It's May 2022 and I'm hiding from my therapist. I haven't had a session in over a month, which feels like eternity after meeting every week for three years. "I'm not feeling too well," I type into another email draft.

"Can we reschedule?" I listen to the whoosh of my email and close my laptop with a sigh. I tap my nails across the cover and think about ordering takeout, but instead I let myself sink off the couch and onto the floor. A ping lights up my phone and I see she's already replied: "Of course.

Let me know when you want to meet next." But I don't want to reschedule. I never want to log into again.

After three years of therapy, I'm exhausted. Don't get me wrong, I know therapy is good for me. My time with Margaret (my therapist) was filled with so much self-growth I could barely recognize my former self.

Coping skills? Got 'em. Grounding tools? Boatloads. Support network? On speed dial.

And I knew I had plenty more to work on. We had recently started , which is like next-level , and I was ready to keep healing. Until I wasn't.

This was around the same time that therapy became very popular. I'd see tweets like "If you're not in therapy that's a red flag" or countless "therapy TikToks" that turned mental health awareness into a social credential. Almost everyone I knew in my life was either in therapy or seeking a therapist.

I was lucky! I had a therapist that I had been seeing since before the pandemic that was *gasp* covered by insurance. I was living the dream, baby! .