I Broke Up with My Therapist

I never expected to cry over a woman I paid $150 an hour.

And yet, there I was—curled up in my car outside her office, mascara streaking like a modern art painting, replaying the words I’d said like a breakup anthem I didn’t mean to sing out loud.

> “I think… this is our last session.”



She had blinked, slowly. Not shocked. But not unbothered either. Her notepad stilled in her lap. The room felt heavier than usual, like the air didn’t want to move.

> “Okay,” she said softly. “Can you tell me why?”



That’s when I panicked.
Because I didn’t really know why.
Only that every time I came in lately, it felt like walking into a memory I hadn’t agreed to revisit. She knew too much. She saw too much. And somewhere between Week 2’s “tell me about your childhood” and Week 26’s “what would it look like to forgive yourself,” I started mistaking her for a lifeline instead of a lighthouse.


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Her name was Danielle.
She was calm, kind, unshakeable. The kind of woman who could survive an apocalypse with a leather journal and a cup of herbal tea.
She never judged.
Even when I did.

She saw me through the breakup with Jason, through my job quitting spree, through the time I cried for twenty minutes about a dream where my ex told me I was too boring to haunt.

She helped me understand my patterns. The self-sabotage. The perfectionism masquerading as productivity. The way I said “I’m fine” like it was a language I invented.

And I was getting better.

Which is probably what scared me the most.


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There’s a strange grief that comes with growth. No one talks about that.

When therapy starts, it’s a lifeboat. You cling to it, desperate not to drown. But as you swim further from the wreckage, you realize—you have to let go. You have to start swimming on your own.

But I wasn’t ready for goodbye. I didn’t want it to feel so… final.

Danielle had a ritual. She ended each session with a quiet, thoughtful:

> “What do you want to carry with you from today?”



It always gave me pause. Made me feel like I was leaving with something tangible.
But on our last session, I broke tradition.

I asked her:

> “What will you carry with you from our time together?”



She smiled—the smile, the one that made you feel human no matter how messy you were.

> “Your honesty,” she said. “Your bravery. Your sense of humor, even when it’s masking pain. And your deep, deep capacity to love—even when you don’t give it to yourself.”



I wanted to stay in that moment forever.

But I nodded. Said thank you. Walked out like it was any other Tuesday.

Then cried like a lunatic in my car.


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Breaking up with your therapist feels… unnatural.

There’s no dramatic kiss. No slammed doors. No friend group choosing sides.

Just a quiet exit. A mutual understanding. A kind of unspoken grief.

The next week, I kept waiting for my Tuesday at 3pm to mean something. I circled her number in my contacts. Drafted a text. Deleted it.

> “I’m doing okay. Still breathing. Still catching myself when I catastrophize. Still remembering to ask: ‘is this thought true?’”



But I didn’t send it.

Because therapy teaches you one thing above all else:
You don’t need to be witnessed to be valid.


---

Still, I miss her sometimes.

I miss the couch with the too-soft cushions. The way she tapped her pen when I tried to dodge a question. The silence that said more than words ever could.

But I also know this:

I laugh more now.
I set boundaries without apologizing.
I cry without spiraling.
And sometimes—just sometimes—I sit on my own couch, close my eyes, and hear her voice in my head asking,

> “What would it look like to be kind to yourself today?”




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That voice?
It’s mine now.

And that might be the most beautiful part of all.