I Thought I Was the Broken One… Until My Therapist Broke Down Too

Last week Wednesday, I walked into my therapist’s office wearing black shades and a hoodie like some undercover celeb trying to hide from the press. But in reality, I was just hiding from my own thoughts.

The thing is—I had been spiralling. My group chat was dry. My sleep schedule was chaotic.

Food didn’t slap anymore. I’d scroll through TikTok for hours, laugh at a few memes, then suddenly feel empty. Anxiety had started to feel like my default setting. And worst of all? I couldn’t explain why.

So yeah, I booked a therapy session. It felt weird at first—like going on a blind date with my trauma.

When I got there, the office smelled like lavender and wood polish. Soft lofi beats played in the background. The therapist was a young woman, maybe in her late twenties, glasses, natural hair in a puff, smile that looked like she’d been through stuff too.

She said, “Let’s start wherever you’re comfortable.”

I paused. Then I said, “I think I’m slowly disappearing.”

And just like that, the walls I built with ego and vibes started to crack.

Week after week, I kept going back. We talked about everything—my imposter syndrome, how I never processed my dad’s death, why I laugh too much when I’m nervous, how I mask depression with productivity.

Therapy wasn’t like in movies. No magic fix. No sudden “aha” moment. It was me, showing up consistently, unpacking my emotional luggage bit by bit.

But then something unexpected happened.

Last Friday, after our session, I caught her staring at the wall for too long. You know when someone is physically present but mentally swimming through something deep?

So I asked, “You good?”

She blinked, looked at me, then smiled softly.

“You know,” she said, “sometimes I forget we’re both human in this room.”

I didn’t get it at first.

But the next session, she cancelled. And the next. Then I got an email—not from her, but from the clinic—saying she was taking an indefinite leave. No explanation.

That shook me.

I spent days wondering what went wrong. Did I trigger something? Did she burnout? Was I too heavy?

Then one day, I got a message on my burner IG account (the one I use to rant and post sad playlists). It was her.

She wrote:

“I just wanted to say thank you. You reminded me why I started doing this in the first place. But I also realized I was trying to help people heal while I was bleeding myself. I’m finally going to therapy now too.”

I stared at the message for a long time. Me. The client. Helped the therapist.

That night, I didn’t cry. I didn’t spiral. I just sat quietly in my room, stared at my ceiling, and felt something rare: peace.

Mental health isn’t linear. Therapy isn’t always polished. And healing? Sometimes it looks like breaking first.

I’m still on my journey—still journaling, still meditating, still catching intrusive thoughts like Pokémons—but one thing I know now:

Sometimes the healer needs healing too.

And that doesn’t make them weak.

It makes them real.