The Chair Across From Me: A Therapist's Whisper to Another

In the quiet corners of therapy rooms, where tears are shed and truths are spoken, there sits a special kind of person—the therapist. Often calm, reflective, and full of empathy, therapists are the emotional anchors for so many. But who anchors them?

This blog is a tribute to the ones who listen for a living. It’s a letter, really—from one therapist to another. A moment to pause and remember: behind every reassuring nod and grounded breath, there’s a human being doing sacred, soul-stretching work.

As therapists, we spend our days sitting across from people who are brave enough to share their inner worlds. We hold stories full of grief, rage, shame, love, confusion, and hope. We witness resilience in its rawest forms and silently offer safety in every session.

But what we don’t often talk about is the emotional labor of being that safe space. The days when we walk out of the therapy room and feel heavy. The moments when someone’s story echoes too loudly in our own heart. The silent pressure to always be composed, regulated, and wise—when inside, we may feel messy, uncertain, or even broken.

The truth is: therapists need therapy, too. Not because we’re flawed, but because we’re human. Because we absorb more than most, and often hold more than we let on. The compassion we extend to our clients should be reflected back toward ourselves.

It’s okay to have days when you question your impact. It’s okay to feel drained after holding so much. It’s okay to need someone to witness you, just as you’ve witnessed so many others.

There’s something quietly powerful in allowing ourselves to be cared for. To sit in the other chair. To say, “I’m tired” without explaining why. To cry, not as the therapist, but simply as a person who feels deeply.

We often remind our clients that seeking help is strength—not weakness. And yet, sometimes we forget to offer ourselves the same grace. So let this blog be a gentle nudge: you are allowed to be human. You are allowed to seek care. You are allowed to rest.

To the therapists reading this—whether you’re seasoned or just starting out—I hope you know how vital you are. Not just for what you do, but for who you are. You are doing brave, meaningful work. And you, too, deserve compassion, connection, and healing.

So here’s to you—the holder of stories, the calm in chaos, the quiet strength. May you be reminded that even healers need healing. And may you always find spaces where you, too, feel seen, safe, and supported.

With care, A Fellow Therapist