For a long time, I had a strong aversion to therapy. I often dismissed its importance, thinking it was predictable and cliché. Seriously, every session seemed to circle back to my childhood. “Oh, we’re discussing my parents’ divorce again? How unique.” I relied on close friends, a glass of wine, and the occasional yoga session to cope. I told myself I was doing just fine—only to realize that “fine” was the biggest lie of all.
I thought I had moved past my childhood issues, but trauma has a way of lingering. It doesn’t just vanish; it embeds itself in your very being, influencing how you parent and interact with others. Just because I appeared to be a “functioning adult” didn’t mean I was okay—far from it. I now understand that I should have sought therapy long before I hit rock bottom.
There were many moments in my life when I could have benefited from professional help: after my children were born, during the rough patches in my marriage, and when I found myself lashing out at my toddlers for acting their age. That realization stings. But it wasn’t until I faced a serious crisis that I finally made the call to a therapist.
After a week of excessive drinking that culminated in tears, my husband pouring out liquor, and a harsh talk from my boss, I knew I had to change. I was spiraling, losing touch with my sanity, my marriage, and my identity. My therapist came highly recommended, and the moment I spoke to her, I felt my defenses crumble. It was uncomfortable yet liberating to finally share my burden.
I couldn’t open up to my husband, who had a happy childhood and couldn’t relate to my experiences. My parents, too, were too close to my past and often chose to forget it rather than confront it. I felt trapped, but my therapist provided the understanding I had long sought.
In our first session, I cried like I never had before in front of a stranger. To my surprise, it felt good. She helped me see that my struggles were not solely mine; they were part of a larger tapestry woven through generations of my family, filled with their own traumas. While my past wasn’t my fault, it was my responsibility to change my behavior for the sake of my children.
Therapy quickly became a vital part of my self-care routine. Like exercise, healthy eating, and even indulging in a good book, it helped me nurture not just myself but my kids too. I often compare my traumas to those of others, feeling they may not measure up. However, I’ve learned that you don’t need a dramatic backstory to benefit from therapy. It can stem from a series of smaller experiences or even ancestral trauma.
The harsh truth is that unaddressed trauma gets passed down to your children. I refused to let my kids be trapped in that cycle. I couldn’t distract myself anymore with work, chores, or alcohol. I realized that my children were the key to my healing. Once I acknowledged that, connecting with them became a natural and beautiful process—hopefully not too late.
I often worry: Was I too late? Have I caused irreversible damage? The future remains uncertain, but I focus on the present. I am committed to taking care of myself and my children, and I will continue to strive for improvement.
If you’re navigating similar struggles, check out resources like Resolve for valuable insights on family planning and support. For those on a similar fertility journey, this blog post may offer guidance, while this story shares an inspiring journey of parenthood through home insemination.
In conclusion, therapy has been instrumental in my journey toward becoming a better parent. It’s never too late to seek help and break the cycle.