Sometimes healing means firing the one with the framed credentials.
She had degrees.
A waiting room with crystals and calming jazz.
A bookshelf of trauma manuals
she probably never read past the blurbs.
And every week, I sat there—
bleeding truth
into a sterile office
hoping she’d know what to do with it.
But slowly, I noticed things.
The way she winced at my rage.
The way she redirected my grief
back into guilt.
The way she told me
I “wasn’t making progress”
if I didn’t cry on schedule.
She said “unpack that.”
But only if it fit inside her suitcase.
She called me resistant
when I said, “That’s not how it felt.”
She pathologized my clarity
and diagnosed my fire
as dysfunction.
And still, I stayed.
Because she was the expert.
The one with the clipboard.
The calm tone.
The title.
But one day I realized—
I left every session feeling smaller.
More broken.
More confused.
More ashamed for not healing fast enough
or quietly enough
or in a way that made her comfortable.
So I did the scariest, healthiest thing I’ve ever done:
I walked out.
And didn’t go back.
Because healing isn’t measured by how well you behave
in someone else’s blueprint.
It’s measured by how deeply you trust yourself
to say: “This isn’t helping.”
Even when it’s a “professional.”
Even when they mean well.
Even when they wear a badge that says healer.
🧠 Emotional Takeaway:
Having a degree doesn’t mean they understand you.
Having a title doesn’t mean they’re safe.
And just because someone talks like a therapist
doesn’t mean they’re ready to meet your pain.
🪞 Reflection Box:
I didn’t fire her because she was mean.
I fired her because she was misaligned.
And I stopped mistaking compliance
for emotional growth.
🎤 She had the walls, the books, the chair—
But couldn’t hold me halfway there.
She named my fire, called it flaw—
But never really saw what I saw.
I paid the bill. I played the part.
Till healing meant I broke that chart.
Credentials don’t mean safe or wise—
I healed the day I cut those ties.
