My old supervisor used to say:
“December is the month I stand at the front of the office waiting for clients who never come.”
Every December I hear that line in my head.
And every December, it proves itself true all over again.
If you’ve worked in private practice for more than a year, you know the pattern. From Thanksgiving to New Year’s, the cancellations roll in with a kind of predictable unpredictability. Clients travel, family obligations pop up, money gets tight, stress spikes, and therapy—the thing they need most—is often the first thing dropped.
Twenty-four hours before a session, the message pings:
“I’m going to cancel this week.”
Or sometimes it’s four hours.
Or an hour.
Or not at all, until you’re sitting in your office wondering if you misread your own schedule.
And the irony is thick: the very clients canceling now will be scrambling for openings when the January blues come rolling in like a cold front.
Meanwhile, those of us in private practice—those without salaries, paid holidays, PTO, or employer-funded benefits—feel the cancellations in our bones. There is no financial buffer. No guaranteed paycheck smoothing the dip. Everything depends on that hour showing up.
And then real life piles on.
Suddenly it’s December and the world is whispering “treat yourself.”
AirPods go on sale. The Anthropologie Volcano candle mocks you from the homepage with its annual discount. Your therapy office needs new tissues, pens, storage baskets, maybe that one extra cozy throw to get through the season—and all of it becomes harder to justify when income drops precisely when spending climbs.
And let’s be honest: for many of us, the income wasn’t exactly extravagant to begin with.
People outside this field imagine we’re sitting on a plush cushion of financial comfort. They imagine $150, $175, $200 an hour adding up magically. They forget taxes, cancellations, overhead, training, liability insurance, no-shows, rent, childcare, burnout, and the emotional labor of holding space for the world.
Therapy is work.
Deep work.
Undervalued work.
Necessary work.
And yet private practice can feel fragile—especially in December.
I often wonder how other therapists deal with this season.
I know the standard advice: boundaries, boundaries, boundaries.
Raise your fees. Enforce your policies. Don’t apologize for your business.
And I agree, truly.
But I’m also human. With an ADHD brain that has caused me to mix up my own schedule more than once, I’ve wrestled with enforcing cancellation fees. It feels complicated to hold clients to a standard I sometimes struggle to meet myself.
Still, this is our livelihood.
And a 24-hour cancellation policy isn’t harsh—it’s necessary.
Many therapists are moving to 48 hours, especially in group practices, and honestly, it makes sense. It gives clients time and therapists stability.
But December?
December is its own beast.
Before building NextTherapist, I spent years in community mental health—my first job after graduation. I was a single mom with two elementary-aged daughters. I couldn’t work full-time without sacrificing childcare and my sanity, so I lost out on salary and benefits. I showed up anyway, part-time hours, full-time effort.
But because it was a state-funded agency, clients faced no financial consequences for not showing. Many were mandated. Many were overwhelmed with life. Many had no structure, no support, no transportation. And so the cancellations rolled in. The no-shows stacked up higher than anywhere else I’ve ever worked.
I remember sitting in that office some December afternoons with five, six empty hours in a row—waiting. Just waiting. I couldn’t leave because a mandated client might show up late. I couldn’t get paid for the gaps. I couldn’t do much of anything except wonder how I was going to make it to January.
I tried everything.
Could I pick up extra work?
Take on side gigs?
Dog walking? Cleaning? Temp work?
Nothing was sustainable.
Nothing created stability.
Nothing solved the core issue.
Then one day, I noticed how my sister and brother-in-law’s gym operated.
You had to register for weekly classes in advance.
If you didn’t show, you were still charged.
And if someone dropped out, the system automatically sent a mass text to everyone who wanted that class time. Anyone could grab the spot instantly from the message.
It was brilliant.
Simple.
Efficient.
Accountable.
Boundaried.
AND it protected the instructor’s income.
I remember thinking:
Why doesn’t this exist for therapists?
Why is the emotional labor of filling cancellations placed entirely on us?
Why is the financial burden ours alone?
Why is the system built to support everyone except the practitioner holding the space?
So when I couldn’t find a solution, I built one.
- A platform created from the lived experience of therapists.
From standing in empty offices in December.
From watching income evaporate through no-shows.
From wanting to help clients but not wanting to burn out trying.
From believing that a healthier system is possible—one that supports both the therapist and the client.NextTherapist automates what used to drain us:
The last-minute calls.
The frantic texts.
The scramble to fill openings.
The awkwardness of enforcing policies.
The financial anxiety of slow seasons.
The goal is simple:
When a client cancels, you shouldn’t have to chase down the hour you lost. The hour should fill itself.
And yes, sometimes a no-show is a relief when burnout is creeping in. But more often than not—especially during the holidays—they stack up too high. Too fast. Too heavily.
Therapists deserve help.
Therapists deserve systems that work.
Therapists deserve support that doesn’t rely on personal bandwidth.
Therapists deserve something better than waiting at the front of the office for clients who never come.
That’s the heart behind NextTherapist.
And December is the reason it exists.
