Our couple's therapy

A big chunk of my practice is working with couples. And honestly? Not everyone who walks through the door stays for the long haul. My husband and I went through six months of couples therapy ourselves—it was rough, it came with a ton of resistance, but it was worth it.

I decided to talk about it today—as much as I can, of course, without stepping over my husband’s boundaries. As a therapist, self-disclosure is part of my job, but that doesn't give me the right to air my partner’s personal life. So I’ll share what I can to help anyone who’s still on the fence about giving it a shot.

First off: it really is hard work. Any routine takes either habit or discipline. But when you're dealing with deep internal resistance, you practically have to drag yourself there by the collar. Couples therapy is exhausting—emotionally and practically. It’s not movie night with popcorn, and it’s definitely not a cozy weekend workshop on relationship wellness.

Couples therapy is WORK.

We started about six months before the full-scale invasion. Back then, our relationship was tangled up in mutual resentment, misunderstandings, and parallel existential crises. It spilled over onto the kids, too, who could definitely tell Mom and Dad had lost the plot.

Before we found “our” therapist, we sat through a few pretty awful trial sessions. We ran into blatant bias and therapists projecting their own issues onto us. The internet makes it look like therapists are everywhere, but finding the right fit is tough. I want to highlight this: don't write off therapy just because the first person you met didn't feel safe. We don’t turn every new acquaintance into a best friend, and we don’t go on a second date with everyone. That’s completely normal. Walking away from therapy after one bad session makes as much sense as swearing off dating forever after one terrible first date.

We started in person, and in the beginning, we could barely hear each other. Most sessions devolved into trading blame and grievances—until our therapist helped us see what was actually driving that dynamic, where our vicious cycle came from, and what we really wanted from each other (and from the process). People often ask me when a couple should start therapy. My answer: yesterday. Looking back, if we’d made regular therapy a baseline habit early on in our marriage, we could have avoided so many bad decisions and fights.

There were tears, anger, sheer discomfort, shame, and fear. There were times I wanted to run away, moments of gut-wrenching clarity, and stretches of complete hopelessness. I won't pretend those feelings never crop up now. In our most vulnerable moments, they still surface—reminding us that the unconscious has no sense of time, and that you don't "cure" trauma; you just learn how to live with it.

But the turning point I remember most clearly was this: before reacting, we started asking questions first. I’m smiling as I write this, because it sounds so embarrassingly basic. Here I am, a trained psychologist with years of experience, marveling at something so obvious. But try hitting the brakes mid-fight and actually listening to each other. From personal experience and clinical practice, I can tell you it is BRUTALLY hard in the heat of the moment. Even for the most conscious, educated people with decades of meditation retreats behind them. When you live together, your lives become intertwined. You know exactly where it hurts, but you’re still hostage to your own biology. When fight-or-flight takes the wheel, telling yourself to hit pause and stay constructive is nearly impossible without someone else in the room.

After one particularly rough session, we walked out quiet and hollowed out, like two people who’d barely survived a shipwreck: soaked in tears, reeling from what we’d realized, and mourning the fantasy versions of each other we’d finally let go of. We walked side by side in silence, taking in everything that had been said, heard, and felt.

“That was heavy,” he said, his shoulders hunched.

I couldn't even answer—I just nodded. I had no words.

He reached for my hand, and I held on like it was a life raft.

We didn't know where that road would lead, but we wanted to figure it out together. And that’s probably the most important thing I can tell anyone considering couples therapy: you go into it as a team. If your intentions align (which isn't always the case) and you both genuinely want a way forward, you have to do the work together—supporting each other and refusing to let each other drown.

Therapy works for people who want to fix their communication, who are willing to look at their own blind spots instead of just pointing fingers, and who aren't afraid of meeting their own darker sides.

A couples therapist isn't a mentor, a guru, a buddy, or a referee. They’re there to help you trace the roots of your conflict, untangle attachment patterns, help you see yourself through your partner’s eyes, and hold space while you share—or hear—the hard things. Therapy forces you to look at your own role in the breakdown. It’s uncomfortable and humbling, but it’s where the real work happens.

Therapy won't work if one person wants to "fix" their partner, or drags them into the room against their will. If the two of you aren't ready to do this together, don't force it. Start with individual therapy—and start on your own if your partner isn't ready yet.

It will still help.