Therapy is by design a sort of unnatural relationship. That’s not a bad thing. I mean, having that person that you can unload anything on without need to protect them from our reality is really useful. But it is not what “real” life relationships are like. No matter how much I love my husband or my son or my sister, there are thoughts and experiences and emotions that I protect them from out of care, out of embarrassment, out of fear, out of . . . .

Therapists are, theoretically, objective outsiders to our lives that we don’t have to spare from ourselves in any way. That’s so completely different from any “real” world relationship. It’s tempting too long for the therapist to be more than a therapist, but as soon as that line is crossed, the reality of the relationship prevents us from that full therapy openness. We start doubting, editing, fearing, just like we do with our friends and family, and the therapy gets lost in the complications.

I’ve found no individual “real” person can be all things “therapist.” So I can discuss my work issues with a work friend or my son or sister who are both teachers. But I can’t discuss all of my grief issues with them because either they are dealing with grief on their own level or not at all.

Therapists fill a wider range of needs than most individuals in real life can possibly fill.