first Therapy appointment

Yesterday I walked into a therapist's office for the first time in almost ten years.

That sentence alone feels huge.

I've wanted to go back to therapy for a long time, but I was terrified. Terrified of what I might remember. Terrified of opening doors my mind has spent years keeping locked. But writing my book this summer has left me with more questions than answers, and I finally realized I couldn't keep running from them.

I sat down on her couch, and for almost the entire session she simply listened. She let me talk. She didn't interrupt or try to solve anything. She just listened to forty-five years of my life being poured out in bits and pieces.

Of course, there was no way we were going to fit my life into a fifty-minute session. We barely scratched the surface.

But before I left, she gave me two things to think about.

The first was parentification.

If you've never heard that word before, neither had I.

Parentification is when a child is forced into an adult role and becomes the caregiver instead of being cared for.

As soon as she explained it, my mind didn't go to my childhood.

It went straight to my daughter, Marissa.

During the worst years of my PTSD, Marissa became my rock. She loved her brothers and sisters fiercely. She stepped in when I wasn't emotionally able to. She became their safe place, their best friend, and someone they could count on.

No child should have to carry that weight.

Then, on the drive home, something hit me.

The reason I recognized it so quickly was because I had lived it first.

When I was growing up, my mom was often gambling, doing drugs, or chasing relationships. I wasn't just the oldest sibling—I became the parent. I worried about everyone else before I ever worried about myself.

I never realized that wasn't normal.

When I became a mother, I wanted something completely different for my own children.

For years, I was present. I loved being their mom. I loved raising babies. My world revolved around them.

Then William's pregnancy and birth changed everything.

After I had Sam, my therapist at the time gently suggested that I probably shouldn't have any more children because of everything my mind and body had already been through.

I didn't listen.

I had two more babies.

Do I regret having them?

Absolutely not.

I cannot imagine my life without William or Charlotte. They are part of my heart.

What I do grieve is what happened to me afterward.

The trauma of William's birth, combined with losing one of my closest friends, pushed me into a place I never knew existed.

I went from being someone who loved taking care of children to someone who became afraid of the world.

Afraid to leave my bedroom.

Afraid to drive.

Afraid to love.

Afraid to be loved.

For a long time, I looked back at that version of myself and thought she was weak.

Now I'm beginning to wonder if she wasn't weak at all.

Maybe she was simply surviving.

That doesn't erase the guilt.

I still carry so much of it.

I think about my older daughters and the years they needed more of me than I was able to give. I know Marissa carried responsibilities that belonged on my shoulders. I wish I could change that.

I can't.

But I can acknowledge it.

I can apologize for it.

And I can keep showing up now.

I'm also incredibly grateful for my sister, Toni.

She was living with us during some of the hardest years of my life, and without even realizing it, she helped carry the emotional weight my children shouldn't have had to carry alone. I honestly don't know where we would be today without her.

I'm grateful for our move to Texas, too.

Looking back, that season became a turning point. It slowly pulled me out of the psychosis and fear that had consumed my life. It helped me begin finding myself again.

Not all at once.

Just one small step at a time.

Writing this book has forced me to revisit memories I haven't thought about in years.

It's also made me realize how many memories are simply...gone.

There are entire periods of my life that feel like black holes.

I've spent so much of my life dissociating that sometimes I don't know what I truly remember and what I've only been told happened.

That realization is heartbreaking.

But it also explains why I feel so drawn to therapy right now.

My therapist told me she wants to spend about four sessions getting to know me before we begin EMDR.

I'll be honest.

I'm scared.

I'm scared of remembering things my brain has spent years trying to protect me from.

I'm scared of feeling emotions I've spent years avoiding.

But I also know that healing rarely happens inside our comfort zones.

If I'm going to tell my story honestly, I need to understand it first.

Therapy isn't just about writing a better book.

It's about becoming a healthier wife.

A healthier mom.

A healthier friend.

It's about finally understanding myself.

Today has been one of those emotional days.

I've been fighting a sinus infection and an ear infection for two weeks.

We celebrated my son's seventeenth birthday today, and now that he has his driver's license, my mom heart worries every time he leaves the house.

I missed the kids who couldn't be at lunch with us.

I watched one of my children be hurtful to another, and it broke my heart because I just want them to love each other the way I love each of them.

By tonight, I felt emotionally exhausted.

I did something I almost never do on weekdays.

I had two drinks.

Not because I wanted to escape my life.

But because, for one evening, it quieted my racing thoughts enough that I could finally sit down and write.

My therapist also recommended a book called Fawning by Ingrid Clayton.

I'm only one chapter in, but I already find myself underlining sentence after sentence because I see pieces of my own story on those pages.

If you've made it this far, thank you for reading.

Yesterday was a big day for me.

Walking back into therapy after almost ten years was one of the hardest things I've done in a long time.

I don't know exactly what the next few months are going to look like.

I know there will probably be tears.

There will probably be memories I'd rather not revisit.

There will probably be days when I wonder why I started this journey in the first place.

But for the first time in a very long time, I also have hope.

For years I believed I was broken.

Now I'm beginning to wonder if maybe I wasn't broken at all.

Maybe I was a little girl who learned how to survive.

Now I'm finally learning how to heal.