Why Phone Therapy Works for Quiet Souls and Tired Hearts
- Helen Moores
- Apr 20
- 4 min read
The late afternoon light pools across the flagstone floor in the conservatory, warm, golden and slow. Outside, the garden has gone a little wild, but I quite like it that way. The lavender’s flopping over, the roses are staging a cheerful rebellion — but the bees seem happy enough (as I stop Millie from catching one in her mouth just in the nick of time). Mr. B. winds through my legs, his black fluffy tail flicking, then disappears through the open door with a meow. Millie, satisfied with her efforts, has found a patch of sunlight in the garden and is lying belly-up on the grass, not a care in the world.
It’s peaceful. Not silent — the crows make sure of that — but peaceful in the way that life becomes when you allow it to be.
Much of modern life is spent trying to keep up — with expectations, with the noise, with the world itself. And many of us, quietly and without fanfare, have begun stepping back. Not in defiance, necessarily. Not even out of fear. But simply out of longing. Longing for rhythm, for rest, for spaces that let us exhale.
I suppose, in many ways, that’s what drew me to offer therapy by phone.
The Comfort of the Familiar
There’s something beautifully old-fashioned about speaking to someone on the phone. Not the urgent, rushed kind of call we’ve all come to dread, but the kind that used to happen in the evenings — when the world had gone still and the kettle had just whistled. Conversations that wandered, your mug steaming beside you. Connecting and sharing that didn’t require eye contact or over-thought expressions. Just a voice on the other end of the line.
For some people, that’s the safest way to speak. Without the weight of being looked at. Without the distractions of a screen. Without having to explain the pause between your words.
There’s a deep comfort in that.
A kind of gentleness that lets things unfold naturally. And for those who’ve always found people a little too much, or a little too close, this way of connecting can feel like a breath of fresh air—soft, steady, unintrusive.
Therapy That Matches the Pace of a Slower Life
Sometimes I take calls from my writing desk, overlooking the rolling Somerset hills. Often, I speak to clients just after walking the hills, when I've kicked off my boots and settled into my armchair. Sometimes there's a fire, sometimes a storm at the windows — sometimes only the birds singing outside.
But there’s always tea, a dog, and a cat or two — and a listening ear, ready and willing.
What I’ve found, in this quieter way of working, is that the work deepens. The relationship strengthens. The space increases. Space to breathe. Not just for me, but for those I work with. Without the pressure of showing up in a visual way, people tend to show up more honestly. They speak more slowly, more thoughtfully. They allow their emotions to rise, without the anxiety of being observed. They’re more at ease with silence—and in that silence, things soften, allowing other things to break free.
No Commuting, No Waiting Rooms, No Fuss
I often think of my grandparents, who had their telephone nestled on a table in the hallway, with a notepad, a pen, and a crocheted doily under the receiver. When they sat there, it was an event. A ritual. They spoke slowly, deliberately. They listened deeply. They took it in turns to sit in 'the chair' and listen, share, connect.
The world paused for those calls.
There’s something sacred in that simplicity, that tradition.
Today, therapy by phone still carries that sense of being both relationally intimate and effortless. There’s no journey to make. No waiting room to navigate. No pressure to explain why you’re still in your dressing gown at 10am. You can be in your garden. You can be walking beneath trees. You can be tucked beneath a blanket, with a storm rolling overhead.
You can be exactly as you are — and still feel heard.
For the Quiet Ones
Phone therapy isn’t for everyone, but for those of us who need gentleness, it can be a balm. For the quiet ones. The ones who feel most themselves among trees or streams. The ones who’ve learned to take their time. The ones who feel deeply, think slowly, and speak more freely when no one’s watching.
It’s a way to connect without compromising your solitude. To share, without needing to explain why your eyes are looking out the window rather than into someone else’s.
And maybe, most of all, it’s a reminder that help doesn’t have to feel intense to be heard. That sometimes, the softest spaces are the ones where the real work can begin.
If you feel drawn to something quieter, gentler, more rooted—this way of working might suit you. I offer therapy by phone and online, from my home to yours, wherever that may be.
If you'd like to know more, you’re welcome to reach out.
No urgency. No pressure.
Just drop me a note, when you’re ready.
