Let me start by saying this: I had a therapist and I have medication. I did all the “right” things. I checked all the boxes. And yet—I wasn’t okay.
Here are the things I didn’t tell my therapist:
I am doing well.
Over the past year, my anxiety has grown so intense that I have had to increase my medication three times. I told her about the adjustments, sure. But not how bad it really got before each change.
Sometimes, life feels so crushing that the only response I could muster was to cry. Not delicate, cinematic tears. I’m talking about full-body sobs. Usually alone. Often in my car. Sometimes with the kids in the backseat.
I’ve mastered the art of “looking fine.” I show up for PTA meetings. I pack the lunches. I respond to emails. I smile when I need to. I make jokes. I get things done. But underneath, I am stretched so thin I could snap.
I take on more than I should. I say “yes” when I need to say “no.” I say “I’m fine” when I really mean “please help me.” I prioritize everything and everyone else before myself.
Self-care? I laugh at the idea. I survive on too many cups of instant espresso each day. Hydration? Not a priority. Movement? Only if being an Uber to my kids counted. I know what I should be doing, but most days, survival feels like enough of a goal.
I worry constantly. About my kids, my marriage, the world, the future, the laundry piling up everywhere. There is no “off” switch in my brain—it was all alarms, all the time.
My therapist thought I was improving. And I don’t blame her. I’d nodded at the right moments. Said, “Things are getting better.” But the truth was: I was just getting better at hiding.
She was the one who suggested we move from weekly sessions to every other week, then every three weeks. And that’s when I ghosted her. I didn’t show up for my next appointment. I didn’t reschedule. I didn’t even cancel. I just didn’t show.
I told myself it was because I was busy getting ready for a trip, managing the kids, and life in general. But the truth? She thought I was getting better. And I didn’t want to tell her that nothing had really changed. I didn’t want to admit that I was still struggling, still drowning, still spiraling. I didn’t want to disappoint her. So instead, I disappeared. I’ve done this before, with other therapists.
I know, I am not a good patient.
Five years ago, everything came crashing down. I had just had a baby when a medical catastrophe hit our family, and then—like a cruel punchline—COVID shut down the world. It was too much, all at once. I took a leave from my law firm. I managed to teach part-time. I even passed two bar exams, somehow. But outside of those moments of functionality, I was in bed.
For nearly a year, if I didn’t have to be somewhere, I wasn’t going. I wasn’t living. I was watching. Watching TV, mostly—show after show after show. Eventually, I ran out of new things to watch and started rewatching old ones, not for entertainment, but for numbness. Everything felt meaningless.
Eventually, after a long and bumpy road with medication—several failures and a few flickers of hope—things began to shift. Slowly. Imperceptibly at first.
Now? Things are…busy. So busy. Three kids. Marriage. Dog. Dance competitions. IEP meetings. Dentist appointments. Birthday parties. And a mind still prone to spiraling.
But “busy” isn’t the same as “better.” And I think I need to say that out loud.
There are small changes I’ve made that feel like survival strategies. If my husband can do something for me, I ask him to. That might not sound like much, but for someone who’s spent years trying to do it all, it’s a quiet revolution. I hibernate when I can—curling into myself when the world is too loud, too demanding. Sometimes it’s just for a few hours. Sometimes it’s a whole weekend. But it helps.
If you’re reading this and thinking, “me too,” then let this be your permission slip: You don’t have to be perfect to deserve help. You don’t have to wait until you’re drowning to say, “I need someone.”
This isn’t a neat and tidy redemption arc. I don’t have a clean ending or a big insight. But I’m here. Still trying. Still putting one foot in front of the other.
And maybe, just maybe, at some point, I’ll find a new therapist, and I’ll admit that I am struggling.
