Why Liam J. Wakefield believes therapy isn’t reflection—it’s action in the places we’d rather avoid.

Therapy has long been saddled with a tired stereotype: a leather chair, a faintly sympathetic nod, and an endless rehashing of childhood grievances. But Liam J. Wakefield doesn’t do clichés. In his world, therapy isn’t soft-focus handholding—it’s tactical, unflinching, and deeply creative. It’s not about marinating in the past but about confronting the present: the patterns that quietly sabotage you, the dialogues you run from, the truths you’d rather not face.

In this second conversation for Hinton Magazine X Liam J. Wakefield, Curtis Hinton sits down with the therapist who’s as much strategist as he is counsellor. The subject: how to strip psychotherapy down to its working parts and use it in the grit of daily life—whether that’s managing conflict, resisting distraction, or daring to sit with discomfort when every instinct tells you to escape.

Photographer: AGH Photography @aghphotographyuk

Let’s cut the cliché: therapy isn’t just about sitting on a couch and talking about your childhood. How do you personally define therapy when applied to real life?

Therapy, to me, is less about the external seat someone occupies and more about the internal position they’re trapped in—how much that place impedes action, growth, and connection. It is not primarily about me, the therapist; it is about the confrontation with oneself. At its depth, therapy isn’t soft—it’s the practice of holding up a mirror and daring to face what you’d rather avoid: the contradictions, the blind spots, the patterns that quietly sabotage you.

In real life, therapy is tactical, but also a creative act that can’t be confined to textbooks. It is abstract expression, the art of learning how to live better: to love without self-sabotage, to fail without collapse, to succeed without arrogance. It is the cultivation of the very parts that once hid your wounds, strengthening them until they stand together as a cohesive formation of resilience, clarity, and courage.

If someone’s never stepped into a therapist’s office, what’s one principle or mindset shift from your work they could borrow today that would make a tangible difference?

Stop asking, “Why is this happening to me?” and start asking, “What is this situation demanding of me?” That small shift changes everything. People get so caught up in the external locus of control and feel life is happening to them, then the truth is they create the reality they exist in. It moves you from victimhood to authorship, from helplessness to agency. Life doesn’t always offer answers, but it always presents demand, how you meet them defines the shape of your character.

So when someone comes to me I will let them know that this process will not be easy, it won’t be quick, and it will challenge you. But we have an innate capacity to withstand suffering, but what defines us between those who grow and those who stand still is the internal dialogue we take. 

How do therapeutic concepts like boundaries, self-compassion or emotional awareness translate into everyday things — like replying to an email, managing conflict, or handling burnout?

Boundaries are not abstract walls; they’re moment-to-moment choices. A boundary can be as simple as taking a breath before you hit reply. Self-compassion isn’t a grand gesture; in fact the compassionate self is one that takes a moment before action to recognise the consequences. It’s allowing yourself a break when the inner critic insists you don’t deserve one, it’s holding the harshness of that inner dialogue and acting from a place of love and understanding. Emotional awareness isn’t just analysing your feelings through journaling—it’s catching yourself mid-argument and realising, that you’re projecting your days stress into your partner. These principles aren’t lofty ideals. They’re the mechanics of how we preserve our energy, dignity, and relationships in the grit of daily life.

It’s very easy to give in to the internal dialogue that can so quickly dismantle our lives. But to harness self awareness to the degree in which boundaries, emotional regulation, and self compassion become a tool that helps with growth and autonomy. 

A lot of people say they’re “self-aware,” but that doesn’t always lead to better decisions. What’s the next step after self-awareness, and how do we avoid getting stuck in our own heads?

Self-awareness without action is self-absorption. I see it constantly—people who know their triggers, their moods, even the origins of their patterns, yet remain stuck in the same cycles. Claiming “I know what’s up with me…” Awareness becomes proof they are “unfixable,” it becomes pathology to justify the work they’re NOT doing.

We live in a culture flooded with self-help books, podcasts, and endless conversations about trauma—yet mental health issues and suicides keep rising. The echo chamber of awareness without practice breeds hopelessness. The truth is, people don’t need more softness or endless reflection; they need to face their suffering, to risk doing the hard thing, to test their resilience instead of fearing they will break. We are far stronger than we allow ourselves to believe. So many claim they are doing the work, but if they were to pull down the mask and stop performing, what work are they actually doing for them core of who they are? 

The next step is translation—turning awareness into practice. The work is not just admitting it, it’s taking action in real time, and it’s often doing the thing that feels most uncomfortable within oneself. Awareness is only the map(and one that’s never truly clear); action is the journey. Without the second, you’re standing still with a very self-assumed, atlas. One that’s is marred by biases. 

Therapy often asks people to sit with discomfort — but our lives are built for distraction. What do you say to someone who wants growth but keeps reaching for the escape hatch?

I’d tell them, every time you escape from that discomfort, you rob yourself of transformation. Growth only lives on the far side of discomfort. I talk about entering a dark house within themselves, this reflects the unconscious mind, filled with pain and fear and discomfort, this is where they must enter to recognise it’s all their own creation. Distraction feels like relief, but it’s really pain avoidance dressed as comfort. The question isn’t whether you can sit with pain—it’s whether you can sit long enough to let it teach you something. Discomfort is the tuition fee for personal wisdom, and this is the hard work. You either pay it willingly, or you keep paying in cycles of repetition. Reading a book on trauma might give you insight, and you can relate to it; then tell everyone you’ve done the work because reading that book and podcast highlighted it for you and you recognised it, but that’s very different to sitting with in, holding space in discomfort and then recognising that you can change your past, you can only change your relationship to the parts of you holding on to it. 

You work with people from all walks of life—leaders, creatives, parents, professionals. What’s one universal therapeutic tool or practice you wish more people understood and used?

Journaling is a great tool. Not the Instagram-aesthetic kind, but raw, unfiltered, private writing. It’s the simplest, most accessible form of therapy—a dialogue with yourself and recognising that dialogue in its unguarded truth. Most people live with unexamined thoughts ricocheting inside their heads. Writing them down slows the chaos, orders the noise, and gives you perspective. It gives you something of substance to reflect on. It doesn’t solve everything, and I’ve certainly had people push back with this, so I’m not saying it’s an antidote to suffering, but it makes the invisible visible—and you can’t change what you refuse to see.

If therapy is a mirror, what do you think most people are afraid to see — and how can we make that reflection feel more empowering than intimidating?

Most people are terrified to see the part of themselves that isn’t yet who they want to be— the cowardice, the resentment, the unmet potential. But here’s the truth: those shadows are not indictments, they’re invitations. The mirror doesn’t just reflect who you are; it reveals who you could become if you had the courage to face what’s there. To make it empowering, you have to stop treating the reflection as a verdict and start seeing it as a draft—unfinished, but full of possibility. So write the new script, and don’t let the saboteur take apart your full potential. Allow life to happen, feel it all, and know that no matter how hard it gets, you can and will get through. 

What becomes clear in speaking with Liam J. Wakefield is that therapy, at its best, isn’t ornamental. It isn’t a self-help slogan you underline in a paperback or a podcast epiphany you forget by Tuesday. It’s something lived, tested, and often uncomfortable—a mirror you learn to stop flinching at. His approach strips away the performance and reminds us that growth isn’t about endless reflection but about the risk of acting differently, however small the step.

This series doesn’t promise easy answers—because easy answers don’t exist. What it does offer is a challenge: to see therapy not as a distant practice reserved for crisis, but as a daily tactic for building resilience, clarity, and courage. And in a culture addicted to distraction, perhaps that is the most radical act of all.