I saw two therapists in the early weeks. I think of them as two Tuesdays, because that’s what they’ve become in my head — two versions of what it’s like to reach for help and find out what kind you’ve found.
The first one I’ll call the slow-down. Within the first few minutes, before she knew much of anything about me, she suggested I slow my transition down. That I might change my mind. That there was no need to rush.
I understand the instinct behind it. It dresses itself up as caution, as care, as protecting the patient from a hasty decision. But sit with what it actually says to someone who has just, after fifty-two years, finally understood who they are: are you sure? have you considered that you’re wrong? maybe wait. It is doubt, handed to you by the one person in the room you came to for support. I left that session carrying more weight than I’d walked in with.
The second Tuesday was different from the first sentence. She asked me my pronouns. Before anything else. Not as a test, not as a gotcha — as the ordinary opening courtesy of meeting a person where they are. And in that one small question was everything the first session lacked: I’ll take you as you tell me you are, and we’ll work from there.
The difference between those two rooms taught me something I want to hand to anyone reaching for help right now, because I wish someone had handed it to me.
The wrong therapist is not a verdict. It’s information.
If the first person you reach doubts you, slows you, asks you to prove yourself before they’ll believe you — that is data about them, not about you. It does not mean you were wrong about who you are. It does not mean you should stop. It means that particular door was the wrong one, and there are others, and the right one exists.
Keep looking until you find the room where the first question is your pronouns and not your certainty. They are out there. I found mine on the second Tuesday. Don’t let the first one talk you into turning back.
