“I just worry about not having gained anything,” I mumbled anxiously at my therapist during our final session together in June this year. “Maybe it takes a while to truly know what you have gained from this experience,” she replied.
After two years of weekly meetings, copious amounts of sullied tissues, hours of talking, silence and contemplation all in the same tiny room overlooking the Thames, I couldn’t quite sense what I was taking away. The rewards of the experience didn’t await me neatly wrapped with a tag addressed to a newly well version of myself. The real gift I received through undertaking counselling was slow in the making. The ability to realise what had been given and received in the work we had undertaken together was similarly slow in revealing itself.
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