My Therapist Told Me I Was Normal — I Wasn’t

I still remember the way she looked at me—warm eyes, kind voice, soft sweater that smelled like lavender. My first therapist, Rachel, made me feel safe in a way I hadn’t felt in years. I was twenty-one, sitting in a small office that felt more like a cozy living room than a place for breaking open your soul.

“I think you’re just going through a rough patch,” she said, tilting her head. “Honestly, everything you’re describing is pretty normal for someone your age.”

But deep down, I knew it wasn’t.

I’d walked into that office because something in me felt… broken. I didn’t have the words for it at the time. I just knew I was exhausted all the time — not from life, but from pretending. Pretending I was okay, pretending I liked myself, pretending I could do things other people seemed to do effortlessly, like go grocery shopping or return a phone call.

On the outside, I was holding it together. I had decent grades. I showed up to work. I laughed when people told jokes. But inside, it was like I was watching my life through a foggy window. I wasn’t really in it. I was just… surviving.

So when I finally got the courage to go to therapy, I was expecting some sort of revelation. A name. A reason. Something that would explain why I felt so “off” compared to everyone else.

Instead, I got told I was normal.

It was comforting at first. I left that session feeling oddly lighter, like maybe I was just overthinking it all. Maybe I really was just another anxious young adult trying to navigate life. I wanted to believe that.

But over time, those words — “you’re normal” — started to feel less like reassurance and more like a dismissal.

Because things didn’t get better.

In fact, they got worse.

I started having panic attacks in the middle of the night. I couldn’t concentrate. I was either sleeping twelve hours a day or none at all. My relationships became strained because I couldn’t show up the way people needed me to. I felt like a burden. And still, I heard her voice in my head: “This is normal.”

So I kept pushing. Kept pretending. Kept telling myself everyone felt this way, and I just needed to “tough it out.”

It wasn’t until two years later that I tried therapy again — with a new therapist. Her name was Dana. She asked me different questions. She didn’t nod along and tell me I was fine. She gently challenged me. She helped me unpack the coping mechanisms I’d been using since childhood — masking, dissociating, overachieving — and the deep-rooted beliefs that told me I wasn’t worthy of love unless I was perfect.

Within three sessions, she said something that hit me like a wave:

“You’ve been surviving for so long that you’ve forgotten what living feels like.”

She didn’t say I was normal. She said I was in pain.

And she believed me.

It turned out I wasn’t just “a little anxious.” I was dealing with complex PTSD from childhood emotional neglect. I was also showing signs of high-functioning depression — the kind that hides behind smiles and productivity. And I likely had undiagnosed ADHD, something that had been missed because I was “a good student” and “quiet.”

For the first time, my struggles made sense.

Not because someone labeled me. Not because I needed to be “special” or different. But because someone took the time to see me, not just what I presented on the surface.

Looking back, I don’t blame Rachel, my first therapist. I know now that she was doing her best with the tools she had. Not every therapist is the right fit, and not every professional has the training or intuition to see beyond the mask.

But I do wish she had listened more closely. I wish she had asked, “What does ‘normal’ mean to you?” or “When did you start feeling this way?”

Because when someone is brave enough to say, “I think something’s wrong,” the last thing they need is to be told they’re fine.

Healing has been messy, slow, and deeply personal. I’ve had to unlearn years of shame and silence. I’ve had to rewrite my own narrative — one where I’m not lazy or overly sensitive or too emotional, but rather someone who grew up without the emotional language to understand their pain.

And the truth is, I’m still learning. Still uncovering layers. Still sitting in therapy rooms, saying things I was once afraid to admit.

But I’m living now.

Not pretending. Not masking. Not surviving.

Living.

Moral of the Story:

Sometimes, the most dangerous lie is the one that sounds comforting — “You’re fine.” If your gut is telling you that something’s off, listen to it. Keep seeking help. Keep asking questions. Healing doesn’t begin when someone tells you what you want to hear. It begins when someone finally sees your truth — and helps you see it, too. You are not too much. You are not broken. You are worth understanding.

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Thank you for reading...

Regards: Fazal Hadi