NB: all names have been changed to preserve confidentiality, and permission from the client has been given.
When Leo first came to me, he struggled to socialise and found it difficult to say no. This meant he often ended up working overtime and taking on tasks far beyond his job description. At the time, he was the CFO of his company, but also the fire marshal, emergency contact, social organiser, essentially anything anyone needed him to be. He worked long hours and was never able to switch off.
Even simple things like walking into a restaurant alone felt impossible. He would wait outside for the person he was meeting so they could enter together, too anxious to make eye contact for fear that “something bad” might happen. Leo’s need to please everyone was constant, coupled with the painful belief that he could never quite succeed.
Uncovering the root of anxiety and shame
When we unpacked this, his deepest fear emerged: that one day he would be “found out.”
But what did he think they would find? That he was, in fact, an awful person, unworthy of love or acceptance. Rationally, this made no sense. The man sitting in front of me was kind, gentle, thoughtful, the kind of person anyone would struggle to dislike. To understand this disconnect, we had to go back to the beginning.
Leo grew up in a rural area of the UK in the 1980s – a time when “difference” still made many people uncomfortable and being openly gay was far less accepted than it is today. He had no idea what “being gay” even meant until adolescence, but from a young age, he displayed traits that others stereotypically associated with it – a gentle, sensitive nature, and a soft, open demeanour. He got along better with girls than boys, but he still longed to fit in and couldn’t understand why he was treated differently.
By the age of four or five, Leo realised that there was something about him that other boys didn’t like. He didn’t know what it was, only that it made him feel ashamed – something to be hidden at all costs. He became so skilled at hiding that there were stories from his childhood he didn’t share with me until three years into our work together. When he finally did, he was terrified I would reject him.
The inner child who needed protection
We had already identified that when Leo became anxious, a younger version of himself was activated. We called this part ‘Little L’. Little L was a misguided protector, a part of Leo that had developed in childhood and stayed on high alert ever since.
Little L was the part Leo believed truly defined him, yet he was too ashamed to show it to anyone. He told me that even when his partner shared childhood memories, he couldn’t bring himself to reciprocate. This young, tender self, the one he most identified with, was also the one he blamed for his early rejection and bullying. To protect himself, he buried that version deep inside, convinced that his true self was defective and must be kept hidden at all costs.
This belief became the heart of our work: to help Leo show his truest self to the people he loved most, and to see that he would not be rejected. For him, this was a terrifying risk, one he had spent his whole life avoiding. But I knew that what he was hiding was not shameful at all. In fact, it was what made him deeply lovable. Our task was to help him bring that hidden shame into the light, carefully and safely.
Bringing shame into the light
We began with a letter Leo wrote about his childhood experiences. He emailed it to me first, too nervous to read it aloud, and I read it privately before our next session. When he arrived, he was visibly anxious, scanning my face for any sign that I had changed my view of him. I assured him I hadn’t and asked him to read the letter aloud.
The stories were from between the ages of four and 13. They were small, confusing moments that had left deep marks, times when other boys rejected or mocked him for reasons he couldn’t understand. All Little L wanted was to fit in, yet every attempt to connect ended in humiliation or shame.
As Leo read, my heart ached. I wanted to wrap that little boy in my arms and protect him. The events he described revealed nothing wrong with him, only the discomfort of others who sensed difference. But Leo’s young mind couldn’t know that. He concluded instead that he was the problem, that something at his core was wrong and must be hidden if he wanted to belong.
How childhood beliefs shape adulthood
That belief shaped his adult life. He became a master people-pleaser, moulding himself to others’ expectations, always scanning for signs of disapproval. Even with close friends and family, he couldn’t simply “be.” When his parents visited London, he’d overschedule the weekend – theatre, shopping, dinners – desperate to ensure they had the best time. Yet by the end, he’d feel anxious and exhausted, convinced he’d done too much or not enough. The anxiety always found a way to win.
Over time, Leo’s anxiety had become his only trusted guide, a distorted inner compass built on fear. It told him, over and over, that at his core something was wrong. The only way to stay safe was to keep that hidden. The result was paralysis: endless overthinking, constant self-doubt, and total dependence on others’ approval to feel OK.
Healing through connection
After Leo read the letter to me, he felt immediate relief, and this gave him the courage to share it with his long-term partner, Michael. We agreed he would bring Michael into a session and read it there, so I could support both of them.
We spent a couple of months preparing. When the day came, Michael was more nervous than Leo, unsure what he was about to hear but knowing it was serious as he had been invited to a session with Leo’s therapist. As Leo began reading, I noticed Michael seemed somewhat underwhelmed, listening quietly, expression neutral. The silence prompted Leo to elaborate, to add more detail, as if to make the story “serious enough.” When I gently invited Michael to respond, he reached across, hugged Leo, and said softly, “I love you. This changes nothing.”
The relief in the room was palpable. Leo’s whole body relaxed. They left the session hand in hand.
When Leo returned the following week, he told me he was still relieved he had spoken to Michael, but his anxiety had spiked again. Little L was on high alert, waiting for the rejection Leo had always expected. His lifelong pattern had been broken: he had exposed his shame, but the predicted disaster hadn’t come. The anxiety had nowhere to land, so it spun harder, searching for the threat it believed must exist.
Reclaiming the lost self
To keep healing, Leo needed to share his truth with others he trusted. He decided to include a close childhood friend who had known him for decades. As the day approached, his anxiety spiked again. Little L was in overdrive, flooding him with catastrophic predictions and telling him not to open up.
But because of the mindfulness work we’d done, Leo could now name the anxiety for what it was – fear, not fact. He could step back just enough to see it. His bravery during this time was extraordinary. Every instinct told him to hide, yet he kept moving forward. I felt enormous pride in him, and a deep responsibility to keep him safe, but by this stage in our relationship, I knew we could hold it together.
When his friend joined a session, Leo read the letter again. She reached for his hand, told him she loved him, and reassured him that none of it changed how she saw him. She was shocked that he had carried this shame alone for so long and promised to be there whenever he needed support. They hugged, and Leo exhaled. He looked lighter, freer, more at peace than I’d ever seen him.
In the weeks that followed, Leo’s sense of relief deepened. Little L’s grip began to weaken, and for the first time, Leo felt some distance from his anxious inner voice.
Rediscovering joy and meaning
After a short break whilst he was moving house, he returned to therapy subdued and flat. He said he’d lost all enthusiasm for life, that nothing mattered. “It’s like I’ve lost my faith,” he said, “Even though I didn’t believe in anything before.”
From a therapeutic perspective, this was a fascinating response to losing his anxiety. Since childhood, anxiety had been his constant companion and motivator. It had dictated every decision he made. Without it, he felt hollow, as though his purpose had vanished.
For about a month, Leo drifted. We explored this together, gently looking for meaning. I encouraged him to reconnect with what brought him joy, however small, to make choices not from fear or obligation, but from genuine desire.
Then one day, he came in smiling. Over the weekend, he and Michael had driven past a circus, and Leo turned to him and said, “I’ve always liked the circus, I’d love to go.” Michael was surprised; Leo had never mentioned it before. Leo admitted he’d always worried that liking the circus made him seem childish, but in that moment, something shifted. He realised he didn’t care. He wanted to go, and that was enough. It was a small statement, but it marked a profound turning point.
By exposing Little L to love and light, we took away his power. For decades, that hidden part had ruled Leo’s life from the shadows, insisting that only by hiding could he stay safe. But once he was seen and accepted, Little L lost his most convincing argument: “Without me protecting you, your life will fall apart.”
Leo began to see that he no longer needed protection, that who he was, and had always been, was enough. To reach that point, we had to revisit each of Little L’s old “rules,” examine them, and gently disengage. Only after learning to manage his day-to-day anxiety could we uncover the deeper truth: that his core belief (“There is something fundamentally wrong with me”) was not reality but an inherited story, formed by a frightened child trying to make sense of rejection.
Recognising this was life-changing. What had once felt like truth was revealed to be just a misinterpretation, one that could be met with compassion, rewritten, and healed.
Therapist’s reflection
What stands out most about Leo’s journey is the extraordinary courage it takes to meet shame with visibility. Anxiety often disguises itself as protection, a familiar, controlling voice that promises safety. But safety built on avoidance is fragile. True safety comes from being seen and accepted, not from hiding.
By bringing his shame into the light, Leo discovered that what he feared most, rejection, was replaced by connection. And in the quiet space that followed, when the anxious voice finally softened, there was room for something new to emerge: a sense of self that was curious, authentic, and free to want what it wanted, even if that was simply to go to the circus.