Therapist to the Stars

It begins with a message. Not just any message. A message from Selena Gomez. Naturally, my first thought is that this is complete and utter bollocks. The internet is full of scams these days — princes needing emergency funds, billionaires giving away fortunes. And now, apparently, Selena Gomez wants to talk to me. “Hey Amanda, it’s Selena. Are you free to chat?” Hmm. Totally plausible. I ignore it. A few minutes later another message arrives. Then another. Then a photo. Selena Gomez holding up a handwritten sign with my name on it. I squint suspiciously. Photoshop exists. Artificial intelligence exists. People have convinced entire nations of some truly extraordinary things online. A photograph proves absolutely nothing. So I remain sceptical. More photos arrive. Videos. Voice notes. Eventually we arrange a video call because, frankly, my curiosity has now beaten my common sense senseless and left it face-down in a ditch. The screen connects. And there she is. Selena Gomez. An actual human being. In real time. Looking directly at me. For several seconds I simply stare. My brain has gone to lie in a darkened room. “Hello?” she says. And that’s when I hear it. A whistle. A faint, high-pitched note, like a kettle warming up somewhere in the distance. I blink. She speaks again. The whistle returns. Every sentence accompanied by a tiny fweeeeeee. “What was that?” I ask. She sighs heavily. Even that whistles. “You’re not going to judge me, are you?” That should have been my warning. Of course I’m going to judge you. The question itself guarantees something spectacularly stupid is coming next. “I got my tooth pierced.” I stare. “What?” “My tooth.” “Your actual tooth?” “Yes.” “Why?” She shrugs. “I thought it looked cool.” There is a silence. In that silence, I find myself wondering whether there was ever a point in this process where someone said, “Selena, perhaps not.” “And?” “The piercing fell out.” Another whistle. “Now I have a hole.” Another whistle. “Through my front tooth.” Another whistle. By now she sounds like a malfunctioning tea kettle. I bite the inside of my cheek. Hard. Because laughing feels inappropriate. But my God. The woman is whistling. Every sentence escapes through her face like air leaking from a punctured bicycle tyre. To her credit, she seems genuinely devastated. And somehow that makes it worse. That first conversation lasts three hours. Then another. Then another. Before I know it, I’ve accidentally become Selena Gomez’s therapist. Not officially. No qualifications. No certificates. No framed diploma hanging on the wall. Just me. Some random woman from Somerset somehow acting as emotional support human for one of the most famous people on the planet. At first it’s manageable — weekly calls, occasional texts, conversations about fame, pressure, anxiety, growing up under a microscope, the loneliness of being known by millions yet understood by very few. And honestly? I feel for her. Beneath all the celebrity nonsense is simply a young woman carrying an awful lot of weight. So I listen. I reassure. I offer advice. I become the safe place she keeps circling back to. At first it feels quite nice, if I’m honest. Not every day a global superstar decides you’re her personal therapist. We settle into a routine. Every Thursday. She whistles, I listen. Sometimes she cries, sometimes she laughs. Sometimes she accidentally whistles halfway through a serious moment and we both pretend it didn’t happen. Months seem to pass. The calls become longer. More frequent. The boundaries become… hazy, at best. A quick text becomes twenty texts. A twenty-minute chat becomes two hours. A minor wobble becomes a full-scale emotional crisis. My phone is in a constant vibrational state. Unfortunately, Selena doesn’t keep me a secret. That would have been far too sensible. One afternoon she casually mentions that she’s told a few friends about me. “A few friends?” I ask. “Just people who needed someone to talk to.” The way she says it makes it sound harmless. It is not harmless. The first message arrives the following morning. It’s from Ryan Reynolds. Apparently he’s spent three days worrying that his houseplants secretly dislike him. He’s particularly worried about a fern called Kevin, who has allegedly been “giving off negative energy.” I reassure him that the fern is probably not harbouring a personal grudge… and is probably just parched. The next day it’s Keanu Reeves. To be fair, he seems lovely. He spends forty minutes apologising for taking up my time before finally admitting he’s concerned that a crow has been following him for several weeks and may have expectations of him. After that, the floodgates open. My phone becomes the psychiatric equivalent of Heathrow Airport. Messages arrive at all hours. Dwayne Johnson wants reassurance that it isn’t emotionally unhealthy to name all his gym equipment. Ed Sheeran is worried that he accidentally waved at someone six years ago who wasn’t actually waving at him. Lady Gaga asks me whether it’s too late to pretend the meat dress never happened. Selena, unfortunately, is still my most frequent customer. At this point she texts with the urgency of a machine gun loaded with thoughts. Some mornings I wake to seventy unread messages. Sixty-eight of them are hers. “Amanda, do you think people can sense insecurity through sunglasses?” Ping. “Amanda, I just liked my own post by accident and now I’m worried people think I’m some sort of celebrity egotistologist.” Ping. “Amanda, my tooth whistled during an interview and now I’m worried the presenter thinks I was hitting on him.” Ping. Ping. Ping. The woman cannot be left unattended with her own thoughts for more than twelve seconds. Soon the calls become daily. Then hourly. Then seemingly continuous. I can no longer distinguish between my own thoughts and Selena’s latest crisis. The dreaded ping now triggers genuine anxiety. Every notification feels like hearing footsteps behind you in a dark alley you can’t quite outrun. My stomach drops instantly. Ping. Selena. Ping. Ryan and his bloody houseplants. Ping. A world-famous singer requiring immediate emotional support because a barista forgot to draw a heart in their latte foam. At some point, this just becomes my normal. Meanwhile my own life quietly gathers dust in the corner. My worries. My problems. My fears. All pushed aside — always later, always tomorrow, always after I’ve helped somebody else. Until one day you look around and realise you’ve become the caretaker of a hundred emotional fires while your own house burns quietly behind you. And somehow you’re still answering texts as it’s happening. Then comes the final straw. It’s three in the morning. My phone explodes into life. Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping. I groan. Selena, obviously. I answer. “What is it?” There is a pause. Then a whistle. “Sorry.” Another whistle. “I need advice.” I close my eyes. “What happened?” Another pause. A deep breath. A whistle. “Do you think I should get my toe pierced?” Something inside me snaps. And suddenly I find myself standing inside an enormous theatre. Rows upon rows of seats stretch into darkness. Thousands of people. Every seat occupied. Selena sits in the front row. Still whistling. Ryan Reynolds is beside her holding a fern. Keanu Reeves has a crow perched calmly on his shoulder. Lady Gaga is wearing what appears to be a dress made entirely of vegetables. Further back sit actors, athletes, musicians, friends, family, former colleagues and strangers. Everyone I’ve ever listened to. Everyone I’ve ever reassured. Everyone I’ve ever carried. They’re all waiting for me to speak. Then I notice something. Every single person is holding a suitcase. Huge ones. Heavy ones. Suitcases bulging at the seams, stuffed with worries, regrets, insecurities, grief, fear, heartbreak. One by one they walk onto the stage and hand them to me. I take them automatically. Because that’s what I do. The pile grows. And grows. And grows. Until I am buried beneath mountains of luggage. Thousands of lives. Thousands of burdens. Balanced precariously on my shoulders. The audience applauds. They think I’m doing wonderfully. But none of them notice that I can barely breathe. Then I look down. At my feet sits one final suitcase. Small. Old. Covered in dust. My name is written on it. Nobody has opened it. Not even me. The theatre falls silent. The applause stops. Even Selena’s tooth stops whistling. And for the first time I realise something. I’ve spent so much time carrying everybody else’s baggage that I’ve completely ignored my own. The dream ends there. Not with Selena. Not with the celebrities. Not with the endless notifications. Not with Keanu Reeves’ increasingly demanding crow, the emotionally complicated gym equipment, or Lady Gaga’s ongoing relationship with produce. But with that forgotten suitcase. Waiting patiently. Because maybe that’s what the dream was really about. Not celebrities. Not therapy. Not bizarre dental piercings. Maybe it’s about a habit I’ve developed over the years. The funny thing is, this sort of thing already happens in real life. Not the Selena Gomez part, unfortunately. But people do tend to offload on me. Friends. Colleagues. Complete strangers I’ve somehow known for less than ten minutes. I’ve lost count of the number of times someone has sat down beside me and, before I know it, they’re telling me things they’ve never told anyone else. Family dramas. Relationship disasters. Old wounds. Fresh wounds. The sort of worries that keep people staring at ceilings at three in the morning. And there I am, nodding along, making all the appropriate noises, asking thoughtful questions, carrying bits and pieces of their lives away with me afterwards. Which is ironic, really, considering I never actually finished that counselling course I once started. Then again, perhaps that’s exactly why I was drawn to it in the first place. Not because I wanted to fix people, but because people have always seemed oddly comfortable handing me their burdens. Somewhere along the way, listening became second nature. A reflex. An instinct. An automatic urge to help. To listen. To carry. To fix. To make room for everyone else’s problems while quietly shoving my own further into storage. The truth is, some burdens deserve compassion. Some deserve patience. Some deserve a listening ear. But eventually someone has to sit down beside their own suitcase and open it too. Otherwise you wake up one day carrying the entire world… …and discover you’ve accidentally left yourself behind. And somehow, the quietest thing in the room turned out to be the one thing that belonged to me all along.