There’s a quiet grief that comes when you realise the person who once held you can no longer do so.

One of my therapists — the one I spent the most time with — was the first person I trusted after years of emotional loneliness. I saw him during a season where I needed structure. I needed someone steady. Someone a little more “head than heart.” He gave me that. In fact, he reminded me a lot of my parents. That probably wasn’t a coincidence.

For a long time, I confused that familiarity with safety.

But lately, something has been rising in me — a quiet unease I’d been trying to ignore. It’s the realisation that I may have stayed too long. That the very space I thought was helping me move forward was actually keeping me tethered.

He often told me to be careful about seeking validation through helping others. He wasn’t wrong. But in hindsight, I wonder if part of him was speaking to something unresolved in himself. He expressed so much pride in my progress — in my journey to become a counsellor — that, at times, it felt like he was taking credit for it. And that didn’t sit right.

Because I chose this path. I read On Becoming a Person by Carl Rogers, and something in me knew this was the way forward. I asked for guidance, sure — but the choice was mine. And I suppose I needed him to recognise that, not to subtly fold it into his narrative.

There were other moments too — like when he compared me to his son. I think he was trying to connect, but that dynamic, layered with past parental wounds, only made it harder to leave. It created an unspoken obligation. A sense that I owed him. That if I left, I would be just another person who disappointed him.

And maybe that’s what happened. Maybe he felt that coming. Maybe he sensed that I’d outgrown what he could offer, and he didn’t quite know how to say it.

Neither did I.

He never pushed me to try a different therapist. He never said, “This is as far as I can go with you.” I wish he had. I wish he had said, “You might be ready for something different now.” That would have been the most therapeutic thing he could have done. But instead, we kept going. I kept showing up. I kept paying. And somewhere inside, I stayed small.

I think I chose him, in part, because he was like my parents. Because some part of me was still trying to earn safety in a place where it would always be conditional.

It wasn’t until I found another therapist — someone whose energy felt completely different — that I started to see what had been missing all along. With her, I feel safe. Playful. Seen. I’ve shared parts of myself I’ve never shared with anyone else. And nothing bad has happened. No judgment. No managing. Just presence.

She doesn’t tell me to keep my inner child in check. She asks what he wants to say.

That shift has been everything.

Since leaving the previous therapy relationship, I’ve made changes I never could have made before — like stepping away from family dynamics that were draining and dysfunctional. I don’t think it’s a coincidence. I think, in some way, I had been waiting for permission. And when I finally stopped waiting, I gave it to myself.

I’m not angry. But I am disappointed. I needed more from that space than I received. And I can’t deny that anymore.

Sometimes the people who help us survive aren’t the ones who help us thrive. Sometimes the person who once gave you structure starts to feel like a cage. And sometimes growth means walking away from the hands that first held you.

Not with bitterness. But with the quiet clarity of someone who finally knows: “I can hold myself now.”