Lately, I’ve been questioning whether I’ve made myself too visible. Whether the stories I’m sharing, the feelings I’m naming, the things I’ve been through — especially around psychosis — might be too much. Too soon. Too vulnerable.

Someone I used to trust deeply expressed concern about this. He was clear: Don’t put up a contact form. Don’t invite people to reach out. He said it might make people think I’m qualified. That I might be crossing some boundary.

And on paper, maybe that makes sense. I’m still in training. I’m not yet a qualified counsellor. But I know that. And I’ve been transparent about it.

So what’s really going on?

It’s taken me a while to realise that the discomfort wasn’t about rules. It was about me being visible. And that visibility — unfiltered, emotionally honest, creatively expressed — seemed to make him uncomfortable.

He also suggested that maybe I was sharing too much — that being this vulnerable might be dangerous. But for who?

These aren’t raw, unprocessed disclosures. These are truths I’ve lived through, sat with, and integrated slowly over time. So what danger are we talking about?

The truth is, I think he was speaking from his own fear. Fear of what happens when someone stops playing the game — the game of therapeutic neutrality, emotional caution, and staying small enough to be approved of by the system.

But I don’t want to play that game.

I’ve been open about my experiences with psychosis. Not to shock, or overshare — but to be real. Because if the field of therapy has no room for people who’ve actually lived through the things clients bring in, then it’s not as human as it claims to be.

And if someone sees my openness and decides to reject me for it — then they were never my people to begin with.

This former therapist also used to speak with a kind of certainty — like he knew my critical parent would always be there. That the best I could hope for was managing it.

But how does he know that?

He doesn’t. He just hasn’t healed his own.

I’m not saying I’ve “fixed” myself. But I don’t believe in the permanence of inner war anymore. I believe in repair. In reparenting. In integration. I believe in building something softer.

And I’m not afraid to say that out loud.

Looking back, it’s also clear that he wasn’t really holding space — he was shaping it. Ten minutes of our session would be about him — his courses, his work, his feelings. I didn’t ask. But I sat there, absorbing it, because I was trained to do that. To be the listener, even in the room where I was meant to be heard.

And then when I spoke about the simplest things — like walking my dog and talking to people — he made it feel like that wasn’t enough. Like I was somehow falling short for not forcing deeper connections. But walking my dog is where I feel connected. It’s quiet, regular, human. It’s where real life happens. And the fact that wasn’t honoured — that’s what hurt the most.

He said I needed to be more vulnerable. But the vulnerability I brought him wasn’t held. And that is what stopped me from opening further.

Now, with a different therapist — someone whose presence is gentle, attuned, and open — I know what emotional safety actually feels like. And now that I’ve felt it, I can’t pretend otherwise.

So am I being too vulnerable?

No. I’m finally being honest. I’m finally being seen. And I’m no longer afraid of what people will think if I stop hiding the parts of me that were once too painful to name.

This isn’t too much. This is real life. And I’ve earned the right to share it.

Looking deeper, I realise now that I may have placed the kind of hope I once had in my parents into the hands of my former therapist. I needed to believe someone had a plan for me. That someone knew the way out. But no one ever did. Not really. And while that realisation is sobering, it’s also freeing. Because the truth is, I’ve done all this myself.

The guidance I thought he was offering wasn’t actually guidance — it was containment. And the idea that he was leading me was a kind of projection. He wasn’t showing me the way. He was standing in it.

And now that I’m here, with my feet on the ground and my own compass in hand, I see that I never needed a divine plan. I just needed someone to help me trust my own.