I wasn’t ready to say goodbye, but after three years of psychotherapy with Dr. M, it was time to let go. I knew this was going to be hard and I would shed tears. When you “click”—as Dr. M and I had—it is a powerful relationship and healing can occur quickly. I had suggested ending my therapy because I was doing so well. Now, I was regretting that decision. I also knew, in my heart, that it was time. This last appointment would be painful, but I was confident Dr. M had given me the guidance I needed to let go.
Ending successful therapy is one of the hardest parts of the process. In the psychotherapy world, it is called termination. A final sounding word because there is no contact between client and therapist after therapy ends. Termination is a loss unlike any other because of the unique bond between client and therapist.
So, there I was, following Dr. M to his office for forty-five final minutes. When we reached the office, he ushered me in as he usually did, by standing next to the door and saying, in his soothing voice, “Kathy, Welcome.” I glanced at him as I walked past. He seemed to be an unassuming guy, but he had quite a presence, especially standing at the door. He wasn’t just welcoming me— he was inviting me into a special, safe sanctuary. He was waiting for me to join him in his peaceful world. That calmness was a contrast to my churning stomach and tense body. I was nervous and full of the pain of loss, like I was going to a funeral, rather than a parting between psychologist and client.
Although I was sad, I silently reminded myself how far I had come. When I started therapy with Dr. M, I still felt shame and guilt over how I had reacted to my beloved father’s journey with cancer, forty years ago. My father would be in his room, moaning in pain from the cancer steadily eating him, and my only thoughts were of getting away from that sickness, and drowning myself in beer and pot at parties with my friends. I ignored him and what was happening to him, to the point where his death was a complete surprise and shock. I remember standing beside his coffin in the viewing room at the funeral home. My family sat behind me and I heard quiet sobbing. Looking at my father, I recall the feeling of emptiness in me, but at the same time, my insides were tied in knots. It was like a crushing weight on nothing. All I could feel was pressure in my whole body. I knew, in that moment, that my life had changed. After his death, the guilt and shame made me gradually sink into depression, which went on for years. I saw many therapists and they all helped, but it wasn’t until I found Dr. M that I could feel some closure. I finally accepted that I was just being a typical teenager and I couldn’t continue to beat myself up over the past.
There were other issues we worked on as well. After sharing a depressing essay with Dr. M, he suggested I write affirmations. This helped my self-esteem so much. I was also going through a retirement from a job I didn’t really want to leave, but knew it was time. We also went through COVID together. It was a relief to talk to someone about this frightening time. He reassured me many times by sharing medical information he had read.
During our last session, we wouldn’t be delving into serious issues. Instead, this was a friendly chat to say goodbye and tie up loose ends.
I settled onto the sofa and he sat in his usual comfy looking chair.
I decided to share my thoughts about leaving this special bond.
“Do you know it has been a year since I first suggested termination?”
“Was it that long ago?”
I smiled at him. “Yes, it was. And now that it is here, I am finding this to be a very hard goodbye.”
He also smiled. “We’ve been through a lot together. Try to look for the ‘good’ in goodbye.”
I was sure there couldn’t be any but I didn’t say that, knowing it could be a long discussion. I had specific topics I wanted to talk about during this last meeting, and so, I reluctantly changed the subject.
But, then, I ignored my notes for a moment after a memory popped up in my head.
“Yes, we’ve been through a lot, starting from the very beginning. Do you remember our shaky start to therapy?”
Dr. M said, “Remind me.”
“After only about three sessions with you, I said, ‘I don’t know if this is working. You’re so young. What do you know about life? Maybe I should see someone else.’
“You said, ‘I’m thirty-five. We’re just getting to know each other. But, you need to do what you think is best.’
“I asked, knowing it was a silly thing for a sixty-year-old to say, ‘Are you trying to get rid of me?’
“You answered, ‘Definitely not.’
“It was those two words that made me stay. And, as I’ve told you, I had the best therapy in the forty years I’d been seeing mental health professionals. As it turned out, our age difference didn’t matter, did it?”
Dr. M shook his head and with a smile said, “It’s been quite a journey, hasn’t it? You remembered that with such clarity.”
I said, “Journaling is a wonderful thing.”
After a pause, I continued: “I believe, as we got to know each other, we gained a lot of respect for one another. You were my rock of granite that I could always count on. And I mean always. In over three years, you never once canceled or changed an appointment. That is amazing. I so appreciated your professionalism.”
When he said “No one has ever commented on that. Thank you.” I knew he was this conscientious with everyone and that made me admire him more.
Then, I plunged right in with the serious stuff.
“What do you think I should work on with my next therapist?”
We both knew I’d be continuing therapy with someone else. After forty years of therapy, and resolving my feelings about my father’s death, I still needed that unique therapist relationship to understand myself and my life. Having one of those rocks of granite in my life was the way I coped.
Without hesitating he said, “Deeper emotional work regarding your father’s death.”
I thought about that. While the guilt and shame about my father’s death would never completely go away, I would be able to live with the more subdued version of it we had worked toward. Dr. M was suggesting I get in touch with my feelings through my father’s death.
I nodded, then said, “I’ve told you about our shaky start to therapy. Now let me remind you of how I finally opened up about my father’s illness and death, which is what became the focus of my therapy with you.”
I was aware my time was running out. I took a breath.
“When I first started therapy, every time I came in your office you would gently suggest—without coming right out and saying it—I tell you about my father’s death. I would change the subject and you would always go on with whatever I wanted to talk about. Then, one day, as I walked into your office, I said: ‘I’m going to tell you about my father’s death.’ I leaned my head back on the small sofa and stared at the ceiling to collect my thoughts. When I was through talking, there was a pause, and then, in the most compassionate voice I have ever heard, you asked, ‘What was your father like?’ I smiled at the ceiling and told you a typical, funny Daddy Story. Even though I didn’t know it then, it was that question, ‘What was your father like?’ asked in such a compassionate way, that bonded us in a solid client/therapist relationship more than anything else.”
There was silence for a moment, then I laughed and said, “You therapists are sneaky that way. It was almost a subliminal thing you did. Every session, bringing up my father’s death, which became planted in my brain as something we needed to talk about.”
Dr. M smiled but didn’t comment. He wasn’t going to divulge his therapist secrets.
“Let me tell you one thing I always appreciated about our time together,” Dr. M said. “How seriously you approached your therapy and how prepared you always were, with the notes you brought to our sessions.”
I grinned. “Yes, but, on the other hand, my notes didn’t leave much room for spontaneity. And maybe, I hid behind those notes a bit.”
Dr. M chuckled. “You think?”
We smiled at each other.
After a pause I said, “I’ve mentioned this before, but I think what you do is one of the most important professions on the planet.”
Dr. M said, “I think it’s important too. Everyone touches some part of the world. There’s meaning in everything we do.”
I had asked him to let me know when I had fifteen minutes left. Since I was a spoken word storyteller, I wanted to share a folktale that I felt mirrored our therapy together.
I didn’t know how well I’d tell the story—I was feeling a lot of emotions all at once. My entire being was tense with anxiety. It seemed to weigh me down so much that my body sank deeper and deeper into the sofa, as if I would meet the floor. I was wound tight with sadness and fear. What would I do without the therapist who had helped me so much?
I realized these were the last minutes in my sacred space. This was the only place where I wasn’t judged, I received unconditional positive regard, and much empathy and compassion.
I told the story of a king with a huge cage of birds that were his greatest treasure, but none of them would sing. He sent for a wise man to solve this dilemma. The man went on a long journey over mountains and through valleys to reach the palace. The man convinced the king the only way for the birds to sing was to give them their freedom, so the king reluctantly let them go. The birds soared out of the cage, singing beautifully, with the air full of lyrical birdsong. The king and the man could hear individual birds as well as a blending of all the songs. The king was delighted.
There was a slight pause, then I said:
“And you know, that’s how I’ve felt being in this sacred space. We went on a journey that had mountains to climb and valleys to cross. We have listened. Deeply. And I have told my story. I’ve shared my stories and essays and they have flown free. Now it’s time for me to fly free. My stories and essays have mingled together into one big story, and yet we also have the memories of each one. And I’ve had your wisdom. Your wisdom that will guide me always. There’s only one thing left to say: Thank you and I will miss our time together.”
Dr. M quickly said, “I will also miss our time together.”
He had one more suggestion to pass on. In the compassionate voice I had grown so used to hearing, he said, “Remember to breathe.”
I smiled through my tears. “I’m really not very good at concentrating on my breathing. I know it’s a good thing to do, but my mind wanders.”
He replied, “That’s not exactly what I mean, although that’s a good technique too. I’m suggesting, if you feel upset or anxious about something, take a few deep breaths. It will calm you down.”
I nodded.
We were at the end of our time.
Dr. M got out of his chair and walked into the hall. I picked up my purse and tote bag. Later, I was sorry I didn’t look around his office one last time—it really was hard to believe I wouldn’t be back—but I knew I’d never forget it, especially the energy that was in the room during this last session. Now that our parting was imminent, I felt a bit calmer.
I walked into the hall, realizing I wouldn’t be saying, “See you next time.” We said, “Goodbye.” As I made my way down the hall, I could feel his gaze on me. I remembered that he had told me to look for the “good” in “goodbye.” Was it a good goodbye for him? Was watching me walk down the hall for the last time his way of letting me go, in his detached, therapist way? (Or, did he just desperately need to pee before seeing his next client and was inching his way to the bathroom?) I know our three years together changed him too because he told me it had. A quote by psychiatrist Carl Jung came to mind. “The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed.”
During my therapy with Dr. M, I had been transformed in so many ways. I learned so much about myself, my father, death and life. By talking about my father’s illness and death to someone who listened so well, with so much compassion, we healed that part of my life. I know I talked about it with other therapists, but at that time I just couldn’t come to terms with how I had reacted to his death. Forty years later, I was able to speak of it with sorrow, love, and forgiveness to myself.
It was hard to leave the sacred place where all the anguish, tears, and joy had occurred as he guided me through this journey. I used to tell Dr. M it wasn’t my therapy but our therapy, because we were in this together. He had told me the bond between client and therapist was more important to healing than any of the many modalities a therapist could use. I believed that. We were two personalities who met for a brief time and, for me, changed how I lived in the world.
I walked quickly down the long hall, not wanting to leave and wanting it all to be over. I took a deep breath. I’d turn the corner, walk through the doors and out into the cool February morning. My therapeutic journey with a most amazing therapist was at an end.
Termination. I’ve read that some would like to change this term for the ending of therapy because it sounds too much like death. I think it is the perfect word for the death that occurs with therapy’s end. Even though parting was painful, I would go through a hundred terminations to have the kind of alliance we had. And that’s the “good” in “goodbye.”
