Therapist on Two Wheels

​

My version of a midlife crisis didn’t involve a red Corvette—it came with handlebars and a helmet. Somewhere between raising kids and running a therapy practice, I did something wildly out of character: I signed up for motorcycle lessons.

This has been a long-standing dream, and now—firmly planted in midlife—I figured, if not now, when? Learning to ride has been equal parts thrilling, terrifying, humbling, and hilarious. It’s a full-body workout in concentration, balance, and letting go of control, especially when you're in a class full of 20-something speed demons who speak in a foreign dialect of horsepower and torque. (I might need Duolingo just to decode their conversations.)

​

In therapy terms, I’m dancing with my “growth edge”—safely, responsibly, and fully geared up. What’s surprised me most is how many lessons from the road translate directly to therapy, healing, and the way we navigate life.

​

 

Lesson One: Target Fixation

​

One of the first things they warn you about in motorcycle training is target fixation. It’s when you fix your eyes on what you don’t want to hit—like a tree or a curb—and end up steering right into it. The brain means well, trying to protect you by focusing on danger, but ironically, that focus increases the odds of a crash. Where your eyes go, your bike (and body) will follow.

Emotionally, it’s the same. In therapy, I often help clients shift their focus away from what they fear or want to avoid and instead toward what they want to move toward: healing, connection, and purpose.

​

We call it avoiding “dead man goals”—like reducing substance use or losing 10 pounds—because, well, a dead man could achieve those. Instead, we aim for goals that bring life in: more greens, deeper rest, better connection, stronger boundaries. So, stop fixating on the tree or the guard rails. Focus on the open road ahead, look through the turn, and veer towards the exit.

 

Lesson Two: Countersteering and Opposite Action

​

Here’s a brain teaser: to turn right on a motorcycle, you briefly push the handlebars left. It’s called countersteering, and it feels all wrong—until it works. That tiny counterintuitive move helps the bike lean and glide safely through the turn.

In therapy, we use a similar skill called Opposite Action (from DBT). Feeling anxious and want to cancel plans? Go anyway. Feeling low and want to hide? Move your body. The emotional instinct pulls one way; healing asks you to go the other.

Like riding, it takes practice, trust, and a whole lot of repetition. But once you feel it working, you’ll trust it more.

​

Lesson Three: Suit Up—Emotionally and Literally

​

To stay safe on the road, a smart rider suits up—helmet, gloves, jacket, and boots. It’s the same in therapy.

Before diving into tough memories or big emotions, we resource—asking, What strengths, supports, and tools do you already have? What do you need to “gear up” so you can go there safely?

Just like riding gear won’t prevent every fall, emotional gear won’t stop all pain, but it does protect you from lasting harm. In therapy, we help you build that emotional armor—then practice using it, so you’re ready for the ride ahead.

​

Life (and Healing) Is a Curvy Road

​

Motorcycle riding is teaching me more than throttle control and lane positioning. It’s teaching me presence, perspective, and how to lean into the uncomfortable moments without panicking. Like during the inevitable stalling of the bike. It’s helping me trust my instincts, along with my clutch. Therapy, honestly, is no different. We learn how to move through it with support, tools, and a bit more grace. Like breaking with ease (which I have yet to master).

​

So if you’re navigating your own midlife plot twist (motorcycle optional), therapy can be your training ground. We practice. We gear up. And most importantly, we keep our eyes on where we want to go. Because where you look—really look toward—is where you’ll end up.

​

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a helmet to buckle, a curve to lean into, and just enough sense to try and keep the rubber side down.

 

Throttle on,

Mandy