What Ten Years of Therapy Actually Cost Me
Getty Images: panaya chittaratlert
I was 14 years old, fighting many foreign feelings (puberty) when my mother recognized that talking to someone unbiased could help. I walked into the therapist's office, and honestly, though my mother meant well, I was not connecting with this woman the way any of us had anticipated. I wouldn't blame the therapist. I was guarded, confused, and a very headstrong teenager. But this is often a bittersweet thought when I acknowledge how far I've come.
I've witnessed adults have the same very big feelings (and fears, really) that 14-year-old me had that first day walking into a therapist's office. Aside from that, people often ask about the cost of therapy. This includes sliding fee scales, co-pays, out-of-network rates, and how to make this fiscally attainable. But no one warns you about the other bill. The one that comes when you survive a near-death experience and your mother says, "I think it's seriously time that you talk to a professional. What you survived wasn't something small." You know she's right. You can't shake the flashbacks, and before you know it, you're sitting across from your therapist, realizing the life you built was constructed entirely around a version of yourself you were never supposed to keep.
In 2013, my 7-year-old son and I survived a Midwest tornado classified as an EF-2, meaning the twister had winds from 111–135 mph, which displaced families, including ours. I experienced flashbacks of swirling clouds. I became obsessed with clouds. One day I called my mom about what I'd been seeing, and that's when she gave me the hard truth: I couldn't heal on my own. I found an affordable program offering income-based therapy at a local university. I walked in at 24 years old — not as guarded as I was at 14, but nervous. I used to brag about being so strong, about not being a crier (unless it was that time of the month), but after just two visits and a PTSD diagnosis from surviving a natural disaster, I realized I'd survived several tornadoes. They just looked different.
While yes, we lost many inherited and material things physically in that tornado, I also lost things internally. The first thing I lost was the noise. The constant, internal hum of hypervigilance that I'd mistaken for ambition my entire life. Therapy taught me there's a difference between being driven and operating out of fight or flight.
Then came the harder losses. The identity I'd built around being strong. Being the one who figures it out. Being the woman who holds it together for everyone else while quietly coming apart in the car, in the shower, in the in-between moments nobody sees. I wore that strength like armor and called it a personality. Therapy asked me to take it off. I didn't know how naked I'd feel without it.
There were relationships that didn't survive my growth. That part they really don't tell you. When you stop performing the version of yourself people are comfortable with, some of them leave. And some of them stay but make you feel like you should apologize for changing. I learned that managing their discomfort with my healing was not my responsibility. That lesson alone took years. It cost me the relationships that only worked because I was shrinking. The friendships that couldn't survive me having boundaries. The version of myself that was omnipresent because feeling needed felt like belonging.
I started therapy thinking I was going to fix something. I didn't know I was going to lose everything that needed to go.
Fast-forward to 2018, when I met the love of my life. At this point I'd been in therapy consistently for five years — through the tornado, grieving the loss of loved ones, navigating racism in a way I never imagined experiencing in my lifetime, and weathering a lot of transition. By the time I met who would eventually become my spouse, I was more vulnerable than my 24-year-old self, less guarded than my 14-year-old self, and in possession of a wisdom I can truly attribute to being honest with my therapist through it all.
After dating for a year, an opportunity arose for us to relocate as a unit. Living away from family and friends would be a first for both of us. I think I can confidently say we were afraid and anxious, yet excited for a new zip code across the country. Not because the Midwest was bad. But I can say, for me, I had outgrown the version of me that belonged there. The streets knew the version of me who absorbed too much, asked for too little, and confused familiarity with safety. Therapy had quietly dismantled that version of me for years. Making the radical choice to relocate in the middle of a pandemic was me saying out loud, with my whole life, that I believe in who I'm becoming.
But nobody tells you that relocation has a grief of its own. Even when the move is chosen. Even when it's right. You still mourn the proximity of people who knew your whole story. You still have moments in a new city where you feel invisible in a way that has nothing to do with geography. Starting over is an act of faith, and faith is not the absence of fear.
I'll never forget these words from my therapist as we met virtually. Picture this: I in our new Atlanta, GA residence, and she in the office I'd grown so familiar with. She looked at me and said, "Why are you placing the needs of an entire community before the family you have at home?" She heard my cries of feeling like I'd neglected people I had worked with, grown with, and served in some capacity. When we moved, the phone calls faded, our proximity changed, and the reality of how I spent my time became more evident as I was away from what had felt like an obligation. But this was a great reminder from my therapist: put yourself and your household first, before anyone else.
Which leads me to expound on my relationship with my son. Now, I don't know if you've done the math while reading, but I gave birth to my first child two weeks after my 17th birthday. We've experienced just about everything together, and realistically, I was a kid raising a kid with the primary support of my mother. What therapy gave me was a mother who was present instead of just there; something I could not have given him otherwise.
Before doing the work, I loved him proudly but carried so much quietly. The unprocessed grief, the unspoken fear, the weight of trying to build something stable for him while I was still figuring out my own foundation. Therapy taught me how to let him see me fully. Not just the strong version, not just the capable version, but the full one. The woman who cries and starts over and keeps going. The woman who goes to night class after a full day of work because she believes her own dreams are still worth chasing. The woman who built her career and business with her namesake and meant it.
What I know now is that the most powerful thing I ever did for my son was decide to become myself. Not the mother I thought I was supposed to be. Not the woman I performed for everyone else. Myself. Sidney watched me shed and grow. And I hope he knows that my transformation was a choice, and still is, made repeatedly, at great cost. I recommend that anyone allow themselves this level of shedding, until the life they're living finally fits.
So what did 10 years of therapy actually cost me?
Everything.
And it gave me back more than I knew I was missing; myself, my son, my marriage, my voice, and ultimately my future.
I used to think strength meant not needing help. Now I know the strongest thing I ever did was walk into that office at 14, again at 24, and I will keep going back if it means preserving my God given right to get planted and water myself well.
About Winnie Thompson
Winnie E. Thompson is a public relations strategist, entrepreneur, and author whose work centers on amplifying Black voices and youth-driven initiatives. As the founder of Booked Enterprise, she has carved a niche in culturally conscious branding and storytelling, empowering clients to share their narratives with authenticity and impact. When you decide to work with Winnie, you’re partnering with someone who sees your vision, understands your audience, and knows how to turn your purpose into presence. Learn more at bookedenterprise.com.
I've witnessed adults have the same very big feelings (and fears, really) that 14-year-old me had that first day walking into a therapist's office. Aside from that, people often ask about the cost of therapy. This includes sliding fee scales, co-pays, out-of-network rates, and how to make this fiscally attainable. But no one warns you about the other bill. The one that comes when you survive a near-death experience and your mother says, "I think it's seriously time that you talk to a professional. What you survived wasn't something small." You know she's right. You can't shake the flashbacks, and before you know it, you're sitting across from your therapist, realizing the life you built was constructed entirely around a version of yourself you were never supposed to keep.
In 2013, my 7-year-old son and I survived a Midwest tornado classified as an EF-2, meaning the twister had winds from 111–135 mph, which displaced families, including ours. I experienced flashbacks of swirling clouds. I became obsessed with clouds. One day I called my mom about what I'd been seeing, and that's when she gave me the hard truth: I couldn't heal on my own. I found an affordable program offering income-based therapy at a local university. I walked in at 24 years old — not as guarded as I was at 14, but nervous. I used to brag about being so strong, about not being a crier (unless it was that time of the month), but after just two visits and a PTSD diagnosis from surviving a natural disaster, I realized I'd survived several tornadoes. They just looked different.
While yes, we lost many inherited and material things physically in that tornado, I also lost things internally. The first thing I lost was the noise. The constant, internal hum of hypervigilance that I'd mistaken for ambition my entire life. Therapy taught me there's a difference between being driven and operating out of fight or flight.
Then came the harder losses. The identity I'd built around being strong. Being the one who figures it out. Being the woman who holds it together for everyone else while quietly coming apart in the car, in the shower, in the in-between moments nobody sees. I wore that strength like armor and called it a personality. Therapy asked me to take it off. I didn't know how naked I'd feel without it.
There were relationships that didn't survive my growth. That part they really don't tell you. When you stop performing the version of yourself people are comfortable with, some of them leave. And some of them stay but make you feel like you should apologize for changing. I learned that managing their discomfort with my healing was not my responsibility. That lesson alone took years. It cost me the relationships that only worked because I was shrinking. The friendships that couldn't survive me having boundaries. The version of myself that was omnipresent because feeling needed felt like belonging.
I started therapy thinking I was going to fix something. I didn't know I was going to lose everything that needed to go.
Fast-forward to 2018, when I met the love of my life. At this point I'd been in therapy consistently for five years — through the tornado, grieving the loss of loved ones, navigating racism in a way I never imagined experiencing in my lifetime, and weathering a lot of transition. By the time I met who would eventually become my spouse, I was more vulnerable than my 24-year-old self, less guarded than my 14-year-old self, and in possession of a wisdom I can truly attribute to being honest with my therapist through it all.
After dating for a year, an opportunity arose for us to relocate as a unit. Living away from family and friends would be a first for both of us. I think I can confidently say we were afraid and anxious, yet excited for a new zip code across the country. Not because the Midwest was bad. But I can say, for me, I had outgrown the version of me that belonged there. The streets knew the version of me who absorbed too much, asked for too little, and confused familiarity with safety. Therapy had quietly dismantled that version of me for years. Making the radical choice to relocate in the middle of a pandemic was me saying out loud, with my whole life, that I believe in who I'm becoming.
But nobody tells you that relocation has a grief of its own. Even when the move is chosen. Even when it's right. You still mourn the proximity of people who knew your whole story. You still have moments in a new city where you feel invisible in a way that has nothing to do with geography. Starting over is an act of faith, and faith is not the absence of fear.
I'll never forget these words from my therapist as we met virtually. Picture this: I in our new Atlanta, GA residence, and she in the office I'd grown so familiar with. She looked at me and said, "Why are you placing the needs of an entire community before the family you have at home?" She heard my cries of feeling like I'd neglected people I had worked with, grown with, and served in some capacity. When we moved, the phone calls faded, our proximity changed, and the reality of how I spent my time became more evident as I was away from what had felt like an obligation. But this was a great reminder from my therapist: put yourself and your household first, before anyone else.
Which leads me to expound on my relationship with my son. Now, I don't know if you've done the math while reading, but I gave birth to my first child two weeks after my 17th birthday. We've experienced just about everything together, and realistically, I was a kid raising a kid with the primary support of my mother. What therapy gave me was a mother who was present instead of just there; something I could not have given him otherwise.
Before doing the work, I loved him proudly but carried so much quietly. The unprocessed grief, the unspoken fear, the weight of trying to build something stable for him while I was still figuring out my own foundation. Therapy taught me how to let him see me fully. Not just the strong version, not just the capable version, but the full one. The woman who cries and starts over and keeps going. The woman who goes to night class after a full day of work because she believes her own dreams are still worth chasing. The woman who built her career and business with her namesake and meant it.
What I know now is that the most powerful thing I ever did for my son was decide to become myself. Not the mother I thought I was supposed to be. Not the woman I performed for everyone else. Myself. Sidney watched me shed and grow. And I hope he knows that my transformation was a choice, and still is, made repeatedly, at great cost. I recommend that anyone allow themselves this level of shedding, until the life they're living finally fits.
So what did 10 years of therapy actually cost me?
Everything.
And it gave me back more than I knew I was missing; myself, my son, my marriage, my voice, and ultimately my future.
I used to think strength meant not needing help. Now I know the strongest thing I ever did was walk into that office at 14, again at 24, and I will keep going back if it means preserving my God given right to get planted and water myself well.
About Winnie Thompson
