This story began several years ago, during a relationship, at a moment when I was grappling with a knot I could not quite untie. My then-girlfriend was facing personal struggles, and like many men, I fell into a well-known, ego-driven trap: I believed I could step in as the healer.
It took me time to understand two simple truths.
The first is that only a person can truly heal herself. You may help by shedding light on certain challenges, but some steps must be taken alone.
The second is that in a love relationship you can be a lover, you can be a confidant, you can be present and supportive, but you are not the healer. And confusing these roles helps no one.
At some point, out of frustration, I suggested she should see a therapist to face a few things she was carrying. She took some time, then replied with disarming clarity: “I will get a therapist if you get a therapist.” I had already spent dozens of years working on myself in other ways, including my job as mediator and a long path with Qi Gong instructors and Zen masters, but that was not what she meant. She wanted me to see a therapist in the formal sense. Licensed. Professional. Western-trained.
I accepted the deal, so I started looking.
The first one was judgmental, and a bit rude. I have very little tolerance for judgment, especially in spaces that are supposed to be safe. My God says something simple, but revolutionary: “Do not judge, and you will not be judged“. Unsurprisingly, that door closed quickly.
The second tried to teach me the Dao. Unfortunately, not only did she not really know Lao Tzu or Zhuangzi, but she also underestimated what seeps through the cracks when you actually live those teachings instead of talking about them. The Dao is not a lecture. It is a way of being. That one was also a no.
The third was not a good fit either, but before we parted she said something that mattered. “I might have someone for you.” That sentence led me to the fourth.
At our first session, I was very clear. I told her I did not need someone to teach me how to live. I needed someone who could act as a container. A place where I could unload without spilling my outbursts onto colleagues, friends, or myself. She looked at me, smiled, and said something like: “So you want to pay me to use the space, and let me hold what you do not want to spill elsewhere“”Exactly!” I replied.
She accepted, and we started from there. We have been working together for a long time now.
Telling my family was an experience in itself.
When I told my mother, her reaction was immediate and curious. “A therapist? Is she a woman?” “Yes”. “How old is she?” “A few years older than me, I think”. “Is she single?” “I have no idea”. “Attractive?” “Kinda” “Does she wear a ring?” “No”. She paused, laughed, and said four words that still make me smile: “Oh Damn…. Be careful.”
With my father, I had two conversations.
In the first one, he said that managers are usually the least inclined to go to therapy. I replied that this might be precisely why they need it the most. By the way, he is a manager.
In the second one, he asked me if something was wrong. In his view, only person with issues go to therapy. I replied “No” and added something I truly believe: “You go to the doctor when you are well, not only when you are sick”. Years of traditional Chinese medicine shaped my mind, I guess.
The truth is that I did have some issues. Nothing dramatic, nothing cinematic, but real enough. Having an external perspective, neither judgmental nor family-driven, helped. I also have to stress that this blog, and my life, have long revolved around the difference between thinking and feeling, and around learning how to follow the latter more than our minds. Therapy played a role in that shift, quietly and without slogans.
After she got pregnant, we took a year off. I care about her as much as she cares about me. Put two hypersensitive souls in the same room and you may have an idea of our convos.
In 2022, when I moved to the United States for my third stint, we switched to online sessions. At that point it was no longer about therapy or the trash can. It was about staying in touch with someone who mattered to me. Today I see her about once a month. Sometimes we talk deeply. Sometimes we just chat. We hug when we meet. She reads my blog if I send her the posts. She listens to my songs and poems. There is therapy in all of this, but it is not always visible. Often, it hides in the ordinary. And that is fine.
So why am I sharing this?
Mainly for two reasons.
The first is that therapy still carries a lot of stigma, and openness helps. Maybe sharing this will make the path easier for someone else. Especially lawyers and managers, lol!
But there is another reason, one that matters more to me. If we genuinely want to take care of others, at some point we have to learn how to take care of ourselves. Not as a badge of self-improvement. Just as a quiet responsibility.
The best version of ourselves often shows up in small, almost invisible acts. The kind that slowly change the world.
