My first real therapy session? I like to joke that it happened when I was about three months old. Not me as a baby, me, the new mother. Three months postpartum, staring down the daily blur of feeds, cries, pumping schedules, and emotional whiplash, wondering how on earth I was still upright.

I had done what I thought was the work. The Lamaze classes. The research. The deep dive into all things parenthood. Because this is me, Damaris, and if there’s a book, I’ve read it. What to Expect Before You’re Expecting, What to Eat When You’re Expecting, What to Expect When You’re Expecting, What to Expect in the Toddler Years… My bookshelf was basically a shrine to prep work.

And yet, nothing – nothing – prepares you for the actual experience of becoming a mum. The mental load? Unmatched. It wasn’t just exhaustion. It was feeling like my mind was running twelve tabs at once, all crashing. Even with support – my family, my doula, help around the house – I was running on fumes.

That’s when Esther, my doula, recommended I speak to someone. She connected me with Njoki, a counsellor who offered online sessions. And that was my first therapy experience. I didn’t know what to expect, but I knew I needed something.

Njoki helped me see how unrealistic my expectations were. I thought I should be doing it all. Gliding through new motherhood with grace and the kind of calm I’d read in books and curated Instagram captions. But I was barely showering. She asked me what old me liked. I told her I used to love reading, but where was the time for that now? She said, “Great. Just aim to read one page.” And I remember thinking, one page? That’s nothing. But it wasn’t. It was something. And it made me feel like maybe I wasn’t failing.

She also reframed rest for me. You know the age-old advice: sleep when the baby sleeps? Cute in theory, completely laughable in practice. When else was I supposed to eat? Shower? Cook? Pee in peace? Njoki told me, “Rest doesn’t have to mean sleep. Lying down. Closing your eyes. Letting your brain be still, that’s rest too.” That simple truth made a huge difference.

Of course, there were deeper things. Relationship issues. Gaslighting. Strains I didn’t know how to name. Njoki created a safe space for me to unpack some of that. She introduced me to the idea of self-care beyond bubble baths – real self-care, like having boundaries and celebrating small wins. She helped me inch back toward myself.

Eventually, I stopped therapy. I told myself I was okay. The immediate fog had lifted. I was resting a little more, crying a little less. Things felt manageable. Or at least, not on fire. But looking back, I think I mistook functioning for healing. I hadn’t dealt with much. I had just learned to carry it more quietly.

Fast forward to Leo. Baby number two. Life up in the air again. Except this time, I had a toddler to manage too. Solo parenting for months at a time. I was exhausted. Grappling with a big decision: Do I return to my 8–5? Or try to build something more flexible? How? The mental load wasn’t just back…the darn thing had brought reinforcements!

A close friend asked, “How about going back to therapy?” And I resisted. I’d done therapy. Wasn’t that supposed to have “fixed” me? But that’s the myth, isn’t it? That one round of therapy should be enough. That once you’ve sat on a couch and cried once, you should emerge whole and healed, like a car fresh from the carwash. But therapy isn’t a carwash. It’s maintenance. Sometimes it’s emergency repair. Sometimes it’s a realignment.

So I started again. This time with Cathy from the Almond Center. And even in our first session, which was basically a giant emotional unpacking, I felt lighter. Just naming what I was going through was powerful.

Cathy helped me zoom out. I was about to resign. Between June, when I officially stepped out, and August, when I signed my first client, there was so much anxiety. The paralyzing “I need to apply for a ton of jobs” panic. The “customise 50 CVs and cover letters this week to increase chances” spiral. Cathy slowed me down. “Just apply for one job this week,” she said. And my overachieving and overwhelmed brain twitched. But I did just that. And it helped with some of the paralyzing anxiety.

We tackled the parenting overwhelm too. One child in tantrum mode, refusing to eat, and constantly constipated. The other still waking at night, tracking milestones and trying to create the perfect environment for him (because apparently my control issues extend to baby development). I was juggling too much and feeling like I was dropping everything.

Cathy didn’t offer miracle cures. She gave me perspective. Gave me breathing tools. Taught me that it’s okay not to have it all figured out. And that peace sometimes means making new choices, even hard ones. Especially hard ones.

She also introduced me to things I’d probably never try on my own; meditation, affirmations, breathwork. The so-called soft stuff that didn’t feel “me”. Because when you’re an African woman, sometimes needing these things feels like a failure. Like you’re not strong enough. But I’ve learned that strength isn’t doing it all without help. It’s knowing when to let someone hold space for you. And yes, ‘holding space’ is an overused term, but there is really no better way to put it.

It’s been a year now. I’m still in therapy. I don’t plan to stop anytime soon. Yes, it’s an investment. Time. Energy. Money. But I leave every session feeling like I’ve had a mental alignment. I’m still on the same road – same bumps, same traffic, same potholes – but I can drive a little straighter.

Therapy hasn’t “fixed” me. But it’s helped me. Helped me celebrate small wins. Helped me find language for feelings I used to push down. Helped me work on the big tangled ball of yarn in my head and start rolling it back into a neat, manageable skein.

So if you’ve been wondering if therapy is for you, let me say this:

You don’t need to be in crisis.
You don’t need to be falling apart.
You just need to be human.

You’re allowed to pause.
To breathe.
To ask for help without apology.

It’s not weakness.
It’s not indulgence.
It’s choosing yourself – gently, bravely, and without guilt.

Because you matter.