.

With each slow, deliberate inhale and exhale, we signal to the nervous system that no danger is here, not now. The amygdala stands down. Cortisol recedes. Muscles that have stood guard for years begin, almost shyly, to relax.
We usually wait for the world to prove it’s safe before we disarm. The breath reverses the order, it allows us to create safety first, from the inside, and let the world catch up.

One conscious breath is a pebble. Ten thousand are a garden.

Over time the body learns a new association - openness no longer means peril; it means relief. Sleep deepens. Touch ceases to startle. The ledger of threat slowly rewrites itself into permission.

Healing, then, is less about excavating the past and more about seeding the present with enough felt safety that the future is forced to bloom.

So breathe on purpose, not to forget what happened, but to remind every cell that it is no longer happening. Keep sending the memo, breath by breath, until the body finally believes the war is over.

Then watch what grows in the silence - something soft, something fearless, something that was always waiting beneath the armour for the gentlest possible yes.

29/11/2025

Maturity is not the day you stop feeling disappointment. It is the day you stop being surprised by it.

We can spend years being angry at others for breaking promises, ghosting, manipulating, or simply failing to show up as the version we needed. We call them disloyal, dishonest, chaotic. And sometimes they may well be all these things.
But more often than not, they are only mirroring the relationship they already have with themselves.

A person who betrays themselves will betray you without even registering it as betrayal. To them it’s survival, adaptation, “just how things are.” They rewrite their own history the way they rewrite yours. They abandon their own values before they abandon you.

A person who lies to themselves has no honest words left for anyone else. Their mouth becomes a parliament of coping mechanisms. Every “I’m fine” is a vote passed to keep the fragile coalition of self-image alive. Expecting truth from that system is like asking a drowning man to teach you how to swim.

A person at war with themselves has no peace to offer. Their inner battlefield is loud with feelings of shame, addiction, unprocessed rage and the terror of being seen. When you step into their orbit, you are stepping onto a minefield that was laid years before you arrived. The explosions are not about you; you just happened to be standing there when the timer went off.

Maturity, then, is the quiet act of withdrawing your expectations from people who are emotionally bankrupt. Not out of judgment, but out of mercy, first for yourself, and then, almost accidentally, for them.
You stop auditioning them for roles they never applied for i.e. healer, safe harbor, truth-teller, ride-or-die. You stop depositing hope into accounts that have been overdrawn since childhood.

This is not cynicism. Cynicism says, “No one can be trusted.” Maturity says, “I will only trust people to the depth they have learned to trust themselves.”

And paradoxically, the moment you release others from impossible expectations, something shifts.

You become lighter.

28/11/2025

We say it like a mantra, but most of us don’t live it.

We chase the tool until the tool owns us.

Think about the last time you checked your bank account and felt your chest tighten. That wasn’t the calm of security; that was the flinch of a prisoner counting the bricks in his cell.
More digits didn’t make you freer. They just moved the walls farther apart so you could pace in larger circles.
Real freedom is negative space, i.e. the absence of obligation, the absence of fear, the absence of having to say yes when every part of you screams no.
Money can buy some of that absence (a paid-off house, a passport full of stamps, the ability to walk away from a toxic job or person), but only up to a point.
Past that point, every additional £/€/$ demands something in return namely time, attention, identity, risk, relationships.

The tool starts sharpening itself on your life.

There are people who earn ten times what they once dreamed of and still wake up anxious at 3am because now they have boards to answer to, reputations to defend, lifestyles to maintain, employees who depend on them, assets that can vanish overnight.
Their calendar is no longer theirs. Their reputation is no longer theirs. Even their opinions start belonging to the brand they’ve become.
They traded one master (not enough money) for another (too much at stake).

The cruel irony is that the same society that taught us “money equals freedom” also rigged the game so that the more money you have, the more expensive freedom becomes.

True freedom looks boring from the outside.

It’s the ability to say, “I love the job I do"

It’s a week with no plans and no guilt.

It’s telling the truth when it’s inconvenient.

It’s sleeping when you’re tired instead of when the market closes.

It’s loving people without keeping a mental balance sheet of what they “owe” you.

Money is an excellent servant and a brutal master.

27/11/2025

We’ve all done it.

We watch the clock until 5pm arrives like a finish line.

We drag ourselves through Monday just to taste Friday night.

We curse the cold while daydreaming of beaches, then sweat through July wishing for snow.

And somewhere along the way, we started doing the same thing with life itself. We may treat entire years like layovers on the way to “real happiness.”

But what if the plane never takes off without us ever looking out the window?

If you're constantly waiting are you actually living?

The coffee is hot right now.
The song playing is good right now.
Your lungs are filling with air, your heart is beating, someone you love is a text message away - all of this is happening right now.
Happiness isn’t hiding in the next season, the next job, the next milestone.
It’s scattered in plain sight, disguised as ordinary moments we’re too busy to notice while we wait for the big reveal.

You don't have to postpone your aliveness.
Dance badly in the kitchen tonight.
Laugh too loud at the dumb joke.
Feel the sun on your face without calculating how many days until your next holiday.

The present isn’t a waiting room for the future.

It’s the only room we ever actually get to live in.

So look up.
Breathe deep.
This is it.

This is the moment you’ve been waiting for, it’s already here - try not to miss it.

26/11/2025

We read it and nod.

It sounds poetic, almost easy.

But stop for a second and feel the weight of what it actually asks.

It’s not just the obvious baggage like toxic people, bad habits, clutter in the spare room.

It’s the invisible cargo we clutch like treasure.

The story that you’re “not the kind of person” who succeeds.
The apology you’re still waiting for that will never come.
The version of you that everyone else liked better.
The safety of staying small because soaring might mean falling.
The resentment you water every day like a houseplant.
The dream you keep postponing until “life is less crazy.”

We say we want to fly, yet we strap these things to our chests and wonder why the ground never leaves our feet.

Freedom isn’t given.
It’s subtracted.

Every time you choose forgiveness over being right,
Every time you choose courage over approval,
Every time you choose the scary truth over the comfortable lie, you lose altitude in reverse.
You drop another sandbag.
The sky gets closer.

So ask yourself, honestly...
What are you still carrying that you’re ready to let burn up in the atmosphere?

The moment you release it, you’ll remember wings were never the question.
Letting go was.

What’s one thing you’re finally willing to drop today so tomorrow you can rise?

25/11/2025

She was told to be polite.

To shrink.
To wait her turn.

To say thank you when they took up all the space she was never offered. Then one day she got tired of auditioning for her own life.

She found the audacity.

The audacity to speak when her voice shakes.
The audacity to take the seat at the table and pull it closer.

The audacity to want more, ask for more, and not apologise for the size of her hunger.
The audacity to walk away from anything that asks her to play small.

It wasn’t handed to her.
It wasn’t gifted or inherited.
She had to go find it, like a match in the dark, like a weapon she forged from every “no” she was ever fed.

Ladies, if you don’t have it yet, go get it.

Find the audacity.

It’s been waiting for you to claim it.

The audacity is yours.

Go take up the space you were always meant to fill.

24/11/2025

😉

They don’t need many words, because their awareness speaks in volumes. People with high spiritual intelligence walk into a room and feel the temperature of every heart before anyone says hello. They read the tremor in a voice, the weight behind a smile, the story hiding in someone’s shoulders. They catch the flicker of energy that dances between souls, the subtle shift when truth is being bent, the soft glow when love is trying to stay quiet.

They notice the pause that lasts half a second too long.
They feel the difference between “I’m fine” and I’m fine.
They see the light in your eyes dim or brighten before you’ve even realized it yourself.

And yet, they rarely call it out.

They simply hold space, offer kindness without announcement, and protect your secrets with their silence. Their presence is a safe room where masks aren’t required, because they’ve already seen what’s underneath and they still choose gentleness.

That’s not weakness.
That’s mastery.

A quiet, luminous strength that doesn’t need to prove itself. They observe everything, judge nothing, and love anyway. If you know someone like this, you’ve been touched by rare magic.

If you are someone like this, then thank you for seeing what most miss, and still deciding the world is worth your soft heart. You are the calm in the chaos, the witness who makes people feel truly seen.

And that, beautiful soul, is one of the highest forms of power there is.

Remade in Therapy

05/12/2025

04/12/2025

03/12/2025

02/12/2025

01/12/2025

30/11/2025

29/11/2025

28/11/2025

27/11/2025

26/11/2025

25/11/2025

24/11/2025

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Tuesday	7:30pm - 9pm
Wednesday	7:30pm - 9pm
Saturday	4pm - 8pm
Sunday	1pm - 7pm