The Trace We Leave Behind

Sometimes the hardest part isn’t feeling the feelings. It’s sharing them with the person they’re about. This post is about what happened when I stopped writing the truth and started reading it out loud. What followed was tender, surprising, and thirty years in the making.

I did not plan to write a third post in what has now become a three-part series. I thought I had already poured it all onto the page. But then came the follow-up session with Susan, my therapist of almost ten years.

I had been anticipating it all week. The feelings leading up to it were complicated. On one hand, I wanted to share the reflections I had written, the ones about her, about our work. On the other, a quiet dread crept in.

Identifying my feelings, it turns out, was only step one. Step two was reading them aloud to the person I had written about. That part felt scarier.

I hesitated right up until our session, but eventually I let out a sigh that told me I was going to do the brave thing. I read her I Don’t Know What I’m Feeling, But I Know It’s Big. We met over telehealth, so it was hard to read her expression, but I think she teared up.

“Thank you,” she said. I do not remember her exact words, but her response was warm and thoughtful. She saw the risk I had taken and let me know she appreciated it.

We talked about how hard it was to share something so direct. About how Little Me, not just a part but the real girl I used to be, grew up believing that having needs was the same as being needy. That love was something to be earned by taking care of others, not by asking to be cared for. Susan knew that reading what was essentially a love letter I had written to her had taken courage. She did not say it back, not in words. But I felt it in her presence. And that was enough to embolden me to keep going.

Next, I read her On Sitting with Discomfort. We talked about the truths I am beginning to admit, truths I have worked hard to hide, especially from myself. The biggest one is this: I have needs. Big, relational, human ones. And the less I hide behind anorexia or performance, the more clearly I see those needs. Sometimes, when I am brave, I can even show them to the people I need them from.

That brought us to Nancy, my therapist from adolescence, the one I recently reconnected with after thirty years. I told Susan something I had never told anyone before, a story about Little Me that used to fill me with shame.

When I was sixteen, I confided in Nancy that I had been self-harming. It was the most painful secret I had ever shared. It still is. I expected to feel exposed, maybe even rejected. Instead, Nancy wrapped her arms around me and held me while I sobbed. She gave Little Me permission to show herself. After that, she hugged me goodbye at the end of every session.

Here is the part I never told: Nancy wore perfume. After our sessions, the scent would cling to my shirt. I would breathe it in again and again until it faded. That trace of her stayed with me longer than her arms had. It reminded me she was real. That I had been held. That I was not alone.

I did not know how to ask for care in words, but that little girl inside me held on to what had been given with all her might. That scent was more than comfort. It was a signal that I was loved, not for what I did or how well I hid the pain, but for simply being me. For letting the hurt parts be seen.

For most of my life, I tucked that memory away. I told myself it was strange, too much. But today, at forty-seven, I said it out loud for the first time. I told Susan. And I did not feel ashamed. I felt proud of that girl. She needed love, and she found a way to let it in.

Susan met the moment with her usual grace. We talked more about Little Me, about how hard I have unknowingly worked to keep her needs hidden. Then I told her about the daily email exchange I have been having with Nancy, how I share my Substack posts each day, and she sends her own reflections in return.

Most recently, Nancy responded to Whatever You Do, Don’t Tell Me to Meditate. Her email included this gem:

First: I HATE meditating. I hate the IDEA of meditating, and I am hopelessly BAD at meditating.

Then she called my writing “Vulnerable” with a capital V, reminded me that growth comes with growing pains, and ended with this:

So my advice… buckle up… ride it out… feel every heart-pounding moment. Because this is GROWTH. And you, Therapist Who Came Undone, are CLEARLY one who thrives on growth… and you would not be YOU if it were ever to cease.

Before I could respond, she sent a second email, worried that the way she emphasized my name might sound pompous or like she was talking down.

That is when I wrote back. I let Little Me speak. I told her how I felt, even though it felt excruciatingly vulnerable.

Before I got this second email from you, I was thinking about how to respond to the first. To the fact that your emails often make me want to cry (in a good way). Or to leap through the computer and hug you. But then I thought that might be weird to say, so I decided to wait and email later. I thought maybe I would be less weird later, but it turns out I am not.

By the time I got back to my inbox, your second email was there.

Ummm… never have I felt like you were talking down to me. Or that your emails were annoying. They are different, I will admit that. But they work for me. You have been at this work, and this life, longer than I have. And I love hearing your perspective and hard-earned wisdom.

I am growing, yes. I think after some developmental arrest (thank you, anorexia), and I appreciate any support and insight along the way.

Also, let me be real. I just love hearing from you. Knowing that you are more than just someone who meant something to me once, but someone who matters to me now.

And that is the part I am still learning: that it is okay to name how much she still means to me. That naming it does not make me needy. It just makes me human. Even more, it opens the door to deeper connection.

Susan and I ended the session with a quick joke. I said, “I am not ready for you to retire.” She nodded. “I know.” Then I added, “But if you do, I am going to need a lot of notice.” She smiled. “I promise.”

This work is stretching me. Sometimes it hurts. But it also feels invaluable. Every time I let Little Me speak, I feel just a little less alone. I feel myself growing. Maybe I even feel her growing.

Also, I am a therapist too. That is not lost on me in those moments. I hope I can move my patients the way my therapists have moved me.

I do not wear perfume, but here is hoping I still leave a trace.