Let me be clear: I used to despise therapy. I viewed it as a predictable exercise in futility. Oh, we’re discussing my childhood now? How unique. Can we skip the childhood drama? Oh, you want to dive into my parents’ divorce? Shocker. I thought my close friends, a good bottle of wine, and the occasional yoga session sufficed as my form of therapy. I told myself I didn’t need professional help; I was just fine.
But here’s the thing: saying you’re “fine” often masks deeper issues. It’s the biggest lie you can tell yourself. “Fine” is what you say when everything is anything but fine.
I considered myself a functioning adult, having moved past my childhood struggles years ago. Or so I believed. The truth is, trauma lingers. It seeps into your being, shaping your actions and influencing your parenting in negative ways. Just because I was managing to get through life didn’t mean I was truly okay. It merely meant I was better at hiding my issues than others.
Looking back, I realize I should have sought therapy long before hitting rock bottom. I should have reached out for help when I felt overwhelmed after the births of my children. I should have sought support during the rough patches in my marriage—both the first and the second time. I should have recognized the volcanic anger that erupted when I expected my toddlers to behave like adults, tearing them down for acting their age. Just thinking about it brings tears to my eyes. But I didn’t seek help, and I can’t explain why. It took hitting a low point to realize I needed it.
After a week-long binge that concluded with tears, my husband pouring out bottles of champagne and vodka, and my boss giving me the wake-up call I desperately needed, I finally set my pride aside and contacted a therapist. I could tell I was losing everything—my sanity, my marriage, my job, and most importantly, myself. The feeling of spiraling out of control was terrifying.
A friend recommended my therapist, and from the moment we spoke, I felt my defenses crumble. It was uncomfortable yet liberating; I no longer had to bear my pain in silence.
I couldn’t share my struggles with my husband, who had a blissful childhood and couldn’t fathom the challenges I faced. My parents were too intertwined in my memories to talk about it with them. They often claimed not to remember much of our past, which seemed like a coping mechanism. They belonged to a generation that swept issues under the rug, avoiding the hard truths.
I was fortunate to connect with my therapist right away. She was the person I needed in my formative years. As a rebellious teenager, I could have benefited from her guidance. I likely suffered from undiagnosed postpartum depression after having my children. I could have used her support when my husband and I were struggling to conceal our unhappiness for the sake of our kids.
My initial session was an emotional flood. I felt embarrassed, having never cried like that in front of a stranger. Yet, she validated my feelings without judgment. She helped me uncover patterns that had been passed down through generations of my family, instilling in me a sense of responsibility to break the cycle.
Therapy quickly became a vital part of my self-care routine. Along with exercise, healthy eating, and even the occasional trendy charcoal face mask, it became a tool for nurturing myself. It enabled me to be a better parent and a more compassionate person overall.
I often compare my trauma to others and feel like mine isn’t significant enough. However, I’ve learned that you don’t have to experience severe trauma to benefit from therapy. It’s not just about one catastrophic event; it can be a series of smaller traumas or even the inherited pain of ancestors.
The harsh reality is that without intervention, you can inadvertently pass your struggles on to your children. I was determined to stop that cycle. I couldn’t continue to distract myself with work, chores, or alcohol. I realized my kids were the key to my healing, and my desire to connect with them became a beautiful, natural effort—one that I hope isn’t too late.
I often wonder if I started this journey too late. Have I caused irreversible damage? The future is uncertain, but what I can control is my commitment to caring for myself and my children now. I will continue to try, every single day.
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