INTERVIEW BIO WITH NIA HENDERSON
Why is it important to feel a sense of alignment in therapy? What does it mean to lack alignment when it comes to race, culture, and systemic issues? How does that impact a person, a couple, or their body?
Starting with myself, I experienced so much disconnection as a Black queer woman in this world—disconnection, tension in my chest, a pit in my stomach, and feeling cut off from myself all felt familiar as a survival coping mechanism. This can be the experience for marginalized folks—when in a state of survival, disconnection becomes the norm. Parts of yourself feel unworthy of taking up space.
In the past seven years, I have had more moments of alignment, where I can feel ease in my body and the energy of connection. These are cues that I am in a safe space, that it’s okay to turn outward and connect with people. From a nervous system perspective, there are systems in place that signal when it is safe to connect with others. This allows us to be more present in relationships, within ourselves, and in the world.
When that sense of safety isn’t there, our nervous systems stay in a state of survival, which can manifest as disconnection, feeling on edge, conflict in relationships, shutting down, and not getting our needs met. As humans, we are relational beings who need safety and connection. That’s why the somatic feeling of alignment is so important—it helps us recognize safety versus survival.
The question then becomes:
How do we get back to our natural state of feeling safe and connected to others?
What cultural artifacts from your time in California have persisted in your life, and which have you resisted?
Living in Southern California—specifically in the Long Beach and LA area—shaped a lot of my experiences. Long Beach has a strong sense of pride in its own culture. Even though there’s a piece of LA there, there’s also a resistance to being part of LA—it has its own subculture. People call it “the ghetto by the sea.” There’s a deep-rooted hip-hop presence, a blend of big-city energy with the calmness of being by the water, and a coexistence of passion, art, and street culture. And with the sun always shining, I spent a lot of time at the beach, on the bluff, and listening to music by the Long Beach Orchestra. My family went to farmers' markets every week.
California holds a special place in my heart and mind because it allowed me to engage with spaces beyond just home. There was an entire world at my disposal—vast biodiversity, access to mountains, oceans, and deserts. Engaging with nature in that way felt really special. Long Beach and LA attract people from all over the U.S. and beyond—people who were the “different” ones in their hometowns, seeking a space to express themselves creatively. That created such an interesting and diverse culture. It was an incredible place to grow up, and from preschool onward, I was exposed to people from different backgrounds. It was normal to be around different cultures, to coexist, and to feel a sense of belonging even while being different.
Now that I’ve lived in Washington and Chicago, I see how redlining has shaped these cities in ways that felt less visible in my experience growing up in California. I was in diverse classrooms and around diverse family units. Many of my childhood friends came from immigrant families, and I grew up immersed in different cultures and hearing different languages. I feel privileged to have had that experience.
At the same time, there are parts that have been hard for me. It’s been sad to see the gentrification and the loss of some of the things that made living there feel magical. California has a robust economy, but I think that has made it harder to meet the needs of folks who have been marginalized. There are so many people who are unhoused and not getting what they need—it’s frustrating. The city gets glamorized, but there’s a whole reality that people don’t always see.
If you had to name something you wish couples, families, or individuals knew more about—something that, if they did, they wouldn’t need you—what would it be?
I wish couples connected with curiosity—as if it were their best friend. If they asked more compassionate questions, they wouldn’t need me. Half of what I do with couples is coaching them on how to ask questions that deepen understanding. Once that skill is in place, it helps things feel less activating in relationships.
For families—especially the children and parents I’ve worked with—the practice of patience and compassion is so important. It’s hard to build when defenses are up, but remembering that you are not each other’s enemy makes all the difference. The challenge is that it’s hard to model something you’ve never seen modeled yourself. But at the core, you are not each other’s worst enemy.
For individuals, especially those who have experienced sociocultural trauma and other forms of interpersonal trauma, I wish people understood the larger systemic impacts at play. If they did, they wouldn’t need me as much. Trauma—especially in development—tends to feel deeply personal because the brain makes it about you. But when you zoom out, you realize that so much of what you carry is shaped by the systems you exist within.
Recognizing that can be freeing.
We throw around words like safety, trust, and love—but what does a safe relationship actually look like? How do you look at a couple and think, “This is good stuff here”?
One thing I tend to go back to with the couples I work with is that a safe relationship looks like having the permission to explore yourself and each other fully—without criticism, blame, or defensiveness. There will always be moments in relationships where those things come up, but the question is, how do we repair them?
A safe relationship looks like compassion and curiosity. Curiosity will be your best friend, deepening your shared understanding of one another. Safety isn’t about being cool, calm, and collected—it’s about being connected to your emotional experience. It’s about having spaces for choice, where you don’t have to do things out of habit, because that’s how you were raised or a role you feel you need to fulfill. Instead, you can be attuned to your experiences, allowing for true choice, exploration, and curiosity.
I see myself as a guide. One of the first things I do in couples work is explore family of origin—looking at the generations before us, recognizing patterns, beliefs, and identifying what you want to carry forward and what you want to leave behind. This creates a more holistic and systemic view of relationships, helping you understand what you expect, want, and don’t need, while also creating space for choice. What do you want to pick up? What do you want to put down? What do you want to leave behind? What do you truly know about relationships?
We also go through the vulnerability cycle, mapping out patterns from a place of non-judgment—a reflection of lived experience. I try to incorporate family history into this process, exploring what vulnerabilities arise in interactions and what behaviors emerge as a result, recognizing that these responses are part of something bigger.
We work on tangible communication tools, and a big part of this is slowing down. Slowing down—in both relational and individual therapy—is your best friend. Therapy provides a space to pause, reflect, and go deeper in a particular direction, asking more questions. I try to mirror or model this for clients.
What is your universal piece of advice?
Be patient with yourself and the process. That’s a piece of advice I always return to because we often want things to happen quickly, and life can feel like it’s moving fast. But if we allow ourselves to be patient, we create space for discovery, ease, compassion, and connection.
The mess within us is what makes us whole.