The Chair

What can a therapist’s chair tell us about the work of holding space?
In this reflection, I explore the quiet presence of the chair I sit in every day - the one that supports me as I support others. It’s a piece of furniture, yes - but also a witness to stories, emotion, silence, and healing. A reminder that sometimes, the simplest things in the room carry the deepest weight.

It’s just a chair.

Simple, sturdy, upholstered in a muted pink that blends into the aesthetics of the room. No fancy recline, no ergonomic upgrades - just a quietly reliable presence in my therapy room.

But if this chair could speak, I wonder what it would say.

It would speak of the weight it holds - mine, mostly. The stillness it anchors as I sit across from clients in moments both delicate and raw. It would tell you that I often shift forward when something important lands, lean back when space is needed, or quietly ground myself into its arms when the room gets heavy. This chair knows the rhythm of sessions. The swell of emotion, the quiet pauses, the dance of holding space without intruding. It has been here for grief, for trauma, for laughter that bubbles up unexpectedly after someone celebrates a glimmer or win in their life.

It’s witnessed things that never leave the room - but that stay, somehow, in the fibres of the work. The chair doesn’t judge. It doesn’t fix. It just stays, session after session. Present. Reliable. Quiet.

And in some ways, that’s the work.

I think about how much this chair holds - not just physically, but symbolically. It holds my role. My capacity. My own humanity. The moments when I feel strong, attuned, and deeply connected… and the moments when I feel unsure, exhausted, or tender from my own life.

It’s also a quiet collaborator. A reminder that holding space doesn’t mean having all the answers. Sometimes it means simply sitting - with intention, with presence, with care and letting what needs to unfold, unfold.

And perhaps most poetically, while one chair holds me, another holds you.

You, the client, who brings your world into this room each week. Who sits down, maybe nervously, maybe wearily, and allows yourself to be seen. Your chair, too, has its own stories. The fidgeting, the silence, the deep breaths, the crossed legs, the softening shoulders.

Between us, these two chairs hold more than bodies. They hold stories, connection, tension, and trust. They hold what's unspoken and what’s finally said out loud.

So yes - it’s just a chair.

But from where I sit, it’s also a quiet witness to healing. And I’m grateful for it.

"Regulation isn’t about being calm — it’s about being connected."