Therapy Was Meant to Solve My Issues—Instead, My Therapist Ended Our Sessions.

      It was a sunny Friday morning in August—the day following my weekly therapy session. The sun was bright, and the birds were chirping their usual melodies, but as I enjoyed my coffee, I couldn’t connect with their happiness. I still felt weighed down from my last session—frustrated, exhausted, and defeated. This sensation had persisted for weeks. Something felt off. We weren’t making progress, and I left each session feeling even more disheartened than when I walked in.

      Suddenly, my phone buzzed. An email from my therapist appeared, with the subject line: Referral for Your Continued Care. My heart raced. As I read on, “Upon reflecting on our time together, I believe a new perspective could be advantageous for your ongoing growth.” Embarrassment washed over me, quickly followed by anger. Initially, I thought it was a suggestion we would discuss in our next session—until I noticed that our weekly meetings had been abruptly erased from my calendar, confirming it: my therapist had ended our professional relationship. How could she just dismiss me? What had I done wrong? I realized our last session had concluded in frustration, but I never considered she would let me go so abruptly. And yet, there I was, staring at an email announcing my exit from her care. It felt like being dismissed from a cherished job. I had sought therapy to embark on a long-awaited healing journey—yet somehow I found myself back at square one.

      Therapy was meant to resolve my issues.

      I have a tendency to prioritize others over myself. I’ve delayed medical appointments for serious injuries and skipped meals in the name of being productive. I tend to ignore incoming migraines until dizziness forces me to halt (0/10—do not recommend). To put it bluntly, I often wait until situations become dire before caring for myself or seeking professional help. I’m not proud of it, but that’s how long I delayed starting therapy. (Again, not advisable.)

      Despite having tried therapy during college and once in my early twenties, I never committed to it for long. Therapy isn’t exactly affordable, and while I recognized my need for it, my limited finances made it easy to neglect my mental health. By the time I reached my mid-thirties, a decade had passed since my last session. In that decade, I had experienced the loss of my father, marriage, two pregnancies, and made the jump to full-time stay-at-home motherhood after years of pursuing career success and fulfillment to no avail. I was grappling with concealed grief, persistent postpartum anxiety, and bouts of depression I couldn’t shake off. I could no longer put therapy off—I needed to take action.

      Finally, I sat down with my budget and figured out how to make therapy a reality. I searched for local therapists on Therapy for Black Girls, sent out several emails, and before I knew it, I was participating in my first virtual session. Merely attending felt like a huge release. Finally, the healing I had longed for was attainable. The girl who constantly felt anxious? She was on her way to becoming a memory.

      “Having this hour dedicated to myself each week felt liberating—an hour to just exist, think, and feel without the need to consider anyone else’s wants, needs, or expectations.”

      I was eager to start my therapy journey, but I knew breaking free from the guarded, introverted shell I had built over the years wouldn’t be simple. Deep emotions and I? We’re not exactly friends. I had spent years avoiding them like the plague—instead opting to deal with the physical and mental repercussions. (Chronic gut issues, anyone?) Yet, I also understood that healing required discomfort, and I was ready to put in the work.

      Each session began with a reflection on the past week—what went well and what was challenging. From there, the conversation naturally progressed, focusing on how those challenges impacted me and what could be done to alleviate my stress. Having that dedicated hour to myself weekly felt revolutionary—an opportunity to simply be, think, and feel, without considering anyone else’s wants or needs. I didn’t realize just how much I needed and deserved that level of care until I experienced it. I felt hopeful that I would soon achieve the healing I was seeking.

      I failed therapy, but therapy also failed me.

      However, after a few months, I began to notice a recurring pattern: our discussions kept circling back to the same themes. My struggles were nearly always identical or closely connected, and every time we unraveled them, we reached the same conclusion—I had chosen the circumstances that were causing my stress (like being a stay-at-home, homeschooling mom). It hadn’t felt like a choice, but it was. Since I had selected this version of "hard" in my life, I either needed to accept it or make a different choice.

      After several more weeks of what felt like the same repeated conversation, coupled with