Why does one become a therapist?

Sometimes I'm asked, Why did you become a therapist?

I could give you a neat answer—something about wanting to help, about curiosity, about meaning. And sure, all of that is true.

But the real answer? I became a therapist because I have always been drawn to what is underneath. The stories behind the stories. The unspoken in a conversation. The patterns that shape us in ways we don’t even realize.

And if I’m being honest, I became a therapist because I know what it means to sit with pain. To hold questions that don’t have easy answers. To watch people I love struggle. To struggle myself.

It’s not just about listening. It’s about witnessing. Understanding interiority—the hidden landscapes of a person’s mind, the way memories and fears and longings collide beneath the surface. Holding space, yes—but also knowing when to challenge, when to reframe, when to name the thing that’s too tangled to say out loud. When to sit in silence, because sometimes the silence is speaking too.

It’s emotional labour. It’s messy. Some days, it’s heavy. And no, it’s not just about sitting in a chair and nodding while someone talks. It’s stepping into the trenches of someone’s mind, walking with them through the wreckage, helping them see the possibility of rebuilding—even when they can’t see it yet.

Maybe that’s why I do this work. Because despite everything, I believe in healing. Not as a perfect, linear process, but as something real. As something that happens in the presence of care, curiosity, and deep, unshakable witnessing.

To be a therapist is to be deeply present to—pain, healing, the slow unraveling of what was, and the quiet becoming of what could be.