“I think you should see one of my colleagues.”

Standing side-by-side in the Target self-checkout line, my mom finally introduces the idea for me to see a therapist. I had long-awaited for this moment.

Not because I was worried about the expense of each session, or that I thought maybe I wouldn’t eventually need to see one, but because I was scared. I was scared of what my mom, an extremely successful therapist, would think of me.

For years I drowned in the thought that if I admitted to my mom that I needed to see a therapist that was not her, she would fixate her bright blue eyes straight into mine and form her lips into that familiar frown.

I was afraid that if I unraveled the inner workings of my thoughts and feelings to her, then I would lose my sacred comfort of only me knowing myself, and would never get it
back. I was terrified of her disappointment for the reason she offered me a safe space my entire life, and in my own stubbornness, I declined.

Constantly, I tried to reroute my approach to soften the truth so she would not feel offended. But I know her, I know the way she thinks, I am simply her younger self. So, I waited patiently in my naivety until she was the one who suggested for me to start seeing a therapist.

It’s a blessing to have a mother whose profession is to help others, especially her loved ones. Yet it didn’t feel like one. I eagerly wanted to ask for advice, but instead I trapped myself in my naivety, leading me to think it would be better to struggle in silence than come forward and receive her help. In hindsight, I wish I had known that protesting my mom’s advice would not benefit me.

With a very successful parent comes a loss of quality time in childhood, so I have only recently in my life been aware of the person my mom is as I am also figuring out the type of person I am, leading to a lack of comfort in my relationship with her. She’s known me my entire life and as I grow into a woman, her natural empathy and motherly instincts combined with her carbon-copy daughter allow for her to know me even more than she knows herself. Therefore, not communicating with my mom did more harm than good.

When I tell friends that my mom is a therapist, my perspective is often the opposite to their reactions. It isn’t a common job parents have and undoubtedly, it is a highly intriguing profession to have. Although, in my eyes I see the specialty of her career in a different shade of light. Our dynamic is conflicting to say the least. I never felt the urge to voice any of my anxieties or personal issues I had in order to save myself from the long, deep talks my mom has perfected. As much as I have appreciated her wise advice in the past and for the times to come in the future, sometimes I felt that to be listened to would provide the most comfort. Once again, I proved that ignorance of her guidance strayed me from bliss.

Forever and always, I am in awe of her. I admire her selfless dedication to her clients at all hours of the day all while devoting  herself to provide for our family. It’s truly a superpower and I am eternally grateful.