A directory where every listing tells the truth.
Every therapist on this site either told a human being “yes, I have room” — or the page just says we don't know. That's the entire technology. It is genuinely a little embarrassing how rare that is.
A fun experiment nobody should ever have to run
Try to find a therapist. Go ahead. Email ten of them from one of the big directories. Now count your replies. Let's see… carry the one… zero. Maybe one auto-reply, if the universe is feeling generous.
Imagine a restaurant directory where half the restaurants quietly closed years ago, nobody ever updated anything, and when you call the pizza place, a stranger in another state answers pretending to be the pizza place. You would stop trusting that directory roughly instantly. Congratulations — you now understand mental-health directories.
Meanwhile (and this is the part that makes it genuinely weird), therapists with wide-open Tuesday afternoons are sitting a mile away wondering why the phone never rings. The clients exist. The therapists exist. The information layer between them is a haunted house.
Therapists get the mirror-image version: a subscription you pay every month that you cannot attribute one single client to. A profile some site scraped, where a stranger answers as you. A cancellation that — somehow, impressively — keeps billing. You have room. They have need. Everything in the middle is broken.
So I built the boring, radical thing
I'm Corinn. I live in Bulverde, just north of Stone Oak. I kept running into the same story — ten messages, no replies — and at some point it clicked that this isn't a therapist shortage. It's that nobody, anywhere in the chain, is accountable for whether any of this information is still true. As someone who has built software, solo, for fourteen years, this offended me on a professional level.
So: a directory that only says things it knows. One rule, enforced by actual code, because promises are what got us here. If a human hasn't confirmed it — an opening, a fee, a phone that rings — the page says so instead of guessing. Verified badges expire after 90 days, like milk. Unclaimed says unclaimed. Unknown says unknown. Always.
The questions you're (reasonably) asking
“Is this another scraper that'll reroute my clients?”
No — and the fact that you have to ask is exactly the problem with this industry. Yes, your listing starts from the public NPI registry, the same place the bad actors pull from. The difference is what happens next: a message through your profile goes to you. Not a call center. Not a “care partner” (shudder). You. Rather not be listed at all? One email. Same day. Gone.
“Okay, so where's the billing trap?”
There structurally can't be one — there's no subscription to trap you in. Canceling is impossible, in the good way. The listing is free today, and if per-inquiry billing someday begins, you'll hear about it from us long before any charge: twenty-five dollars for a real inquiry, refunded without a fight if it's junk. That's the entire contract. It fits in one sentence, which is sort of the point.
“You're brand new. Why should I bother?”
Totally fair! We are. Here's the deal, though: the risk is entirely, 100% ours. You pay nothing for promises — you pay if a real client, with a real name, writes to you. Confirming your availability takes ten seconds, costs nothing, and puts you at the top of the list that same day. The downside scenario for you is… ten seconds.
“Who answers when something breaks?”
Me. Hi. Not a ticket queue, not a chatbot doing its warm-empathy voice. Get a scam email you're unsure about? Forward it — we'll gut-check it together.
Where things stand today
1,868 licensed clinicians listed across San Antonio's north side. Verification calls are underway — badges appear as therapists confirm. Testimonials on this page: zero. We don't have any yet, and inventing some would be a strange way to launch an honesty company.
Ten seconds. Free. True.
A San Antonio therapist with room for clients? Claim your profile. Confirm your availability. Watch it matter — today, at the top of the list.