If I’m honest about … therapy
Have we got therapy all wrong?
Suggest someone go to therapy when they’re not in crisis and the response is often: “Oh, what for? Are you okay?”
Have we got therapy all wrong?
We wait until we’re drowning before we ask for help. We use therapy as a “break glass in emergency” system and then wonder why we’re always playing catch-up with ourselves.
I have been seeing psychologists (on and off) for many years. Not for the same problem, and not always because something was wrong. That seems to be the part people find strange.
It started with motherhood. That seismic, identity-reshaping shift that nobody adequately prepares you for. Everyone talks about the love, the joy and the sleep deprivation. Nobody really talks about the loss of self, the grief for the woman you were before, or the quiet terror of being responsible for a tiny human who screams to be heard, but can’t form words. I wasn’t depressed or suffering from any post-natal condition. I just wanted somewhere safe, contained, and professional to talk it through. If I’m honest, I wanted reassurance that feeling some of my feelings didn’t make me an arsehole.
Therapy became that place.
Then I just kept going. Even when things were fine.
Extended family tensions. Career crossroads. Parenting choices I second-guessed at 2am. Friendships that quietly faded or loudly fractured. Then the bigger things: the loss of my father and two close friends gone too young. And onto childhood trauma, and having to navigate the justice system to report an offender (more on that in my podcast episode).
The sessions aren’t always pleasant. Sometimes I drive home feeling wrung out. I’ve cried in waiting rooms behind oversized sunglasses. Other times I’ve left with more questions than answers.
Because a lot of sessions happened during perfectly ordinary seasons of life, I questioned whether I was searching for shit to shoot just to justify the time and money. Turns out there’s always something worth examining if you look hard enough. A pattern quietly running in the background or a story you’ve been telling yourself for so long you’ve stopped noticing it’s there.
I wonder if this is why people resist therapy, even when they believe in its effectiveness. Looking inwards is uncomfortable, but it also feels indulgent. Self-obsessed, even. We’ve been raised to get on with it, be grateful and save the navel-gazing for people with actual problems. I’d argue the opposite. The people doing the examining are often the least self-absorbed in the room. They’re asking hard questions about their own behaviour, sitting with uncomfortable answers and trying not to foist their unexamined patterns onto everyone around them. That feels less like indulgence and more like consideration.
Seeking out a therapist when crisis hits feels acceptable, a responsible adult thing to do. But when you’re in crisis, you’re just trying to survive the hour. You don’t have the bandwidth to examine patterns or question the internal narratives you’re reacting from. In crisis, you need a pressure valve. When life is humming along reasonably well, that’s when the real work happens.
I guess it’s like taking your car in for a service before smoke starts pouring out of the bonnet. Maintenance is something we do without question. Cars, teeth, gutters. But suggest someone go to therapy when they’re not in dire straits and the response is often: “Oh, what for? Are you okay?”
Yes. That’s the point. I’m going while I’m okay so I understand myself before everything goes sideways.
The trickiest part is finding the right therapist. Someone empathetic but practical, who challenges your views just enough to make you think without making you feel like you have to defend your every move. Someone who notices the links, names the repeated tendencies, the loops you run, the default settings you fall back on under stress. Someone willing to pick at a scab just a little. I’m not rapt about paying $220 a session for someone to nod sympathetically agreeing to everything I say. That’s an expensive echo chamber. And I’m aware they’re only ever getting one side of the story.
Does dinner with a friend count as therapy?
A family member of mine recently started seeing a therapist. A work issue got her there, but her own recognition of the value of a clear head kept her going. She described it like going out for dinner with a friend to talk through her problems. She’d pay for that without a second thought. But what she’s actually doing is loading a confidante with things they may not be qualified or equipped to carry. There’s a limit to what we should ask of the people who love us. A professional can hold weight that a friendship simply wasn’t designed to bear.
She sees therapy as an investment in herself that she’s choosing to prioritise, the same way she would her health or her career. She’s in her early twenties and has already worked this out.
I’m quietly hoping the generation coming through sees it that way by default, rather than the outdated “break glass in emergency” thinking.
The cost remains a legitimate frustration and a genuine barrier. Counselling is increasingly inaccessible to people without disposable income. That’s not just unfair, it’s a false economy. The cost of avoiding this work doesn’t disappear. It shows up later in dysfunctional relationships, parenting patterns passed down without scrutiny, and crisis presentations to an already overwhelmed healthcare system. We underfund prevention and then wonder why we’re drowning at the acute end. A Medicare rebate that actually keeps pace with psychologists’ fees would be a bloody good start.
Doing the work on yourself is rarely easy. It isn’t supposed to be. The goal isn’t to feel good in the room. It’s to slowly feel better in your life. To catch yourself a little sooner. To understand the stories driving your reactions before they start driving everyone around you (mad!). Perhaps the goal is to become someone who acts with intention rather than by default.
That’s worth every uncomfortable (and expensive) hour.
Kylie
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