I didn’t set out to build websites. I set out to build my own — a home for my therapy practice, something that felt like me and didn’t read or look like every other therapy site I’d seen.
I built it myself twice, reached the limit of what I could do, and paid someone else to take it further — someone who told me he knew what he was doing and understood my profession. What came back missed everything I’d asked for. It didn’t reflect my work or my voice, and it didn’t look good either. It wasn’t the first impression I wanted a potential client to have.
So I learned more, went back to my website, and became absorbed in the whole process — the words, the fonts, the spacing, the palette, the feel of a page that actually sounds like a person. Somewhere in there, two things became clear: I loved doing it, and I had an instinct for it — the design and the writing, the part many therapy sites struggle with most.
I learned that a therapy website has to do several things at once. It has to be clear, informative, findable and professional, but it also has to carry something much harder to define: a feeling of being met and a sense of the therapist behind it.
There's a phrase from Renaissance portraiture — atti e moti mentali, coined by Leonardo da Vinci — “the attitudes and motions of the mind.” The idea that a face, a gesture, a likeness — or even a website — should reveal the person within, not just how they look. That's the spirit I bring to each site I build: not an idealised or stylised version of you, but a truer and more grounded one.
Creative writing and a love of art have long been part of my life — and years of listening, for what someone can’t quite say, have taught me to hear how a person expresses their own inner life. That’s the sensibility I bring to my design work: how a sentence sounds, where it breaks, how the eye moves across the page, what a space holds, and what's left unsaid. It’s the same attention, turned now toward helping the right clients find you.
