While standing with two perfectly brewed cups of tea that I had prepared for a school friend and myself, I had a moment of realisation. When cooking for myself, I always seem to just miss the mark. However, this time, the tea was just right – perhaps because it wasn’t for me, but for someone else.

The same feeling had come over me yesterday as I sat in front of my computer screen, trying to decipher the emotions and needs of my therapy client. They were navigating a difficult period in their life, one that resonated with me on a personal level, yet was uniquely their own. With each session, I found myself carefully guiding them through the uncharted territory of self-discovery, all while grappling with my own inner struggles.

As I reluctantly pulled myself out of the digital realm and back into the reality of the clinic where I worked, a sense of dissonance lingered. It was not uncommon for me to feel like an imposter, helping others connect with themselves while struggling to do the same myself. But in those moments of doubt, I found solace in the knowledge that my dedication and attention to detail were making a difference in the lives of those I served. I couldn’t help but reflect on this strange paradox. Why did it feel so natural to pour my energy into others, yet so alien to turn that focus inward?

Returning to my desk later that evening, the day’s sessions replayed in my mind like a film stuck on repeat. My clients’ faces, their voices, and their stories merged into a single narrative of pain and hope, a narrative that I was both deeply connected to and inexplicably distant from. It struck me that perhaps this distance was my shield, a way to protect myself from the very wounds I helped others heal. Yet, as I closed my eyes and let out a long, tired breath, I knew that I couldn’t keep hiding behind a barrier myself forever. The time would come when I, too, would need to face the intricate puzzle of my mind, with the same compassion I offered to others.

This confusion pushed me to a wall, and I felt angry. Angry? I was feeling sorry for myself, but I was furious. I could not pin down the source of my anger, nor was I able to direct the feeling onto something. It was just a sensation that lingered in my body, making me feel like I was losing my sense of control. This unfamiliar anger unsettled me, a stark contrast to the calm demeanour I usually wore like armour. It wasn’t the kind of anger that demanded an outlet, but rather a slow-burning frustration that gnawed at the edges of my thoughts. I kept wondering if it stemmed from the demands of my role, the emotional labour I expended daily, or perhaps the silent expectation I placed on myself to always have it together. This disorientation only deepened the turmoil within, leaving me to question: Was this anger a sign that something within me was desperately calling for attention, or was it simply the residue of all the unresolved conflicts I had tucked away, hoping they would disappear on their own?

As the anger simmered beneath the surface, I began to wonder if this was my mind’s way of signalling that something vital was missing. I had spent so much time tending to others’ wounds that I had neglected my own, hoping they would heal with time or perhaps just fade into the background. But wounds don’t vanish simply because we ignore them. They fester, hidden beneath the layers of our outward composure, only to resurface when we least expect. This anger, I realised, was not just a fleeting emotion but a manifestation of all the unmet needs and unresolved conflicts that had been piling up, one on top of the other. It was as if my own psyche was demanding the same care and attention that I so readily gave to others.

As I navigated the hallways of my office, it suddenly felt like a battleground where I had to suppress my true self for the sake of safety. It was a bitter truth to swallow, that even in a field dedicated to understanding the human psyche, the very people who preached acceptance and empathy could harbour such deep-seated prejudices. Every day, I had to pull on a mask, not just to hide my struggles, but to pretend that I was someone I wasn’t – a straight, conforming version of myself that aligned with their narrow-minded expectations. I felt shoved back into the same closet from where I had struggled my way out. I was never a flamboyant display of my sexuality, but I was always holding onto anything that assured me that I wouldn’t be hiding myself. However, this office was a walk-in closet for me and I desperately needed some air to breathe. I tried hard to hold onto my identity in ways that were not subtle for someone who was observing.

The façade was exhausting, and the hypocrisy was glaring. My colleagues, who spoke powerfully about inclusivity and the importance of mental wellbeing, were the same ones who made offhand remarks that revealed their true colours. Their performative allyship cracked under the slightest pressure. They would hang rainbow flags during Pride Month, but in private, their words dripped with disdain for anyone who didn’t fit their idea of ‘normal’. I often wondered how they could reconcile their roles as mental health professionals with such blatant bigotry. How could they claim to understand the complexities of the human mind when they refused to accept the diversity of human experience?

It was in this toxic environment that I found myself trapped, unable to be vulnerable or seek support from those who were supposed to be my peers. The fear of being outed or ostracised kept me silent, forcing me to carry my burdens alone. The very act of helping others heal had become a source of pain for me, as I was constantly reminded that I could never fully be myself in this place. The anger that had been simmering inside me now had a clearer target – the oppressive atmosphere of the clinic, where prejudice was cloaked in professionalism. Yet, despite the anger and frustration, I knew I couldn’t simply walk away. I was too committed to the work, and too invested in the wellbeing of my clients. The disconnect between my outward persona and my inner truth had grown so vast that I sometimes feared losing sight of who I really was. What does it do to a person to live in fragments, never whole, always hiding?

I had to contend with either continuing to simmer within that asphyxiating space, or empowering myself with an education that offers a glimmer of clarity in the interactions around me. I chose the latter. I hold the grief of who I used to be, but I celebrate what I am becoming by making the choice to stitch my fragments together.

Cover Image: Photo by Marc-Olivier Jodoin on Unsplash