Letting Go to Find Myself

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There’s a quiet heartbreak in watching someone step down from the pedestal you placed them on. Not because they did something terrible. But because you were finally ready to see them as they really are — not as you needed them to be.

That’s what happened with one of my former therapists.

When we started, I was still grieving the loss of my father. I needed structure. Stability. A sense of guidance. And he offered all of that. I admired him. Trusted him. Looked up to him in a way that went beyond the therapeutic frame — and I think that was part of the problem.

Over time, things began to shift, but I didn’t realise it clearly until after I left. It felt subtle at first: he would guide the conversation, bring up things I hadn’t mentioned, suggest things I wasn’t asking for — all under the guise of curiosity.

But eventually, I found myself needing to interrupt him just to speak. The space no longer felt like mine.

It’s only now I see how that dynamic mirrored my family patterns — where my thoughts were often overridden by suggestions I didn’t ask for. Where well-meaning advice left me feeling unseen. Where autonomy was gently eroded under the surface of care.

He often talked about adult-to-adult relationships, but it was clear he was comfortable in the parental role — offering answers, steering the ship, sometimes even telling personal stories I didn’t really need to hear. I paid him for that time, and still I left sessions feeling like I had to fight for space.

He once said I might unconsciously seek validation through helping others. But in hindsight, I wonder if that wasn’t also playing out between us — that he needed me to need him. That my progress validated his sense of meaning, pride, even legacy. He mentioned how I was now training as a counsellor — as if that were part of his doing. But I know in my bones: I chose this path. I would’ve found it either way.

Looking back, I think the therapeutic relationship — especially toward the end — kept me small. It didn’t ask me to step into my full self. It just helped me stay safe.

And for a while, maybe that’s what I needed. But I stayed long after that season had passed.

Since I left, I’ve grown in ways I couldn’t have imagined. I’ve set boundaries I never thought I’d be strong enough to hold. I’ve walked away from people who were quietly draining me. I’ve stopped apologising for my solitude. I’ve trusted how I feel — without needing someone else to give me permission.

And the biggest shift?

My self-worth has increased — dramatically — since leaving therapy.

That alone says everything.

I don’t hate him. I see his humanity now, and in some ways, I even saw his inner child — the part of him that may have needed me to stay. I think he saw that I was growing frustrated with the world around me, and maybe he feared he would be next. He was right.

And that’s okay.

Because sometimes, the very thing that once held us ends up holding us back. Not out of malice, but out of familiarity.

And when we finally leave — when we finally say, “this isn’t mine anymore” — something else happens:

We start to come home to ourselves.

So yes, I feel sad. I feel disappointed. But I also feel more grounded than I’ve ever felt.

Because the truth is, I didn’t find my real self in that room. I found it when I walked away.

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