I Dated My Therapist’s Son

I Dated My Therapist’s Son

I probably shouldn’t be writing this. And if you're reading it, maybe you're already judging me — but before you do, just know that it didn’t start like a scandal. It started with a cup of tea.

His name was Jonah. I didn’t know who he was when I met him at a small bookstore downtown, the kind with creaky floors and overstuffed armchairs. We both reached for the same copy of The Bell Jar. Cliché, right? But that moment felt... warm. Safe.

We talked about Plath, coffee, how terrible we both were at keeping plants alive. I gave him my number without thinking twice. It wasn’t until our second date, after he mentioned his mom was a therapist, that something twisted in my stomach. “Oh,” I said casually, “Where does she work?”

He said the name.

My therapist’s name.

I laughed — awkwardly. “Wait... your mom’s name is Dr. Levine?”

He smiled. “Yeah. You know her?”

I wanted to lie. I wanted to say, “Oh, I’ve heard of her,” and let it go. But my moral compass — or maybe just my anxiety — wouldn’t let me. “She’s my therapist.”

The silence between us cracked the air.

Jonah blinked. “Seriously?”

I nodded.

He didn’t freak out. I expected him to — but instead, he just leaned back and said, “Wow. That’s... weird. But I mean, you and I? This isn’t unethical for me. Is it for you?”

Was it?

Dr. Levine was the first person I ever told about the night I almost swallowed the whole bottle. About my mother’s absence. About the way I rehearse every conversation in my head three times before speaking.

Therapy was my one safe room. A locked vault for my mess.

And then, suddenly, that vault had a key — and Jonah had access.

Even though she was professional — kept my name out of her house, never mentioned me again in our sessions — I started spiraling. Every time I saw her, I wondered if she knew we kissed in his car. If she noticed my blushed cheeks and shaky hands. If she could tell he was the reason my heart felt like a balloon in my throat.

I stopped being honest with her.

I filtered myself. Talked about surface-level things. Skipped the darkness.

And with Jonah? I couldn’t relax. I wondered if, every time I opened up, he was mentally diagnosing me. If he ever thought, My mom would have a field day with this.

Eventually, it came to a head on a Tuesday night. We were curled up on his couch, and he said, “I think I want this to be serious.”

My throat closed. Not because I didn’t care about him — I did. But because I couldn’t keep living in this split reality, where my sanctuary and my storm were in the same house.

I told him the truth. That I couldn’t separate him from the space I needed for myself. That I couldn’t be vulnerable with my therapist and vulnerable with her son without feeling like I was cracking in half.

He looked hurt. I was too.

We broke up a week later.

I stopped seeing Dr. Levine shortly after. Not because she did anything wrong — she didn’t. She maintained every boundary. But therapy is about safety, and the line between safe and exposed had blurred too much.

Jonah texted me last winter: “Still can’t look at The Bell Jar without thinking of you.” I didn’t reply.

Maybe one day I will. Maybe not.

But if nothing else, I learned this:

Some people are meant to help you heal. Others are the reason you know you need to.

And sometimes — uncomfortably, heartbreakingly — they overlap.