The chair was too soft. That was the first thing I noticed. Not expensive-soft, not plush, weighted, custom-upholstered but generic soft. Like it had been chosen from a catalog meant to be comforting in a vaguely inoffensive way. The kind of softness that made you feel like a child again. Or a patient. I hated it.

I sat with my legs crossed, perfectly still, even though every nerve under my skin buzzed like a dying lightbulb. My hands rested on my lap, nails done, posture composed — the picture of a woman who did not need to be here.

But I was. Again.

Therapist number… what? Five? Six? I’d lost count somewhere between the one who stared at me like I was a case study and the one who cried during our second session. That one was kind, but if someone was going to cry in the room, it should probably be me. Eventually.

"Hi, I’m Dahlia." No, too flat. Hi, I’m the kind of woman who gets invited to speak at conferences about work-life balance and hasn’t slept through the night since 2018. Closer.

I run a successful branding agency. I meditate. I journal. I have a skincare routine that costs more than most people’s rent. And sometimes, I feel like I’m screaming inside a glass box.

I don’t trust this therapist either, not yet. But he came recommended by someone I half-respect, which is the closest I get to vulnerable vetting. So I’m here. Trying. Not because I’m falling apart, I don’t fall apart. I chip, quietly. Hairline fractures in polished marble. You have to look close to see them. Most people don’t.

But lately... I’ve been waking up with my jaw clenched and a tightness in my chest that coffee won’t fix. And last week I almost cried on a Zoom call, not out of sadness, but because someone said I seemed "tired." That word felt too close to the truth. So here I was, sitting in this too-soft chair, waiting for a stranger to ask me why I’d come. The door opened.