When I’m in a deeply low state my therapist can notice it immediately. I’ve worked with her for over a decade, and she knows me better than anyone in my life. The slightest eyebrow raise, a shift in body position—she’s attuned to every detail of messaging.
In one particular session I came in with tears before I even sat down in her office chair. We never start talking immediately. I take a few moments, sometimes many minutes, in silence to collect my thoughts before I start the conversation.
After a few moments, I gather my words and whisper through my tears, “I don’t know what to do.”
My therapist knows this phrase well. It’s a code word for when I’m overwhelmed by life and incredibly disappointed in the goals I haven’t reached yet.
I cry harder, and she looks at me—quiet, steady, never drifting her attention.
She doesn’t rush in to counter my belief with, “But you’ve accomplished so much.”
She doesn’t try to reassure me with, “But you’re working toward it—you can do it.”
Contrary to what many may think therapists are, she isn’t my coach or my best friend. That’s not what I need, and it’s not her role. She’s my therapist. So she stays with me. She sits, paying attention, watching, knowing me well enough to understand that what helps most isn’t a pep talk—it’s presence.
To sit with me in the mess of my emotions so I’m not alone inside them trying to process. What some people might call awkward silence, I’ve learned to welcome it. In those moments, her quiet is often more comforting than any words could provide.
After a while I say it again, the words coming out in a scattered rhythm: “I don’t know what to do. I’m in too low this time to get out. I can’t get out of this one.”
And then—out of character for me—I tack on a question, “How do you know I’ll get through it this time?”
My therapist doesn’t answer right away. I watch her pause, head tilting slightly as she takes a moment to choose her words.
Finally, she says simply, softly: “Because I know you.”
I look at her, puzzled.
She continues, “I know you’ve been through a lot—much of it unfair. You’ve been in these lows before, and you’ve always made it through. Your history shows us that.”
Something in me clicks. My breathing slows. My body loosens its grip.
Because I know you.
This particular session—those four words—have stayed with me ever since, even though they can still be hard to hold onto when times get rough. More than anything else I’ve heard in therapy, these words have been the most impactful. My therapist challenged and reminded me, forcing me to look inward at my own strength—I know myself too.
That night I prayed to God and asked the same question: “How do you know I’ll get through it this time?”
Again, the answer came back simply, softly: “Because I know you.”
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