My Last Day Of Psychotherapy

"Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure." - Marianne Williamson

The last day of therapy often marks the end of one chapter and the beginning of another. For me, it was the culmination of years of struggle, growth, and revelation. Like many people, I had sought psychotherapy intermittently over the years, but with my nomadic lifestyle, consistency was hard to come by. Moving around and traveling frequently made it challenging to maintain long-term therapy. However, when I finally settled in Romania for four years, a period marked by significant struggles with fertility and the loss of a stillborn child, I knew it was time to commit to psychodynamic psychotherapy to address the depression and anxiety that had been consuming me.

The journey began after visiting three therapists and settling on the one who resonated most with me—an open-minded, English-speaking therapist who I felt truly listened by. He accepted the tangled mess of emotions I brought into each session, from grief and trauma to anxiety and self-doubt. For two and a half years, I saw him regularly, with only brief breaks, diving deep into my family history, childhood traumas, and present challenges.

Our sessions unearthed painful memories and explored the complexities of my emotions—why certain situations at work, in relationships, or in motherhood triggered such intense reactions. We dissected my behavioral patterns, emotional responses, and coping mechanisms. We diagnosed anxiety and OCD, and I began to unravel the layers of my psyche, inching toward a better understanding of myself.

Yet despite all the progress, I couldn’t escape the lingering question: Why wasn’t I getting better? Why, after all these sessions, did my anxiety and OCD remain constant companions? No matter how many tears I shed, how many traumas I processed, or how much I understood intellectually, the deep-rooted issues remained elusive. The answer to my healing still seemed just beyond my grasp.

I was desperate for a breakthrough, constantly asking how much longer I’d have to endure this limbo of knowing and not knowing. My therapist would patiently remind me that healing could take months, years, or perhaps never fully come. If the root cause was buried in early childhood, we might never unearth it. His words were honest but left me feeling hopeless. After all, how could I live my life, knowing that my anxiety and OCD might never dissipate?

This desperation became a haunting backdrop to my days, and the resemblance between my struggles and my father’s battle with bipolar disorder gnawed at me. Though I didn’t have his diagnosis, the similarities were hard to ignore. My symptoms, though perhaps less visible, were no less paralyzing. Every second, the weight of anxiety was there, suffocating me, and in my darkest moments, I contemplated whether life itself was worth the fight.

As 2019 drew to a close, my husband and I decided to relocate from Romania to England. The move added pressure to wrap up my therapy before we left. I could continue online, but I knew it wouldn’t be the same. With time ticking away, I began a process of introspection. I poured over my journals, listing all the adverse experiences that had shaped me and reflecting on the ongoing battles in my life. One revelation kept surfacing: I didn’t truly know who I was. The therapy had helped me realize that I had lost sight of my own identity amidst the chaos of life.

In an effort to dig deeper, I reached out to my mother. For five hours, we talked, peeling back the layers of my life in search of anything I might have missed. After our conversation, I felt an urge to reorganise my notes, chronologically tracing my life from childhood to adulthood. In doing so, I was struck by the constant theme of movement and change. I had lived in nine countries, moved 13 times between them, and had lived in 33 different homes in 36 years.

This was the thread I hadn’t pulled before.

In my next session, I presented my findings. Toward the end of my summary, I asked my therapist if moving 33 times could be linked to my anxiety and OCD. I’ll never forget the moment he put his notebook down, leaned forward, and said, “This is it. This is the missing element.”

The revelation hit me like a tidal wave. Moving around so frequently—what I had long considered part of my adventurous spirit—was the core source of my instability. The numerous micro-traumas of constant relocation had left deep emotional scars that manifested in anxiety and OCD. We spent several more sessions unpacking the effects of this nomadic lifestyle, and for the first time, I felt as though I had a clear understanding of why I had suffered for so long.

On October 23, 2019, my therapist told me something I never expected to hear: “Your therapy is complete.” We had uncovered the source, and it was time to close this chapter. I thanked him, shook his hand, and walked out, feeling both lighter and heavier at the same time.

The following days were surreal. I had anticipated the end of therapy for so long, but when it finally came, I wasn’t sure how to feel. I was relieved to have found the answers, but I also mourned the loss of the relationship I had built with my therapist. Therapy had been my lifeline for years, and suddenly, I had to learn to live without it.

Yet amidst the sadness, there was a newfound sense of clarity. Moving had always been my way of life, something I thought liberated me. But now, I saw how deeply it had impacted my mental health. The very thought of relocating had to be eradicated from my system for me to truly heal.

As I sit here, writing this from yet another temporary home in England, I am acutely aware that the journey isn’t over. We plan to move again by spring, but this time, I’m armed with the awareness of how debilitating constant movement has been for me. Therapy didn’t “cure” me, but it gave me the tools and perspective to understand my life better.

The nomadic life might work for some, but for my family and me, it's time to embrace a different path. I’ll always be a traveler at heart, but from now on, we’ll hopefully indulge in those adventures from one permanent place we can call home.

Sarah the Digital GypSea

Romania, November 2019