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What we found, very quickly, was that the need was great and the care we offered was met with open hearts (and, luckily, people really loved the tiny house). Even with the internal doubts shaped by systems of white supremacy about what a “professional” therapy practice should look like, the community revealed something sacred: that all of it belongs, and that there is enough for everyone if we make it so. For nearly five years we ran sessions out of that little house, alternating between our work with clients and caring for our children. Slowly, other therapists who shared our belief in accessible, affirming, community-rooted care began to join us. Together, we became the Irvington Counseling Collective, now a nonprofit serving hundreds of people each year, and likely over fifteen hundred since those early backyard days. But if I’m honest, this year has been hard to celebrate. Like many of you, we’ve been navigating fear: fear about what we can safely say on our website, fear of retaliation for naming our values, fear that the mission we’ve built could be jeopardized if we lose insurance credentialing or funding because we refuse to hide who we serve. We’ve spent months debating how to stay both brave and sustainable, and some days it feels impossible to even speak. But we must speak anyway. As Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. warned, “A nation that continues year after year to spend more money on military defense than on programs of social uplift is approaching spiritual death.” I feel that heaviness today. On November 1, over 600,000 Indiana residents, many of them children and elders, will face food insecurity while those in power sit on levers that could alleviate suffering. Corporations pour money into excess while communities go hungry. It is almost too much to bear. The community mental health system as it currently exists is, too often, violent and exploitative for both clients and clinicians. Those seeking help are met with under-resourced, dehumanizing systems where care is rationed, and those providing it are pressured to meet profit quotas rather than human needs. We built Irvington Counseling Collective as a balm to that “business as usual” model: a place where vulnerability is met with dignity, and where therapists can do their work with integrity, not burnout. The work of therapy has always been political, and our organization was born out of justice, rooted in the belief that everyone deserves care, safety, and the chance to belong. And so, just as we did when we built that tiny house, we are choosing once again to trust that speaking our truth clearly, even when it is risky, is an act of love. Our teachers in Chicago remind us that when those who seek to harm move in silence, we must form a crowd and stay loud. I am inspired by leaders who do just that, like Chicago’s Mayor Brandon Johnson, who recently refused to let a reporter use the word “illegals,” reminding us that language can either uphold or dismantle humanity. I am also guided by the teachings of Dr. Stephen Porges: “If you want to improve the world, start by making people feel safer.” So, as we enter our ninth year, we recommit to this: to keep speaking up. To keep creating a haven for all people, but especially for the undocumented immigrant who is entitled to safety, the postpartum parent doing their best while utterly exhausted and loving their child fiercely, the Black American who continues to navigate systemic racism, and the trans kid who only dresses as their true self when no one is watching. At this time of year, we are also ramping up efforts to sustain our Mental Health Relief Fund, which helps make therapy accessible for low-income, Black, Brown, Indigenous, Transgender, and undocumented residents, often reducing the cost of a session to as little as five dollars. This fund is one of the ways we live our mission every day, with more than $750 of our narrow weekly budget supporting folks in our care. And yet, we know that tangible survival is on the line for so many. Food security organizations across Indiana are facing overwhelming need, and we recognize that many of you are feeling the pressure to stretch your care, your time, and your giving in multiple directions. Everyone needs support, and there is no wrong way to contribute to the wellbeing of our shared community right now. All of this work is an act of hope. And even when that hope feels small, we must keep tending it together. Thank you for letting us sit with you, celebrate you, and cherish you for the past nine years. With care,
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