"It was a bright August Friday morning—the day after my weekly therapy session. The sun shone, and the birds sang their usual song, but as I sipped my coffee, I couldn’t tune into their joy. I still felt heavy from my session—frustrated, drained, and defeated. This feeling had been lingering for weeks. Something wasn’t right. We weren’t making progress, and I left each session feeling more discouraged than when I arrived.
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Then, my phone pinged. An email from my therapist appeared on the screen, the subject line reading: Referral for Your Continued Care. My heart skipped a beat. I continued reading, “As I reflect on our time together, I believe that a fresh perspective could be beneficial for your continued growth.” A wave of embarrassment washed over me, quickly followed by anger. At first, I assumed it was a suggestion we would discuss during our next session—until I realized our weekly sessions had been swiftly removed from my calendar, making it official. My therapist broke up with me. How could she just dismiss me like this? What had I done wrong? I knew our last session had ended in frustration, but I never imagined she would drop me so suddenly. Yet, here I was, staring at an email announcing my departure from her care. It felt like being fired from a dream job. I had sought therapy to begin a long-awaited, much-needed healing journey—yet somehow, I was right back where I started.
Therapy was supposed to fix my problems
I am the queen of putting my needs on the back burner. I’ve postponed doctor visits for serious injuries and skipped meals in the name of productivity. I’m notorious for ignoring an oncoming migraine until dizziness forces me to stop (0/10—do not recommend). Let’s just say I tend to wait until things become dire before I take care of myself or seek professional help. I’m not proud of it, but that’s exactly how long I waited to start therapy. (Again, not recommended.)
Though I had tried therapy in college and once in my early 20s, I never stuck with it for long. Therapy isn’t exactly budget-friendly, and while I knew I needed it, my tight finances made it easy to let my mental health slip through the cracks. By the time I reached my mid-30s, it had been a decade since my last session. In that time, I had lost my father, gotten married, carried two pregnancies, and transitioned to full-time stay-at-home motherhood after years of chasing career success and fulfillment to no avail. I was battling buried grief, lingering postpartum anxiety, and bouts of depression I couldn’t shake. I couldn’t put therapy off any longer—I had to act.
So, I finally sat down with my budget and found a way to make it happen. I searched for local therapists on Therapy for Black Girls, sent a few emails, and before I knew it, I was sitting in my first virtual session. Just getting there felt like the biggest exhale. Finally, the healing I had been yearning for was within reach. The girl who lived in a constant state of triggered anxiety? She was about to be a thing of the past.
“Having this dedicated hour to myself each week felt revolutionary—an hour to just be, think, and feel without having to consider anyone else’s wants, needs, or demands.”
I was eager to begin my new therapy journey, but I knew breaking out of the guarded, introverted shell I had spent years building wouldn’t be easy. Me and deep emotions? We ain’t gworls. I had spent years avoiding them like the plague—choosing instead to deal with the physical and mental consequences. (Chronic gut problems, anyone?) But I also knew healing required discomfort, and I was ready to do the work.
Each session started with a reflection on the past week—what went well and what felt challenging. From there, the conversation naturally unfolded, with questions about how those challenges affected me and what, if anything, could be done to ease my stress. Having this dedicated hour to myself each week felt revolutionary—an hour to just be, think, and feel without having to consider anyone else’s wants, needs, or demands. I didn’t realize just how much I needed and deserved such care until I was receiving it. I felt hopeful that I would soon experience the healing I was yearning for.
I failed therapy, but therapy also failed me
But after a few months, I began to notice a pattern: Our conversations were going in circles. My struggles were almost always the same or closely related, and every time we unpacked them, we landed on the same conclusion—I had chosen the circumstances that were causing me stress (like being a stay-at-home, homeschooling mom). It hadn’t felt like a choice, but it was. And since I had chosen this version of “hard” in my life, I either had to accept it or make a different choice.
After a few more weeks of what felt like the same conversation on repeat coupled with feelings of stagnant defeat, I received that humiliating email from my therapist. I couldn’t believe I had, quite literally, failed therapy. The healing I was eagerly anticipating? Never happened. The debilitating stress? Still there. The anxiety? Still anxiety-ing!
“I often left sessions feeling as though I was to blame for the struggles I was facing and the emotions that came with them, simply because I hadn’t accepted the inherent burden of mothering my children full-time.”
I spent a few weeks spiraling into an emotional “I can’t believe I failed therapy” haze. Lots of ice cream. Silent tears in the shower. A bit of dazed numbness. And some retail therapy for good measure. Looking back, I realize I was grieving—and that makes sense. Any kind of loss brings grief, no matter how big or small. I had lost something that took me years to finally work up the courage to pursue. Something that felt essential to my healing journey and was one of my biggest goals for the year. And I lost it in a way that felt crushing and demoralizing. Grief was inevitable.
But once the grief started to fade, something shifted. I realized I hadn’t failed therapy after all. Therapy had failed me.
I often left sessions feeling as though I was to blame for the struggles I was facing and the emotions that came with them, simply because I hadn’t accepted the inherent burden of mothering my children full-time. I’m not saying that I’m without fault, and I’m certainly not saying that therapists can’t hold you accountable when you actually are the problem. However, I didn’t believe my feelings of isolation, inadequacy, unhealed grief, and mommy burnout were something to just accept as inevitable.
I was in an overwhelming yet necessary season as a full-time SAHM, and I needed support working through my triggers, healing from past trauma, and finding creative ways to handle the challenges I was facing as I worked through that healing. What I didn’t need was to feel like I had to accept my fate as a depressed, anxious girly just because I had chosen a difficult path on top of years of pent-up grief.
My therapist broke up with me—and I’m better for it
After the initial I-can’t-believe-I-failed-therapy grief process, I decided to start figuring some of this out for myself. And, to my surprise, I did. Without therapy as a crutch (or, perhaps, a constraint), I felt clearer than I had in a long time. I knew there had to be ways to ease my overwhelm and calm my triggers, and if I focused on truly understanding myself, I could find them.
Within a month, I felt drastically better. I began identifying and unpacking specific triggers so I could lessen their frequency and impact. I set new boundaries—both for myself and within my home—especially around the responsibilities that caused the most stress. I journaled more, tracing the roots of my anxiety, depression, and grief. I finally asked my partner for the support I had been too afraid to request.
The progress I had expected to make in therapy, I was making on my own. All I needed was solitude, determination, and trust in myself.
I promise I haven’t turned into a therapy skeptic. I wholeheartedly believe in its power and still look forward to the day I find the right therapist for me. But I’ve also realized that I’m capable of doing some of this healing work on my own.
“Our determination, resilience, and self-compassion are what carry us forward, no matter what healing looks like from day to day.”
When my therapist ended our sessions, I panicked. How would I keep moving forward? How would I make progress? The thought of starting over—finding a new therapist, rebuilding that relationship, and beginning the process again—felt exhausting.
Then it hit me: I had been using therapy as a crutch. I convinced myself I couldn’t heal without it, and I blamed myself for taking so long to even start. But the truth? I had doubted my ability to fight for myself. And that doubt had held me back from a journey I could have begun years ago.
Therapy is a powerful tool—but it’s just one of many in the healing process. I’ve come to realize that true wellness requires a whole toolkit: therapy, journaling, books, spiritual or religious practices, physical movement, rest. Each plays a vital role, but we don’t always need every tool at once. Some seasons call for certain tools more than others, while some can be set aside for a time. The one constant in this journey? Us. Our determination, resilience, and self-compassion are what carry us forward, no matter what healing looks like from day to day.
Some days, healing is a baby step. Other days, it’s a breakthrough. Some seasons are filled with therapy; others require bold action. No matter the pace, the power to move forward is always within you.
Therapy and I will cross paths again someday—but I’m not rushing it. And that’s OK. Therapy, like healing, is a journey. And this breakup? It’s just part of mine.
Caroline Sumlin, Contributing Writer
Caroline Sumlin is a writer, author, and content creator specializing in topics ranging from self-worth, lifestyle, wellness, motherhood, education, society, and culture. Caroline received her Bachelor of Arts degree in Journalism from Howard University in Washington, DC. Driven by her passion for freedom and justice, Caroline crafts articles that urge readers to reflect more deeply and critically about themselves, their lives, and the world around them.
Feature graphic images credited to: Ben Iwara | Unsplash, New Africa | Adobe Stock, Alex Green | Pexels