Starting therapy for grief and my mental health has meant finding words for things I’ve been carrying quietly, including feels I couldn’t explain ever to myself. I knew I was hurting, and I knew the anxiety and heaviness were becoming difficult to manage, but knowing you need support and sitting down to let someone see how much you’re struggling are two very different experiences.
There is something vulnerable about talking without immediately softening what you say. Without adding, “But I’m okay,” because you don’t want anyone to worry, or reminding yourself that other people have been through worse before you’ve even finished describing your own pain. I’m beginning to recognize how often I interrupt my own honesty with an excuse for why I shouldn’t feel the way I do.
One of the hardest things I’m discovering is how much energy I’ve spent judging my feelings while I’m already struggling to carry them.
Grief has brought that into focus. There have been moments when I’ve questioned whether I have a right to hurt as deeply as I do, especially when the person I’m grieving belonged to an earlier chapter of my life. I’ve worried about what that sadness might look like to other people, whether it could be misunderstood, and whether I should be handling it differently.
Therapy is giving me room to acknowledge that someone can have mattered to me even after our relationship changed. We shared a life for a time, and there are memories, conversations, and experiences that remain part of my story. His death brings feelings I’m still trying to understand, and criticizing myself for having them only makes it harder to speak honestly.
I can care about the life I have now and still be heartbroken that someone from my past no longer gets to live his.
I’m also discovering how uncomfortable I am with things I cannot resolve. When something hurts, I want to understand it completely. I want to find the explanation that will make everything settle, replay the details until something makes sense, or figure out what I could have said differently. It’s exhausting to keep searching when some of the answers I want are no longer available.
I’m beginning to see how easily that search takes over. My mind can stay busy for hours while I grow more anxious and less able to rest. Recognizing that doesn’t make it easy to stop, but it gives me something to notice: whether I’m reflecting in a way that helps me understand my feelings, or returning to the same painful questions and leaving myself more distressed.
I’m learning that uncertainty is especially difficult for me, and I need support with how I respond to it.
Another realization has been how much I rely on staying busy. Between being a mother, working, going to school, and managing everyday responsibilities, there is usually something that needs my attention. Having things to do can help me get through a difficult day, but I’m starting to ask myself what happens when everything gets quiet.
Sometimes that is when the feelings I’ve pushed aside catch up with me. I can spend the day functioning and still feel overwhelmed once there is nothing left to distract me. I’m learning to pay attention to that difference instead of assuming that getting things done means I must be doing fine.
For a long time, being able to keep going has been one of the ways I reassure myself. If I can show up, take care of what needs to be done, and hold conversation, then maybe I don’t need to admit how hard things have become. Starting therapy has made me look more closely at what it costs me to keep doing all of that without enough support.
I’m discovering that I need somewhere I can speak before I’ve organized my feelings into something easy to explain. Somewhere I can say that I’m sad, anxious, angry, confused, or having a difficult day without immediately producing a solution.
That has also made me notice the way I talk to myself. I can offer someone else patience and understanding, then become frustrated with myself for needing the same things. I expect myself to know better, cope better, and recover faster, even when I would never place those expectations on someone I love.
I want to learn how to respond to my own pain with some of the care I’m willing to give other people.
As a mother, that matters to me, too. I want my daughter to grow up knowing she can tell me when something hurts and ask for help without feeling ashamed. Seeking support for myself is making me think about what it means to live by that belief. I deserve to have people I can turn to as well.
I’m still learning how to do this. There are things I hesitate to say, feelings I struggle to name, and days when I wish understanding myself would happen faster. I don’t have a neat ending to offer, because I’m still in the middle of the experience.
But I have begun to notice things I used to overlook: how quickly I dismiss my own needs, how much reassurance I seek from unanswered questions, and how often I wait until I’m overwhelmed before admitting I need help. Those discoveries can be uncomfortable, but they give me something specific to work on.
Starting therapy has made me realize how much I want to feel understood – and how much of that work involves finally listening to myself.
For now, I’m practicing being honest about where I am. I’m allowing the conversation to continue beyond “I’m fine,” even when I’m unsure what comes next.
If you feel comfortable sharing, what is something therapy, grief, or caring for your mental health has helped you discover about yourself? You can leave a thought in the comments without sharing any details you’d rather keep private.
Until next time,
Between the Words
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