Is Your Therapist a Miserable Person?

In the world of therapy, therapists, just like us, carry beautiful scars, reflecting genuine humanity in their guidance.

A moment of connection: A therapist and client delve into the healing journey together. Photo by cottonbro / Pexels.

Picture this: a dimly lit room, two armchairs, and a gentle voice coaxing you to share the depths of your heart. You unspool your worries, lay your fears bare, and hand them over to this learned professional. And while you’re grappling with your own internal monsters, have you ever stopped to wonder about the demons your therapist might be dancing with?

Let’s get one thing straight. Therapists are human. Just because they’ve got a fancy degree and an uncanny knack for nodding at the right time doesn’t make them immune to the ups and downs of the human experience. Misery, like happiness, doesn’t discriminate based on job titles.

Remember Hemingway’s words, “Write drunk; edit sober”? Just like writers can’t always separate from their lived experiences, therapists can’t cleanly disentangle from theirs. Their very craft relies on tapping into a vast reservoir of empathy, understanding, and personal insight. They’ve got to have swum in those turbulent waters themselves to know how to guide others ashore.

Let’s take a detour for a moment. Dive bars in the farthest reaches of cities, places filled with old jukeboxes, neon signs, and the weight of countless stories, have taught me one thing — everyone’s got a story. These places, drenched in the shadows of nostalgia, echo with whispers of heartbreak, triumphs, losses, and love. While therapy offices might have better lighting and fewer tattooed bartenders, the principle remains: they’re a space for stories.

If we, the laypeople, are made up of stories — of hurt, joy, dreams, and regrets — why would therapists be any different? If anything, they’ve had a front-row seat to the grand theater of human experience, not just as spectators but as participants.

What I’ve often mused upon is this: while we expect our therapists to be these paragons of mental and emotional strength, perhaps it’s their vulnerabilities, their moments of despair and misery, that make them so effective. Could it be that the best therapists are those who’ve walked through their personal hells and come out the other side…