Today, I reached out to my therapist, asking to resume our sessions. I had stopped attending midway through my final high school exams — not because I had healed, but because I convinced myself therapy wasn’t working anymore. I left abruptly, without a goodbye or closure, ghosting the very person who had been a lifeline during my hardest times. It was as though I became the ghoster, not the ghosted. I’ve often wondered how people carry on with the weight of ghosting, whether in romantic relationships or otherwise. The guilt lingered, making me feel unworthy of seeking help again when I couldn’t even bring myself to close things properly the first time.
But this isn’t like a situationship or a fleeting connection. The relationship between therapist and patient is bound by professionalism, yet it still feels personal in a way. Today, I realized my health outweighed my pride. Healing, as much as I once wished it were linear, is anything but. It ebbs and flows, like unpredictable tides. When I first began therapy at fourteen, I was drowning in my depression. Now, at nineteen, I am steadier, yet I know that depression doesn’t age the way we do. It doesn’t soften its blows or diminish over time. It remains as relentless as ever, ready to resurface, unchanged by the passing years.
There are so many internal voices that resist the idea of returning to therapy. Admitting I need help again makes the struggles I face feel more tangible, as though seeking professional care affirms that there is something clinically wrong with me. It’s unsettling to think that a shrink can hold a mirror to my instability and offer proof of it, reducing my inner turmoil to a diagnosis. There’s also the fear that by going back, I’m somehow regressing, revisiting old wounds instead of moving forward.
But I’ve come to understand that therapy isn’t a retreat into the past, but rather a journey forward — a recalibration of the tools I need to face the present. It’s not a sign of weakness to return but of strength. Because acknowledging that I need help isn’t admitting defeat; it’s reclaiming control. So, no, returning to therapy isn’t a step backward. It’s the decision to continue walking forward, even when the path is shrouded in fog.
You are loved and wanted in this world. Though we may be strangers, know that as long as I am breathing, there is someone who hopes you choose to live — not just today, but for all the days to come. So take a moment, clear that depression-fueled storm in your room, drink some water, and wake up tomorrow. Don’t let the question of ‘what if’ linger. You owe it to yourself to keep going, to see what tomorrow holds. — Karyee xx
