After my mum died, I used to see a bereavement counsellor. Her name was Sabine, and she was (un)comfortably the most intimidatingly fashion-forward person I have ever encountered in real life. At one of our sessions she wore a set of overalls, with enormous chunky high heels and about fourteen necklaces. We never talked about fashion because it was bereavement counselling and it was free (<3 you, NHS) and I was only getting ten sessions and it seemed frivolous to fritter them away on discussing clothes.
Sabine was French, and while her English was absolutely perfect, she had one idiosyncratic turn of phrase that charmed me beyond belief. When she wanted me to be kind to myself, to take things slowly and to feel pleased about incremental improvements, she’d gently admonish me: “kitten steps”.
Like baby steps, but fluffier.