A few years ago, I went through a season filled with emotions I couldn’t quite explain—sadness, anger, self-pity, isolation… all of it, all at once. The hardest part was feeling like I had no control over them. Someone would casually ask how my day was going, and I’d find myself holding back tears, forcing a quiet, “I’m fine,” even though I was anything but. Deep down, I was breaking.

I knew I needed a release, but I didn’t feel like I had a safe space—someone who would simply listen without judgment. And truthfully, I resisted therapy. I used to think it was “for crazy people.” On top of that, I came from a profession where strength was expected, where vulnerability felt like a weakness. So I kept it all in.

Thankfully, I had a friend who saw through it all. She listened—really listened—and gently encouraged me to try therapy. I brushed it off at first… until one day, I found myself hyperventilating and breaking down in tears at work. That moment felt like a wake-up call. Maybe it was time.

My first therapy session was awkward. I didn’t know what to expect, but I opened up anyway. I talked about everything I had been carrying—divorce, losing my father, struggling with my identity, low self-esteem, loneliness. It was a lot. I had buried it all for so long because I was afraid of being judged… afraid people would think I was “crazy.”

That first session helped—I felt a small release. But still, I told myself I didn’t need to go back. I convinced myself I wasn’t depressed.

A year later, life looked different on the outside. I had a new job, a new environment… but inside, I still felt alone. I had coworkers, but no one I could truly lean on. Most days, I poured myself into work and tried to stay busy. At home, it was just me and my two little dogs—the ones who greeted me with so much love, who sat beside me when I cried, who made the silence feel a little less heavy. They were my comfort, my little pieces of joy.

But even that wasn’t enough to fill what I was feeling.

It became obvious—not just to me, but to others around me. A colleague suggested therapy. Even my boss encouraged it. This time, I listened.

I committed to therapy for almost a year. I started medication. And slowly… things began to shift. I felt lighter. Stronger. More like myself again. Along the way, I found my people—friends who became my ride-or-die. Even now, though we’re in different places, we still check in on each other. That kind of connection means everything.

I share this because therapy helped me—a lot. More than I ever expected it would.

And if you’re reading this and feel like you’re carrying something heavy… I hope you know you don’t have to carry it alone.

Try therapy. Talk to someone you trust. Or start where I did—write it out. Journal everything, unfiltered. One of my therapists once called it “word diarrhea,” and honestly… that’s exactly what it is. Just let it all out.

You might be surprised how much lighter you feel when you do. 💛