Not so long ago, I had an epiphany: it was time to quit therapy. A mortgage hike made sessions feel increasingly unaffordable, and I realised dropping the weekly schlep to town would free time to use a pottery studio membership that’s been guilting me for months. I fairly bounced into my next session, where my therapist was supportive, but curious. ‘Do you feel relieved?’ she asked. ‘Facing the things we talk about is hard, right?’
And there it was. As we discussed my antipathy to her gentle probing, I finally acknowledged an elephant that had been hovering by the giant box of tissues for weeks: I find it very difficult to show fragility. It felt like a huge breakthrough. Deep down, I knew I was in the
