The Email That Ended Everything

The kind of ending that doesn’t close a chapter — it rewrites the whole book.

The Shock

I still remember the way the air changed

the moment I saw her name in my inbox.

No preparation.

No warning.

Just a few lines that split me open.

There are certain moments that don’t just happen —

they rearrange you.

Her email did that.

One moment I had a tether,

and the next, it was gone.

I didn’t even know a few sentences could do that —

make the room tilt,

make your own name sound foreign.

I keep telling myself I’m fine,

but the truth is,

I haven’t stopped falling.

The Rupture

People say therapy ends.

But what they don’t tell you

is that sometimes it ends like a car crash —

with your heart still in the passenger seat,

and no one left to pull you out.

The Speaking Up

What I can’t seem to find words for

is how painful it was

to finally feel safe enough to speak up

about something that felt harmful

inside a place that was supposed to be safe.

To open my mouth

and let someone into the thoughts

that kept catastrophizing my reality —

believing that maybe, if I said them out loud,

someone could help me find my footing again.

But instead,

I was thrown out.

And now I can’t trust anyone who calls themselves a clinician.

I can’t stay long enough to build rapport.

I leave before they can.

It’s like I’m always halfway packed.

I feel like I’m at the lowest point of my life,

like I’m running out of reasons

to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

Growth feels unreachable.

So does safety.

So does being understood.

The Why

A huge part of why I even went to therapy

was because I don’t want to hurt people.

Living disconnected —

living in pain —

makes it hard not to bleed onto others.

I’ve never meant to cause harm,

but I know that when I’m activated,

when the world inside me starts spinning,

I can become the person who does.

That’s the part I hate the most —

knowing my own potential to wound

without wanting to.

And you might think,

well then just don’t.

But sometimes it feels like I’ve lost the wheel completely —

like I’m watching the car swerve

from the passenger seat,

seeing the chaos unfold

while I sit still and silent,

unable to stop it.

Those moments make me question

whether I even have agency at all —

whether I’m still here

or just watching myself from a distance,

hoping I’ll come back in time

to keep from breaking something else.

The Grief

What stays with me most

is knowing she was good at what she did —

so good that for the first time,

I felt something shift.

For one week,

I could feel myself here —

not floating above my life,

not watching it play out from somewhere far away,

but actually in it.

And then it was gone.

That single week showed me

what living could feel like —

what connection could taste like —

and losing that has hollowed me out

in a way I don’t know how to fill.

Sometimes I think that’s what grief really is —

not the loss itself,

but the haunting that follows

after you’ve glimpsed what could have been

and know you may never find it again.

That’s the part that breaks me.

Because I finally saw what it might mean

to come alive inside my own life —

and now I can’t unsee it.

And I don’t know if I’ll ever get back there.

The Question

If even the most skilled clinicians leave me,

am I even helpable?