Don’t go to therapy just because your partner wants you to

Go for you.

My favorite quote when I was 24 was, “Hell is other people.” The French philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre had captured how lonely I was back then. How much I desired intimacy. How hard it seemed for me to feel connected.

When I say “intimacy,” I mean emotional closeness. Being seen and heard for all that I am. And me seeing and hearing the other person. Someone being curious about me, me being curious about them, and us together being curious about the mystery of life.

Sure, I had plenty of friends. I was in a rock band and part of a vibrant music scene. I worked for a tech company with office gossip and happy hours. But something was missing in almost every relationship. No one really knew me. I didn’t realize then that I drank and smoked weed almost every day to self-medicate, numbing myself from the pain of the loneliness.

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Every so often I’d meet a woman who got me.

We’d fall in love and date for a year or two. I’d soak up her curiosity and attention like a dry sponge. I’d forget about the loneliness. But then she’d want more from me. More than I could give. I wouldn’t know exactly what she wanted or how to give it. I know now that what she wanted was more commitment and vulnerability. I’d try hard to make the relationship work. But we’d slowly fall apart. And then I’d be lonely again until the next woman.

Luckily, one of those women all but forced me to go to therapy. I sensed that if I didn’t go, she’d dump me. I went a few times but didn’t fully commit. I guess I hadn’t seen the light yet (I’ll explain what the light is in a minute). Instead of learning about myself in therapy to work on the relationship, I put my head in the sand. She dumped me, and my heart broke in a thousand tiny pieces.

A therapist helped me pick up those pieces and glue my heart back together. I fell in love with going to therapy. I learned how my near-constant anxiety about getting enough work done kept me from being present. I learned how to be compassionate toward myself, even when I wasn’t perfect, which helped me be compassionate toward others more often.

People, ex-partners, my mom had always described me as calm and quiet. But they’d just been seeing the outside. Inside, I was all over the place. I was worried about everything. I was trying to control everything. I was trying to get everything done—everything—before I could relax into the present moment. Which meant I could never relax, because there’s always more to do (especially in a capitalist society).

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That was the first big thing that shifted because I was going to therapy.

I could be more present and emotionally available with partners, friends, my family. My relationships improved. I became a better listener. I learned how to finally rest and recover. I wasn’t so frantic inside and burned out all the time.

But then I joined a therapy group. That’s where I learned how to give and receive intimacy. To really take in others’ care and attention. To allow myself to be vulnerable enough so that deep, human-to-human connection can happen.

Vulnerability is required for intimacy. Vulnerability isn’t just transparency. It’s asking someone to help carry something that’s difficult to carry. It’s exposing some aspect of yourself that could be judged negatively. Some thing you’ve done or experience you’ve had that you might be ashamed of. By not judging you—by simply seeing and hearing you—they’re helping you carry it. And they’ll likely be more willing to share something vulnerable with you. You’re both exposed. You both have skin the game together. You need each other.

In group therapy, I learned how to trust that the vast majority of the time I won’t be judged for things I think I’ll be judged for. Vulnerability seems to disarm people’s judgement. It’s like a magnet that instead of repelling brings people in closer.

I realized this a few weeks ago at a conference for therapists. Usually at professional conferences I hide in my room between scheduled events. I’m terrified of unstructured moments in the hotel hallways, in line for coffee, at the bar. There are too many people, too many possible conversations, too many things to track.

But this was a special conference. We were all therapists, all to some degree comfortable with vulnerability. I kept wanting more! I kept showing up ready to connect. I soaked it all up. Sure, I stepped away a few times to reset and recharge. But I allowed myself to take in the intimacy. I made new friends and connected more deeply with old ones. I felt that old urge to isolate when I felt overwhelmed. But I kept turning against it. It didn’t seem all that appealing like before. I wanted to be with people more, because disconnection sucks.

So, that’s the latest thing I’ve realized I’ve gotten out of going to therapy.

I’m not so reliant on my partner for intimacy and connection anymore, which is a tendency for men. I’m less avoidant and prone to isolating. I can actually take in and soak up people’s care and attention. It feels so damn good!

I’ll end

Ruth Whippman

’s words in her new book BoyMom: Reimagining Boyhood in the Age of Impossible Masculinity, which have been spinning around in my brain since I read them. Whippman sums up what we as men have to gain from unlearning so-called “traditional” masculine norms and learning how to be more vulnerable with others:

“In the vast majority of situations we are likely to encounter in the course of a lifetime, there is no hero or villain, no death and no glory, but rather just a bunch of needy humans kvetching over who said what. Understanding how to navigate that with grace and skill is the beating heart of human connection.”

That doesn’t sound like much. But I’m really starting to think that it’s everything.

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Now, a question for the comments below (or email me at jeremy@jeremymohler.blog): What’s holding you back from going to therapy? Or if you’ve gone, what did you get out of it?

(P.S. If you become a paid subscriber for $5/month, you’ll get my weekly Friday Q&A posts about improving your relationship and friendships, plus the warm feeling of supporting my writing.)