Not Like This
The place where the hidden agreement becomes impossible to ignore.
The cost of staying too long is becoming unrecognizable to yourself.
You know the feeling.
Not the dramatic version. Not the meltdown, the breakdown, the obvious sign. The other one.
Sunday evening, still laptop-open. A low hum of something you won't name. Your body already braced for a week your mind keeps calling manageable. The week ending exactly like the last one. You'll be fine by morning. You always are.
Or the meeting where you perform just enough enthusiasm to keep things smooth. Where you watch yourself adjust your tone, your ask, your ambition — and do it so automatically you barely notice. Where you wonder, briefly and without drama, when you made the decision to take up exactly this much space. Not more.
That is not a mood. That is not burnout. That is not something a long weekend fixes. It is a signal your body has been sending longer than your calendar will admit.
That is an agreement.
You made it somewhere — with a company, a role, a version of professionalism, a particular idea of what kind of woman you were allowed to be here. It was probably invisible at the time. It is probably invisible now. But it is not subtle.
It shows up in the things you don't say. In the email you rewrote three times to make more palatable. In the ask you postponed again. In the exhaustion that has no clean source.
You are not falling apart. You are too competent to fall apart. You are holding everything perfectly and privately sick of the shape you are holding it in.
You want to stay. You just can't stay like this.
One session. One agreement. One clean refusal.
This is not a framework. It is not a process. It is not a checklist.
For 90 minutes, you come to Trish. Together, you locate the specific agreement that keeps pulling you back into self-abandonment.
Not the general one. Not people-pleasing or self-doubt — those words are too soft and too imprecise to be useful. The one that is yours. The one with your particular logic, your particular justification, your particular cost. The one that sounds almost reasonable when you say it out loud, because you've been saying it for years and you've gotten very good at making it sound reasonable.
You will name it. Precisely. In language that actually fits what you've been living.
Then you will draft a refusal. One refusal. Specific, clean, usable. Something your body can feel before your mind starts explaining it away. Not a boundary statement. Not a therapy exercise. Not an affirmation. A first refusal — something you can take into your actual work, your actual relationships, your actual week — and mean.
Precision, not comfort.
This is not therapy. There is no processing for its own sake.
This is not venting. Venting is a pressure release. This goes under the pressure.
This is not a discovery call for anything. Trish is not auditioning. You are not being assessed.
It is not soft. It is not designed to make you feel better while you stay exactly where you are. The session is the work. You will be met with precision, not comfort. That distinction matters.
A clear beginning is worth more than a blurry epiphany.
A named agreement — in your language, not a diagnostic.
A first refusal — drafted together, scaled to what you are actually ready to do right now, and grounded enough to use when the old agreement tightens.
Clarity that has a specific address — not a vague sense of relief but a sentence you will actually recognize the next time the agreement tries to collect from you.
This is the beginning of something. Not the resolution of everything. The beginning.
$297
One session. 90 minutes. Trish, live, with you.
No packages, no tiers, no bonuses to justify it. It is priced here because the decision to book should not be the hard part. The session is the hard part. That is by design.
Book Not Like This — $297This session is also where On My Terms begins. If you find yourself wanting the whole container, this is how you taste the work first. No obligation. Just the knowledge of what it feels like to stop negotiating against what you already know.