I Quit Therapy And I've Never Been Happier

Growing up, therapy was taboo. No one spoke about their therapist, and if they did, it was with some underlying shame attached. Fast forward to my mid-twenties, and it seemed as though everyone was in therapy. Men used their therapist as a badge of honor to show their “emotional intelligence.” Women spoke about therapy casually, as if he or she was just another friend. So when I felt like my life was more difficult than I would have liked, I booked my first appointment. Thus began a five-year journey with a woman only a few years my elder, guiding me through my toughest mental and spiritual battles.

To her credit, I wasn’t the easiest client. I often pushed back on her suggestions of sobriety, claimed I was happiest when I was free to do what I wanted when I wanted, and at the time, that felt very true. I pointed to my childhood as the reason and validation for some bad behaviors, which included promiscuity, alcohol abuse, and lashing out at romantic partners. No matter how badly I described myself and my poor behaviors, the response was the same: it’s not your fault. And I believed it.

Appointments played out like weekly gossip sessions with handfuls of self-help advice. Materialism was encouraged, disguised as “self-care.” Following one breakup, my therapist told me it was “perfectly normal,” and even a “good idea,” to be promiscuous since I had been “trapped” in a relationship for so long. So that’s what I did. When I described feelings of emptiness or anxiety, medication that came with serious side effects served as one of the first lines of defense instead of a last resort. There was never an analysis of my promiscuity or of my value system as a whole. The goal seemed to be “feel better at any cost.”

I wore my trauma like a badge of honor, using it as permission to self-destruct.

The two main themes of sessions were rumination and validation. I sat in front of my therapist going over my traumas over and over again, armed with the notion that talking it through would somehow change my past. I relived my mother’s abandonment so many times that it felt like it had happened only yesterday instead of years ago. I was told that my pain and mental health issues could be explained by my childhood, which not only made sense to me, but gave me a forever enemy: my parents. This practice did not, in fact, heal me. It instead bred resentment, hate, and more reason to act in destructive ways. I wore my trauma like a badge of honor, using it as permission to self-destruct.

After five years with the same therapist, I ended our time together, not because the results of these sessions were nonexistent, but because I moved states. After my move, I quickly found a new therapist who once again let me enter into the familiar cycle of self-pity and validation. I struggled with anxiety around my new role as a mother, and instead of pointing me toward any sort of spiritual remedy, I was once again pointed toward medication, which, this time, I denied as I was breastfeeding my daughter. I was predictably advised to take self-care days, take time for myself, and even cut off people who were seemingly making my life harder.

I was armed with therapy terms to use against others in the name of selfishness, now setting “boundaries” at every turn instead of confronting issues head-on, or ending difficult conversations because I was “triggered.” The primary message from my therapist was that everything was about me, except my problems. Those were other people’s fault. This messaging is what ultimately convinced me to stay in therapy for so long. Who wouldn’t want to be told constantly that they are “valid” and that they should pursue things that make them feel good? So convinced by the efficacy of therapy, I even went and got my degree in psychology, thinking I wanted to help others. However, I eventually realized I wouldn’t be helping at all. I realized that more people don’t actually need therapy.

My official departure from my role as a therapy patient came after yet another move. Though this time, I didn’t seek out a replacement therapist, somewhat due to financial reasons but also what I would call “therapy fatigue.” Instead, I slowly faced some of my issues head-on. I leaned into the teachings of AA I had learned while getting sober. I took inventory of my resentments, and instead of letting them fuel my own destruction, I looked at my role in those feelings. Was I holding on to anger? Was I part of the problem? I made amends to others when necessary. I took bitterness and shifted it toward gratitude. I took anxiety and turned it toward trust in God. I took denial of my flaws and turned it into accountability.

The primary message from my therapist was that everything was about me, except my problems. Those were other people’s fault.

Rigorous honesty was required of me for the first time in my life, which led me to seeing the truth of my pain: me. Therapy did not ask for a true analysis of me; it instead gave me a space to write the narrative that most suited me.

After converting to Catholicism, I found true peace for the first time. Less than a year of attending Mass, confessing my sins, doing service for others, and reading the Bible not only healed so much of my anxiety and depression, but made me a better mother, partner, and friend. That transformation was what I desperately longed for in therapy, to no avail, for over six years. Realizing that I had to focus on my own growth instead of wasting time blaming everyone else, my life improved rapidly. I finally had control over my healing when I took away the power from my past and instead gave it to God.

I discovered a newfound drive in myself. I found comfort and acceptance in things that had previously brought me stress and anxiety because I trusted in God’s plan. I trained for and completed a marathon because I discovered the importance of working toward a goal that seems impossible. And even though I hate running, I felt nothing but gratitude for the opportunity. I was gifted with not only discipline, peace, and purpose, but a new perspective.

It’s true I was happy doing what I wanted when I wanted, though only superficially and only in the short term. What I needed from therapy was to be told that my superficial wants are not congruent with my spiritual and mental needs. I needed guidance, not validation. I didn’t need to resent my traumas; I needed to find the capacity for forgiveness. I forgave those who had hurt me the most in my life and, in that way, took away the excuse I held so dear for so long, which proved to be the ultimate freedom.

True freedom was not found in listening to every base instinct; it was discipline. I didn’t need self-care days in the form of sleeping in or hitting the spa. I needed church and an afternoon volunteering at the soup kitchen. I needed to be pushed outside of my comfort zone. I needed to do hard things. I needed to get over myself. When I finally stopped obsessing over myself and my problems is when I truly found myself.

Exiting the feedback loop of therapy was the best thing I ever did for my mental health.

My problems were my fault. Accepting that was the first true step to healing and finding peace. Today, I exist as someone who still, at times, feels the pain of anxiety, fear, or sadness. The difference is I am a whole person with purpose, direction, and discipline, skills that were never even mentioned in my therapist’s office. I no longer rely on validation, but instead accountability and gratitude.

Therapy taught me to give in to and accept my weaknesses instead of asking for strength from the only one who could provide it: God. I was told to focus on myself instead of others. To blame others instead of taking responsibility for my own feelings, mistakes, and resentments. Exiting the feedback loop of therapy was the best thing I ever did for my mental health.

There are certainly valid and important uses for mental health services. Some people suffer from serious mental health disorders that require professional help. But I would assert that most people in therapy in the modern age are simply looking for what I was: validation and a place to ruminate. A place to feel just uncomfortable enough that you convince yourself you’re “working on yourself,” but never past the point of actually giving up the things you’re attached to. If you're someone who has been searching for a solution to your pain through therapy for years and years, talking about the same issues over and over again, at a certain point it begs the question: is this even working?