Every year I promised myself I'd start psychotherapy, and every year I put it off. Until I finally decided to do it. A year later, I've come to realise the 5 biggest lessons I've taken from my sessions.
My 28th birthday was the trigger to start psychotherapy. That evening, I had just blown out two little candles forming a number that felt just a bit demanding for me. A number that asked something more of me than the gifts scattered around me, more than the warm hugs of my loved ones and the birthday messages on my phone.
It demanded a gift from me, to me — one I promised myself every year, yet always postponed. Perhaps what pushed me to finally make good on that promise was a photo of my three-year-old self, laughing at the camera, sticking out my tongue with cheek and courage — at me, at my fears, at my tendency to procrastinate, perhaps even at time itself.
I thought that if this fearless version of me had survived and was hiding somewhere inside me, I owed it to her — and to myself — to seek her out and get to know her again, from the start. So, the next morning, I dialled the number of the psychotherapist I'd been recommended.
I still remember clearly the first time I rang the bell at his office — admittedly with some anxiety and hesitation, which vanished the moment I stepped into the space. It was a room very thoughtfully designed to appeal to all the senses. A few pieces of furniture in soft colours, and a small bookcase.
But the greatest sense of familiarity and safety was created — as it probably should be — by the therapist himself. Before we even began talking about me, he made sure to explain the confidentiality of our sessions and his own absolute discretion.
From there on, we focused on mapping out my personal network of people — the "significant others", as they're known in Psychology — including relatives, friends, and partners.
From that first time until today, almost a year has passed, during which I could list the following invaluable lessons:
When I realised how beneficial therapy was proving to be, I often wondered whether I'd started too late and lost precious time. I'd had clear signs that would have justified a visit much earlier (anxiety attacks, phobias that left me largely unable to function, and people urging me to seek professional help).
But I concluded the following: the reason I responded so positively to the process of psychotherapy in such a short time was that I went exactly when I judged it to be the right moment for me. This doesn't mean, of course, that one should ignore the signs their psyche and body are sending — it's simply a process that doesn't work under pressure.
A very useful tool for breaking this time down into smaller pieces is keeping a notebook where you can jot down, each time, something that was said and troubled you, led you to a realisation, or even a disagreement with your therapist.
It's a fact that we live in an age where everything has to happen quickly, and everything is expected to promise immediate results. I've often heard people complain after 2-3 sessions that they don't see any dramatic result, and end up constantly switching therapists without giving any of these relationships the time that such an undertaking requires and deserves.
The difference with psychological wounds is that they aren't visible to the naked eye — they have no obvious physical symptom. Therefore, the road to healing is usually long, sometimes difficult, but like all things we've invested time and effort in, it rewards you in the end.
Expecting to see dramatic results after 2-3 psychotherapy sessions is like breaking your arm and expecting to be able to play basketball a few days later.
The relationship you build with your therapist is one of the most fundamental parts of therapy. Personally, as an incurable people pleaser, I found it impossible to say "NO" and express a complaint or a different wish to someone. This was something I was called to start changing within the safe environment of psychotherapy.
By making these small simulations within the framework of sessions, it gradually became easier to carry this newly acquired behaviour outside of it too — into my relationships, my work.
It's good, then, for this to be a relationship built on honesty and consistency. Stability and consistency in meetings is an equally important factor and also functions as part of the therapy itself.
Making yourself and your needs a priority, learning to set boundaries with those around you — it might sound simple and self-evident, but unfortunately very few manage it, especially in a way that's functional and doesn't end up suppressing everyone else.
Perhaps the most important thing I learned in this one year of psychotherapy is this: for the oxygen mask to actually be of any use, you have to put it on yourself first, and only then help someone else if needed.
In other words, saying things like "I need help here" or "This hurts me, this makes me angry" doesn't make you weak — it makes you more capable of communicating your feelings. Likewise, saying that simple two-letter word "no" when something doesn't suit you doesn't turn you into someone "difficult" or "complaining". It simply shows that you know how to set your boundaries and stand up for yourself — because, in the end, no one can do that better than you.
Along the same lines, I learned the importance of roles, and of not taking on responsibilities that aren't mine to carry. For people prone to self-blame, it's a gift from heaven when someone — especially with the knowledge and empathy of a psychotherapist — tells them, at just the right moment, in just the right way, that deeply relieving truth: it's not your fault, this isn't your responsibility. In this relationship you're a daughter, in another a friend, in another a partner. When you understand your role in each context and what it does and doesn't ask of you, it's like finally tidying that drawer that had a swimsuit, a scarf and childhood pyjamas all jumbled together.
Before I started my sessions, one of my biggest concerns was whether humour had any place between those two armchairs that separate you from your psychotherapist. I too, I suppose, carried that classic stereotypical image of a client crying, hugging a box of tissues. That side exists too, of course, and it's cathartic — but it's not the only side.
I quickly discovered that if you need it, humour will find its place there — but like everything, it needs boundaries too. For me personally, being able to joke serves a double purpose: on one hand, it's the language I know best for communicating with others (so if you take it away from me, it's suddenly like being in a foreign country); on the other, it serves as a very significant defence mechanism for downplaying — usually — a problem.
Whenever I think back on my journey through psychotherapy so far, I'm reminded of that conversation the Little Prince had with a merchant. The merchant explains that with the pills he sells, people will never be thirsty again, and so they'll save 53 whole minutes a week. The Little Prince replies, "If I had 53 minutes to spend, I would walk very slowly toward a spring of fresh water."
Perhaps that's where the essence of therapy lies — not in eliminating "the feeling of thirst", but in recognising, on one hand, the emotion and the need, and on the other, motivating you to take a long but unique journey toward the spring, which is always just a few steps further from where you stand. And that is precisely what keeps you walking, and growing.
Dimitra Zorzou