I thought therapy would fix me. It just made me feel everything.

When I started therapy, I had this idea that it would make me... better. Like, boom—functional adult unlocked. I thought I had two emotions: angry and content. That’s it. Everything else was background noise. Then I hit 40—nunyobizness exactly when—and started seeing a therapist who, over the course of about six months, somehow convinced me that I had WAY more emotions than I thought.

At first I was shocked. Then I got excited—like, “Wait, is this what a *normal person* feels like?” But then it escalated. I started feeling *everything*. I was watching puppy videos on YouTube and getting teary-eyed. I remember thinking, "What in the hell has she done to me?"

My therapist just smiled and said, "You did that to yourself. I just showed you the way."

Great. I sabotaged myself. In, I guess, the best way possible.

Instead, what I got was feelings. All of them. All the time. In the worst places.

Like zoning out during a team meeting and suddenly feeling an inexplicable sense of dread. Or being halfway through a Chipotle order and realizing I wasn’t mad—I was just overstimulated and hadn’t eaten since 10 a.m.

Therapy didn’t give me peace. It gave me awareness. And don’t get me wrong, it’s kinda nice realizing I have emotions now. I still struggle to name them sometimes—but fortunately, I have a guide (stop laughing) who gives me clues. It’s great. Necessary, even. But there is something wildly rude about finally understanding your emotional patterns and then still doing them anyway.

I remember telling my therapist, "I feel worse. Like... worse worse. Is that supposed to happen?" She smiled in that calm, annoying therapist way and said, "It means you're doing the work."

I wanted to scream. Or ask for a refund.

Because no one tells you this part: That progress often feels like regression. That as you slowly un-numb yourself, the feelings hit like a semi. And suddenly you’re standing in Target, overwhelmed by fluorescent lights and the existential weight of picking the right protein bar, and your nervous system says, “No thanks.” and your nervous system said, “No thanks.”

And sure, eventually it starts to feel like healing. You notice the pause before the spiral. You catch your breath instead of stuffing it down. You even—get this—*ask for help* sometimes. And it’s good. It’s growth.

But if you're in the early days of therapy, or the middle stretch where everything feels raw and stupid and like maybe you're broken for real this time—hi. You're not alone. This mess is part of it. Do I wish I could go back to being oblivious sometimes? Honestly, yeah. But that wouldn’t be good overall, and I know it. This is the part where the old stuff surfaces and the new stuff hasn’t landed yet. It’s deeply inconvenient. And yeah, it makes you feel *everything*.

But honestly? That might be the first real sign that it’s working.

Even if it’s annoying as hell.