If you’d told me a year ago that I’d be sitting here writing about therapy—and a therapy called EMDR at that—I’d have laughed in your face. Therapy was something other people did, not me. And yet, here I am, telling you how it saved me from myself.
But before we get to that, let me start with a confession: I had a problem.
For years, my relationships were a revolving door. Things would start well enough, but the moment another woman even glanced at my boyfriend—whether it was a colleague, a bartender, or a passing stranger—I’d spiral. I wasn’t possessive; I was paranoid. Every smile, every laugh, every glance became evidence of betrayal. And, naturally, this kind of behaviour doesn’t exactly make you the poster child for a healthy relationship.
After my last breakup—one fuelled by jealousy over my boyfriend’s actual cousin—my best friend Rebecca finally said, “Enough.” She told me she’d had similar issues in the past but had seen an EMDR therapist in Harley Street who completely changed her life.
I was sceptical. “EMDR?” I asked. “What’s that? Sounds like something from a hippy sci-fi film.”
“It does sound ridiculous,” Rebecca admitted, “but it works. Look her up—Tracey Brittain. She’s the real deal.”
So, I did what anyone with a smartphone does these days: I Googled EMDR therapists and EMDR therapist London. What I discovered was alarming. While there are plenty of EMDR therapists advertising themselves online, not all of them are properly qualified.
In fact, a recent survey of EMDR therapists in Harley Street found that 18 out of 30 weren’t even qualified to practise EMDR. Even worse, five of them had no recognised therapy qualifications at all.
According to the EMDR Association UK, this is a serious issue. They explained that EMDR is a powerful technique and, when used correctly, can help people overcome trauma, anxiety, and other debilitating conditions. However, in the hands of someone untrained, it can be harmful. A poorly trained therapist might fail to handle a client’s distress properly, potentially leaving them worse off than before.
Thankfully, Rebecca had done her research, and I found myself at 10 Harley Street, sitting in the plushest reception area I’d ever seen. The space whispered money, success, and just the faintest whiff of lavender.
Then Tracey Brittain appeared, warm and approachable, with a twinkle in her eye and a brilliant sense of humour. “Sorry about the roadworks outside,” she said as she shook my hand. “I think they’ve been here since Henry VIII was alive. If they’re not listed as a heritage site yet, they should be.”
Tracey led me into a calming therapy room, all soft lighting and comfortable chairs. She put me at ease immediately, and we began to talk about why I was there.
“I keep losing boyfriends,” I admitted, embarrassed. “I get jealous, I freak out, and they leave. What’s wrong with me?”
Tracey smiled kindly. “At the moment, we don’t need to know what’s ‘wrong.’ What we’ll do instead is decode the memory that’s causing your anxiety. Something in your past is making you feel threatened in these situations, and that’s what we’ll address.”
We started the EMDR session, which involved me following her hand movements with my eyes as she asked me to focus on certain memories. At first, I felt silly. I even thought, This can’t possibly work.
Then something shifted. Tracey paused in one corner of my visual field, and suddenly a wave of heat surged through me. My body tensed, my chest tightened, and before I knew it, I was crying so hard I could barely see.
It wasn’t pretty—I’m talking full-on snot bubbles—but it was transformative. By the end of the session, I felt like a weight I didn’t even know I’d been carrying had disappeared.
In the weeks that followed, I almost forgot about the therapy. Life went on. I met Mike, who was kind, funny, and the sort of man who would have sent old Amelia into a tailspin of jealousy.
But then something miraculous happened. Mike mentioned he was going on a work night out to celebrate a new contract. He casually added that all his colleagues were women.
And me? I just shrugged. “Have fun,” I said. “I’ll be catching up on Game of Thrones.”
That was the moment I realised my problem was gone—completely and utterly gone. EMDR had worked, and it had worked forever.
If you’re considering EMDR, my advice is this: do your research. Look for an accredited therapist through the EMDR Association, and don’t be afraid to ask about their qualifications. EMDR is a powerful tool, but it’s only as good as the person wielding it. And trust me, when you find someone like Tracey, it will change your life.
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