When people ask me why I chose to train as a person centred therapist, part of my answer reaches much further back than my adult life or my professional training. It goes back to something I remember noticing about myself when I was very young.

As a child, I had a strong sense that people were essentially good, even when their lives or behaviour looked messy, frightening, or confusing from the outside. I remember being puzzled by how quickly adults around me could write people off. Criminals, prisoners, people who were homeless or visibly struggling were often spoken about with fear, judgement, or distance. I did not have the language for it then, but something in me resisted those stories.

I remember thinking, in a very childlike way, that if someone was acting in ways that frightened or disturbed others, there must be a reason. I wondered what had happened to them, who had cared for them, and whether being met with kindness rather than punishment might change something. It did not feel naïve or idealistic at the time. It felt obvious. As though understanding and acceptance were missing pieces rather than soft extras.

Of course, childhood beliefs are simple. They do not account for complexity, harm, or responsibility. But that early sense stayed with me. As I grew older and became more interested in psychology, I noticed how often theories of human behaviour were rooted in suspicion. Many approaches assume that if left to our own devices, we are destructive, selfish, or dangerous, and therefore need to be controlled, corrected, or interpreted by experts.

When I encountered person centred theory, something clicked. Carl Rogers’ belief in the actualising tendency put words to something I had felt intuitively for a long time. The idea that humans have an inherent drive towards growth, connection, and psychological health felt deeply familiar to me. Not as a fantasy about people being perfect, but as a belief that even when someone is hurting others or themselves, there is something meaningful trying to happen underneath.

The actualising tendency does not deny suffering, trauma, or harm. Instead, it suggests that what we call “difficult” or “destructive” behaviour often emerges when a person has been cut off from understanding, acceptance, or safety. From this perspective, growth happens not through control or correction, but through being met with empathy, genuineness, and respect.

For me, believing in the actualising tendency is not optional in person centred practice. It is foundational. Without it, therapy risks becoming another place where people are managed, fixed, or subtly judged. With it, therapy becomes a space where clients are trusted to find their own way, even when that way is uncertain, slow, or surprising.

Looking back, I can see how my younger self was grappling with these ideas in a very simple form. I did not know about theory, research, or clinical practice. I just sensed that people made more sense when you were curious about them, and that kindness was not weakness, but something quietly powerful.

That belief has been tested and refined over time, both personally and professionally. But it remains at the heart of why I practise the way I do. I continue to be struck by the resourcefulness, creativity, and depth of the people I work with. Not because they are exceptional, but because they are human.

Person centred therapy gives me a framework that honours that humanity. It allows me to sit alongside people without needing to diagnose their worth or direct their growth. In many ways, it feels like a continuation of something I knew long before I had the words for it.