Why so many therapy websites look the same — and why it matters.

A pale palette. A photo of the therapist, arms folded, gently smiling. A hero line about a "safe, non-judgemental space." Three service boxes underneath. A testimonials carousel. A contact form.

None of it is badly done, exactly. It's just that you could swap the name and photo on almost any of these sites for another therapist's, and very little else would need to change.

That sameness isn't an accident, and it isn't really anyone's fault. But it matters more than it might seem — both for you, and for the clients trying to choose between you.

Most therapist websites are built on one of a small number of platforms, using one of a smaller number of layouts within them. Even sites that look superficially different are often running the same underlying structure: hero image, short reassuring strapline, a row of service cards, a bio section, a contact form.

This isn't really the fault of any particular platform. It's what happens when a layout has to work reasonably well for thousands of different practitioners at once. To do that, it has to sand down anything too specific, too unusual, or too particular to one person's way of working. What's left is a shape that fits almost anyone — and therefore expresses almost no one in particular.

There's a reasonable instinct behind a lot of this convergence. Therapy is a profession built on discretion and containment, and many practitioners are, quite sensibly, wary of anything that could look attention-seeking or unprofessional. Following the established pattern feels like the cautious, credible choice.

The platforms reinforce this further. A template that photographs well for a wide range of therapists, and reassures a wide range of clients, is a safer commercial bet than one built around a single distinctive voice. Safety, for a template provider, means broad appeal. Broad appeal, almost by definition, means sameness.

Consider it from the other side. A prospective client, already anxious, is often comparing several therapists' websites in the same sitting, trying to work out who might be right for them.

When those sites all look and sound essentially the same, the one thing that actually matters — whether this particular therapist seems like the right fit — becomes almost impossible to judge from the website itself. So the decision quietly shifts onto whatever is left to compare: price, location, or simply who happened to have space this week.

That's a loss for the client, who deserved a better basis for such an important choice. But it's also a loss for you, because it means your website isn't doing the one job that would actually help the right person find you: showing them something true and specific about how you work, so they can recognise it.

None of this is an argument for novelty, quirkiness, or trying too hard to stand out. A website that's unusual purely to be unusual creates its own kind of dissonance — and can undermine trust just as effectively as a website that's indistinguishable from everyone else's.

The aim isn't difference for its own sake. It's specificity: a site that looks and reads the way it does because that's genuinely how you work, not because it was built to seem interesting.

A hand-built site doesn't have to accommodate anyone else's practice. It can be paced the way you actually work, worded the way you actually talk, and structured around what you actually want a prospective client to understand first.

That's not a small difference dressed up as a big one. It's the difference between a website that could belong to almost any therapist, and one that could only really belong to you.

First Meeting designs and writes distinctive websites for therapists. As a practising psychotherapist, I build every site from a proper conversation about your particular way of working, rather than from a template built to fit everyone reasonably well.