The Paradox of Confidentiality
In the profession of counselling, confidentiality isn’t a suggestion — it’s a sacred duty. It is the bedrock of trust, the silent agreement between client and therapist that says: “You are safe here.” It is what allows clients to speak without censorship, to cry without shame, to confess without fear of exposure. It is what separates therapy from all other conversations in life — because here, their story is protected.
This isn’t a loose ethical idea. It is drilled into us from the moment we train. We are taught that protecting a client’s privacy is non-negotiable. Unless there is a threat to life or legal compulsion through a court order, we are not to disclose what is said behind closed doors.
And so, when I was contacted by the Health and Disability Commissioner (HDC) during the complaint process and asked to release all clinical notes and documentation relating to the complainant, I paused.
It wasn’t fear that stopped me. It was ethics.
I reviewed what I had been taught. I consulted my own integrity.
There was no court subpoena. No signed consent from the client. No legal obligation — only a request, cloaked in vague pressure, to hand over sensitive records.
I didn’t refuse out of defiance. I refused because I believed then — and still believe now — that doing so would have breached the very trust I work so hard to establish in every client relationship. I acted to protect the therapeutic contract, the professional code, and the long-standing privacy standards that form the moral backbone of this profession.
And for that — for doing what was right — I was treated as though I had something to hide.
The Emotional Price of Doing What’s Right
What most people don’t realise — including those in regulatory roles — is that refusing to provide private client material in a complaint investigation is not an easy decision. It is not made casually or as an act of self-protection. It is made from a place of ethical conviction, grounded in training, law, and the sacred trust between client and counsellor.
And yet, that decision — to act with integrity and restraint — carried with it one of the most emotionally violent consequences of my professional life.
I wasn’t simply told that my refusal was noted. I was warned — via email, not conversation — that the HDC would proceed regardless. There was no dialogue, no space for nuance, no attempt to understand that I was not avoiding accountability but upholding something bigger than myself: the right of every client to privacy.
To be treated as uncooperative — even deceitful — for doing exactly what I had been trained to do shattered something inside me.
I began questioning everything:
- What if I had handed over the notes?
- Would they have seen me differently?
- Did doing the right thing just destroy everything I’d worked for?
The pressure didn’t just sit on my shoulders — it sank into my chest, my thoughts, my identity. I felt trapped in an impossible bind:
- If I protected the client, I lost myself.
- If I protected myself, I betrayed the client.
That emotional trap began to consume me. I couldn’t sleep. My brain was always spinning — what ifs, regrets, fear. I began withdrawing from others. I stopped engaging in the things that used to ground me. I became foggy, tired, angry, defeated.
I drank more — not socially, but to cope. To take the edge off the constant flood of thoughts I couldn’t control. It started as a glass here and there, and slowly became a daily habit — not because I wanted to escape life, but because I couldn’t endure the pressure of being in it. The alcohol dulled the anxiety, quieted the overthinking, numbed the exhaustion. It became a way to survive what felt unlivable.
I cared less about my health. My routines fell apart. I stopped exercising. I started eating poorly, often skipping meals or bingeing in private. My body changed — I gained weight, felt sluggish, heavy, and disconnected from myself. I no longer recognised the man in the mirror. I avoided photos. I avoided mirrors altogether. It was as if my physical self was reflecting the internal collapse I couldn’t explain to anyone.
I became irritable — not just in bursts, but constantly. Small things triggered me. I snapped easily. I was short with people I loved. My patience wore thin. I was exhausted, running on fumes, holding back a tidal wave of stress, shame, and fear with every interaction. I hated how reactive I became. But I didn’t know how to stop it.
I neglected responsibilities — including basic admin tasks, bills, and taxes. My financial situation deteriorated. Client bookings slowed. My business, once a source of pride, began to feel like a liability — a reminder of everything I was losing, of everything I might never rebuild.
Relationships around me strained and, in some cases, broke. Family members didn’t understand. Friends backed away. Conversations became awkward or nonexistent. I felt alone, isolated, like a man standing in a glass box while the world watched him fall apart — and no one knocked to ask if I was okay.
And yet, through all of it, I kept showing up to client sessions. I kept my voice calm. I nodded when needed. I listened, I guided, I supported. I showed up for them — while no one was showing up for me.
It took everything I had to sit in those chairs and not collapse. I wore my professionalism like armour, but inside, I was unraveling. And the cruelest part? I had no space to say it out loud. Because counsellors are meant to be strong. Measured. Clear.
Even when they’re falling apart.
That’s what this system doesn’t see.
They don’t see the emotional cost of choosing ethics over self-protection.
They don’t see what it does to someone when they’re punished for taking the higher road.
They don’t understand what it means to live in a professional world where the right choice feels like the wrong one — and where there is no map, no safety, no one to help you carry the consequences.
Professional Misinterpretation as Punishment
What happened next was, in many ways, more damaging than the complaint itself. Because what I experienced wasn’t just a procedural injustice — it was a complete collapse of fairness, nuance, and professional understanding.
I wasn’t accused of criminal behaviour. I wasn’t taken to court. I wasn’t even given the chance to meet anyone in person to explain myself.
Instead, I was pulled into a system that reduced years of ethical practice down to one moment of silence — a silence grounded in integrity — and twisted it into a narrative of suspicion.
The HDC made no effort to distinguish between ethical silence and deliberate evasion.
No one called me for support.
No one checked if I was okay.
No one asked, “Why didn’t you provide the notes?”, instead they demanded them.
No space was created for honest discussion or reflection. I was threatened and pressured numerous times to provide documentation.
There was no recognition of the ethical trap I was in — no acknowledgment that, as a counsellor, I was trying to honour the very confidentiality that protects every client who walks through my door.
Not once was I invited to sit down and speak human to human.
Not once was my professional reasoning explored.
Not once did a qualified peer — someone who understands the clinical and ethical tightrope we walk every day — step in to contextualise the dilemma I faced.
Instead, my refusal to hand over private client material — without a legal order — was bureaucratically rebranded as “lack of engagement” and “non-cooperation.”
It became the justification to proceed without me.
It became the excuse to silence me further.
My ethical stance — something I would teach a trainee to uphold — was treated like a red flag.
This is how ethical counsellors are punished:
Not with courtroom trials, but with quiet character erosion, dressed in procedural language.
Not with open cross-examination, but with decisions made behind closed doors, based on incomplete information.
Not through evidence, but through assumption.
The consequences were immediate and severe.
- My full name and the name of my business were published online.
- The article was framed with conclusive language that suggested wrongdoing — though no legal wrongdoing had been proven.
- The media picked it up, running with sensational headlines.
- My side of the story was missing — entirely.
The result?
I was judged by strangers, not based on fact, but based on one-sided publication.
Clients saw it. Friends saw it. Colleagues saw it. Family saw it.
And they saw only what had been decided without me.
I was not judged for misconduct.
I was judged for doing the right thing when it was hard — and doing it alone.
And this isn’t just about me.
This is about what happens when regulators fail to recognise the difference between ethical boundaries and unprofessional avoidance.
🔥 It Sets a Dangerous Precedent:
- Where ethics become liabilities, not protections.
- Where counsellors begin to write less in their notes, fearing they’ll later be used against them.
- Where professionals share less in supervision, out of fear that vulnerability could be weaponised.
- Where silence — even if done to protect a client — is assumed to mean guilt.
What happens then?
We stop trusting the systems designed to support us.
We start walking on eggshells in the very sessions where we’re meant to be most grounded.
And eventually, we burn out — quietly, invisibly — not from doing the wrong thing, but from being punished for doing the right thing in the wrong system.
This isn’t accountability.
This is institutional failure, dressed in regulation.
This is punishment by misreading, and it’s happening more often than most people realise.
And if it isn’t addressed — urgently — the profession will keep bleeding good people who simply can’t afford to stay ethical anymore.
The Invisible Cost to the Profession and the Public
When a counsellor is punished for protecting a client’s privacy, the impact doesn’t stop with that one professional — it ripples outward in ways that are almost impossible to measure.
For me, the emotional and professional consequences were severe. But what frightened me more than anything was realising how many others could be next — counsellors, therapists, social workers, psychologists — all of whom could find themselves trapped in the same ethical paradox:
Defend your integrity, and the system may turn on you. Comply out of fear, and you betray the trust your work is built upon.
And so we begin to change — not out loud, but quietly, slowly, imperceptibly at first.
We become more guarded in our note-taking.
We second-guess what we write and what we don’t.
We start choosing safer language, limiting detail, holding back — not because it’s clinically wise, but because it’s legally self-protective.
We share less in supervision.
We worry more in silence.
We stop trusting the institutions that are meant to uphold professional fairness.
That erosion doesn’t just affect the counsellors. It affects the clients too.
- When we’re fearful, we show up differently.
- When we’re guarded, our attunement drops.
- When we’re walking on eggshells, our ability to sit fully present with another human being is compromised.
The public loses in ways they may never notice directly — but over time, it accumulates.
It leads to bland therapy, defensive practice, and burned-out professionals too afraid to speak, too scared to challenge anything that might provoke a complaint.
And when that happens, the entire mental health system suffers.
We lose our boldness.
We lose our depth.
We lose the very intimacy that makes therapy healing.
So yes — what happened to me was deeply personal.
But it wasn’t unique. It’s part of a much larger problem.
A quiet, creeping culture of fear that is hollowing out one of the most important professions we have.
What Must Change
What happened to me wasn’t a personal misunderstanding — it was a systemic failure, and it revealed a structural flaw that puts every ethical counsellor in New Zealand at risk.
If we are going to protect the integrity of the mental health profession, then the systems around it must evolve — not just for the safety of clients, but for the safety of the professionals who serve them.
Here’s what must change:
🔹 1. Confidentiality Must Be Respected as a Legitimate Ethical Boundary
Practitioners who choose not to disclose client information in the absence of legal compulsion must not be penalised for doing so.
- This should not be interpreted as non-cooperation.
- This should not automatically escalate the complaint.
- This should not be used to justify public naming or reputational damage.
If we punish counsellors for respecting the ethical standards we require them to uphold, we are building a system where doing the right thing becomes professionally suicidal.
🔹 2. Peer-Based Ethical Review Panels Must Be Introduced
One of the most glaring flaws in the current HDC complaint process is that the decisions — and often the judgments — are made not by trained clinicians, but by administrators. These are individuals who may be highly competent in policy or legal frameworks, but they are not qualified counselling professionals. They do not have lived experience in therapeutic settings. They do not sit with clients in complex emotional terrain. And they are not equipped to interpret the ethical nuance that mental health professionals navigate daily.
To allow such individuals to determine outcomes in cases involving clinical judgment is not only inappropriate — it’s dangerous.
No complaint involving therapeutic ethics, client-counsellor boundaries, confidentiality dilemmas, or contextual decision-making should ever be assessed solely by case managers or legal generalists. These situations demand more than black-and-white thinking. They require:
- An understanding of therapeutic process
- Knowledge of standard and emerging clinical practices
- An appreciation for the emotional, relational, and ethical dynamics that exist between counsellor and client
In my case, no qualified counsellor or psychotherapist was ever brought in to evaluate what happened. No one from my own profession was asked to provide insight, guidance, or context. And yet, decisions were made that permanently impacted my career and reputation.
That cannot continue.
Every complaint involving a clinician must be reviewed by an independent panel that includes practising, qualified professionals with direct experience in the field.
These reviewers must have the ability to:
- Offer perspective that is rooted in reality, not paperwork
- Identify whether a practitioner’s actions fall within the reasonable bounds of ethical discretion
- Recognise when a therapist is trying to do the right thing in a difficult situation
Without peer review, the system is operating blindly — passing judgment on matters it doesn’t fully understand. And when that happens, we don’t get justice. We get damage.
🔹 3. Practitioners Must Be Informed of Their Rights — Immediately
When a complaint is made against a health professional, the system should be built on one foundational principle: transparency. The person under investigation — especially someone in a mental health field — deserves to know what’s happening, what to expect, and what their rights are.
But that didn’t happen for me.
Not even close.
When the HDC first contacted me, I was given no meaningful introduction, no context, and no overview of the process. I received a single email — vague in tone, cold in structure — and was left to interpret its meaning alone. No one explained the steps. No one advised me of the possible outcomes. No one told me that public naming was even on the table.
At no point was I provided with:
- A clear explanation of what the process would involve
- A summary of my rights as a practitioner
- Information about whether or when I could be named publicly
- A list of legal support services, advocacy contacts, or wellbeing providers I could turn to
- Any personal outreach, reassurance, or guidance from a human being trained to navigate these matters professionally
Instead, I was blindsided.
I was expected to engage with an opaque process, under immense stress, during the aftermath of COVID lockdowns, while simultaneously being told — via email — that if I didn’t comply fully, the process would move forward without me.
This wasn’t procedural justice.
It was a faceless mechanism.
And it lacked even the most basic support you’d expect when someone’s career, livelihood, and mental health were on the line.
There was no support, no explanation, no due care.
And I can’t help but think — if I, someone with over a decade of professional experience, was thrown into this process so unprepared… what hope does a younger, less experienced practitioner have?
That’s why this must change.
Any practitioner facing a complaint must, from the very beginning, be provided with:
- A plain-language guide to the process
- A summary of rights and responsibilities
- Transparency around whether public naming is a potential outcome, and when
- Access to legal or peer advocacy, and mental health support for the duration of the investigation
- Human contact — not just faceless emails — from someone trained to walk them through it
Because if the system won’t treat its professionals with dignity and clarity, it has no right to judge whether they are fit to practise.
🔹 4. Public Naming Without Legal Basis Is a Dangerous and Damaging Overreach
Naming a counsellor publicly — especially when no legal wrongdoing has been established — should never be routine.
It should never be:
- A default step in the process
- A bureaucratic checkbox
- A way to signal “action taken” simply for institutional optics
- A method of pre-emptively appeasing a complainant or media interest
- Or worse, a way to discourage further resistance or pushback from the practitioner
It should be the absolute last resort.
And it should only occur under strict, transparent, and justified conditions, including:
- When there is a clear, proven, and ongoing risk to public safety
- When there has been a formal legal finding of professional misconduct or criminal behaviour
- When the practitioner has been given full access to respond, defend, and be heard through a fair, balanced, and impartial legal process
That is not what happened in my case.
I was named publicly — both personally and professionally — despite:
- Never being charged with any offence
- Never being taken to court
- Never receiving a hearing
- Never being allowed to present my evidence face-to-face
- Never being offered legal representation
- Never having my situation reviewed by a qualified peer from within my profession
It wasn’t a public interest decision.
It was an institutional overstep, made by administrators, based on untested allegations — not legal findings, not balanced deliberation, not formal judicial scrutiny.
🔥 The Human Cost of That Decision Was Devastating
This wasn’t just a name in a report.
It was a life-altering act of reputational violence that sent shockwaves through every area of my existence.
- I lost significant income as clients cancelled or disappeared.
- I lost trust and credibility I had spent over a decade building.
- I lost family stability, as relatives pulled away, confused or ashamed.
- I lost sleep, health, and a sense of psychological safety.
- My mental health spiralled. I stopped functioning normally.
- I began drinking as a coping mechanism, gaining weight, withdrawing from the world around me.
- At the lowest point, I experienced severe psychological distress.
These weren’t just low moods — they were dark, intrusive thoughts that left me questioning how I could continue in the face of such overwhelming injustice and public humiliation.
I was emotionally isolated, unsupported, and blindsided by the process.
The silence from the HDC was deafening — no explanation, no advocate, no human response. Just fallout.
And this all happened without the public ever hearing my side of the story.
⚠️ This Is Not Just Unfair — It’s Morally Indefensible
To name a person publicly, knowing it will ruin their professional credibility, without giving them due legal protection or formal recourse, is not regulation.
It is character execution by proxy.
It is the digitally permanent branding of someone as unsafe or unfit, based solely on an administrative interpretation of events.
When serious criminals in New Zealand — including rapists and murderers — are regularly granted name suppressioneven after legal conviction…
…how is it that a mental health professional with no legal charges, no criminal record, and no proven wrongdoing can be publicly named, judged, and permanently archived by search engines?
The answer is:
Because the system allows it — and that must change.
🔹 5. A Culture of Fear Must Be Replaced with a Culture of Fairness
Every time a counsellor is punished for acting ethically, we lose part of what makes this profession noble.
We must build systems that assume good intent, not bad faith.
That honour nuance, not checkbox rules.
That listen deeply, not move quietly in the background.
Because if we don’t — if we continue down this path of weaponising ethics and ignoring context — we won’t just lose counsellors.
We’ll lose trust.
We’ll lose care.
We’ll lose the very soul of the therapeutic relationship.
For those unfamiliar with the background of my situation, I’ve shared the full story in this detailed statement:
👉 Neil Oliver Counsellor – The Truth Behind the HDC Complaint