I didn’t realise how emotionally unsafe I’d felt in that room — until I finally experienced what emotional safety actually feels like.

With my current therapist, I feel it clearly. With my manager at Barnardo’s, I feel it too. That sense of slowness, of being held, of not needing to perform or explain or correct myself. That is emotional safety.

But with my former therapist, I didn’t feel that. Looking back, I think I confused curiosity for presence. I think I mistook questions for care.

There were moments in our sessions where I felt more like I was being interrogated than supported. He’d bring up my mother, my sister — not because I had, but because he was curious. He’d offer suggestions I hadn’t asked for. He’d subtly steer the conversation. And all the while, I was paying to sit in a room where I didn’t feel free to feel.

I remember once, I had to interrupt him just to ask: “Can I say something?” That should have been the moment I knew something was off. But I stayed. I stayed because I’d already placed him on a pedestal. I stayed because I thought this was therapy. I stayed because I was too used to people talking over me and calling it love.

And then there were the stories — his stories. Ten minutes of one session spent talking about his new course, how proud he was, how tired he felt being the one to build it. I hadn’t asked. I hadn’t even wanted to know. But there I was, picking up on his energy, trying to make him feel seen — in a space that was supposed to be for me.

That’s when I realised:

This wasn’t therapeutic. This was familiar.

It mirrored what I’d experienced in my family. My emotional needs overshadowed by someone else’s agenda. My quiet truth crowded out by someone else’s narrative. My life seen only through the lens of “what more I could be doing.”

He once asked about my social life. I told him I walked my dog and talked to people in small ways. And his response made it feel like that wasn’t good 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 used to say I needed to be more vulnerable. But I was vulnerable. I just wasn’t held in that vulnerability. And because it wasn’t met properly, I pulled back. I started seeing him more sporadically. I knew, somewhere inside, that it wasn’t right — I just didn’t have the self-worth to trust that yet.

Until now.

Now that I know what emotional safety feels like, I can’t pretend anymore. Now that I know how it feels to be held without being analysed, I can’t unsee what was missing.

I still feel conflicted. I still feel sad. Part of me still wants to like him. But another part — a deeper, more grounded part — knows this:

I didn’t feel safe in that room. And I kept paying to stay in it anyway. Because I didn’t know how to leave what was familiar.

But I know now. And I’m not waiting for someone else to name it. Because I have. And that’s enough.

I used to think that trusting people meant staying loyal, even when something felt off. Now I know that real trust starts with me. And if the people I feel safe with today were to disappear tomorrow, I know something else, too:

I can find that safety again. Because I know what it feels like now. And I know what I deserve.