Cover by: Arushi Aeri
Growing up, I was taught to prioritize my physical health by trading in fries for a side salad, hitting my 10,000 step goal every day and prioritizing my time at the gym. However, running and green smoothies never got me closer to feeling whole. This made me realize that I wasn’t taught to value my mental health, which was exacerbated by the stigma associated with therapy in Pakistani culture. However, I have the power to break this streak. My generation has the tools to overcome our trauma so we don’t pass it down to our kids and loved ones, and I don’t take this for granted.
This led me to pursue therapy, but that was only the beginning of the process. What happened next was a combination of hours of research, bus commutes, consultation appointments, and a whole lot of journaling to answer the question, “what do I need?” I have the privilege of having health insurance, being able-bodied, and living in a city with a lot of options for therapists. However, my journey to get help hasn’t been linear.
All of these thoughts led me to this moment.
I sat in her office with my hands folded in my lap. The sleeves of my water-resistant, not waterproof, jacket were heavy from Seattle downpour outside. I offered a smile to my prospective therapist, her brown skin a mirror for my own – let’s call her Priya. This intake appointment gave us 30-minutes to answer a basic question,“what do I want out of therapy?”
At this point, we’ve known each other for all of 5 minutes. Her only reference material about me is a questionnaire that reduces my mental health to a series of numbers that sum up my current state of despair: In the last 2 weeks, how many days did you feel anxious and depressed? How many times did you stress out about things that you can’t control? These questions provide one picture of me, but it’s not
a complete one. In reality, I’m a 23-year-old Seattleite who loves writing and the power of technology. I live in a beautiful condo, have caring relationships, and a fridge full of food to fill my belly every night. But I’m hoping that therapy can give me the tools to handle the bad days too, the ones where I burst out into tears for no reason, or run into someone I used to love and realize that they didn’t ever care
for me.
“Have you had any previous experience with therapy?” Priya asked, bringing my
internal monologue to a screeching halt. I paused.
It’s true that I have a flair for the dramatics. This became even more clear as I took this one question as an opportunity to recount my entire life story, one therapist at a time.
My first therapist was in my life for a total of two hours. At first, I was comforted to be in a room with another woman of color, but I had no given no thought to what I needed out of therapy. In our first session, we were supposed to talk about how I didn’t feel connected to my biology and chemistry coursework. This was making me feel unsure about my purpose, let alone what I wanted out of my career. It was a lot for 18-year-old me to handle, especially as I tried to swim at a university with 40,000
other students. I was a small fish in a big sea.
“What’s your relationship with food?” she asked, once again interrupting my mental monologue on everything that brought me to this moment.
I immediately froze up. “I don’t want to talk about that,” I said definitively, hoping we wouldn’t open up a box I couldn’t close.
“We have to,” she insisted.
I left her office in tears because I felt more out of control than ever. In hindsight, I learned that a good therapist should never ask you to talk about something until you’re ready. Instead, they should create a space for you to feel comfortable expressing your emotions and needs. This way, healing is always on your own terms.
A year later, I decided to give therapy another shot. I returned to my school’s counseling center and prayed that they wouldn’t send a bill to my parents. At first, my new therapist seemed promising. Her office was full of tchotchkes and smelled faintly of lavender, one of my favorite scents, so I decided to let my guard down and talk about my relationship with my mom. When I started to recount an experience
from my childhood, she started tearing up.
“Are you okay?” I offered gently.
“I’m just crying because your story reminds me of my own mother,” the therapist said ad she wiped her eyes.
Six months of being a resident adviser had prepared me for this moment. I knew it was important to validate her feelings and hold them with care.
“I’m sorry for bringing up that trauma. Do you want to talk about it?” I offered gently, not sure what I’d ask next.
Needless to say, I called the counseling center a few hours later and cancel our next appointment. This experience taught me that all therapists have different approaches. Some offer their own identity as a point of connection and empathy, while others will turn questions back on you without sharing their own story. Whether it’s because you need a different communication style or simply because you don’t feel connected to the person, you’re allowed to admit it when a therapist isn’t the right fit for you.
My next therapist was a white man, which should have been a red flag from the beginning. I was fresh off my first real heartbreak, but I was even more worried about the high price of therapy.
“It’s been hard for me to justify the cost, just because I know I can use it for other things,” I shared.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said, “is it hard for you to invest in yourself?” I never saw him again, but I do often think about the answer to the question. I also learned that it’s important to feel like my therapist isn’t judging me for my choices.
“All that to say, I still think I can find a therapist who can support me in the way I need,” I exclaimed to Priya, feeling especially proud for covering so much ground in 10 minutes. That’s when I realized that Priya was staring at me in bewilderment.
“After all of those experiences with therapy, what made you want to try again?” Priya asked.
I’ve realized that this was the most important question. There is no right way to get help. The most important part is recognizing why I keep trying to get help, and remembering that I can only do what I can where I am. Sometimes, my best is surviving. Sometimes, it’s recognizing that some things take a lifetime to forgive. Other times, it’s processing my trauma so my future children don’t have to carry its weight.
I wish I could say that Priya ended up being my therapist because she saw me more clearly than I could see myself, and the rest was history. In reality, fate took an expected turn once again. Our schedules never lined up and next thing I knew, I had graduated college and was no longer eligible to see her. The old me would have blamed fate and said that therapy had failed me one too many times. I also know my story is not an uncommon one – the barriers of cost, availability, stigma, and the challenge of finding a therapist who looks like you can stop others from seeking help, let alone making a consultation appointment. What’s worse is that we never talk about how the road to finding the right therapist isn’t a linear one. However, it’s OK if it takes time to find someone that can support you in the way you need.
Truthfully, I’m still figuring out how to prioritize my mental health. I still haven’t worked up the courage to pursue therapy again. However, I know that there’s a therapist out there that will work for me – or maybe I’ll see a different therapist for every phase of life. Although my experiences with therapy didn’t bring me what I needed at the time, I’ve never stopped believing that I deserve to heal. As long as I carry this belief with me, I will find my way to wholeness. In the meantime, I needed to find ways to love myself authentically, even when the world told me I shouldn’t. I’ve reclaimed self-care in other ways: learning to smile at myself when I see myself sans makeup, holding my girlfriend’s hands in predominantly white spaces, and writing love letters. One day, I’ll find a therapist that supports me in becoming my most authentic self.
Written by Aleenah Ansari (@aleenahansari)