I messaged my old therapist today. Just to say thank you.
For holding space. For guiding me when I needed it.
For being there in a time that—if I’m being really honest—may have saved my life.

It wasn’t dramatic.
His response was short, sincere, simple:

“I feel very privileged to have played some part in your growth. Good luck with everything.”

But what sat beneath that line…
Was everything.

Because the truth is—it was a big deal.
There were times I didn’t know if I’d make it.
Times I was barely holding on.
Times I was a breath away from losing everything—my sense of self, my stability, maybe even my ability to be a dad.

And he held me there.
Not by fixing me.
But by seeing me.
Without panic. Without judgement.
Just quiet, consistent presence.

There were moments I wondered if it was worth the money.
If I was just talking in circles.
If I was too broken to be helped.
But now I see it clearly:

It was worth every single penny.
Not because he gave me the answers—but because he helped me stay alive long enough to find them myself.

And the beauty of it all?

He didn’t need to make it about him.
He didn’t puff his chest or take credit.
He just responded with a grounded kind of humility—like of course he did what he did.
Because it’s what I deserved.
Because I was worthy of being helped.

And in that simple reply, he gave me something else:
The permission to own my survival.