
I didn’t realize how much an undiagnosed mental health condition was wrecking my life, my business, my marriage, even how I showed up for my patients.
For the longest time, I told myself I was fine. “I’m the provider, not the patient. My patients have it worse than me.”
Some days I’d look at the criteria and think, “Man, that’s me.” But then I’d gaslight myself. And the guilt? It ate me alive.
Because how could I, a mental health professional, also be struggling with mental illness? I felt like a liar sometimes. Like an imposter. Here I was, giving advice I wasn’t even following. That shame cycle was heavy.
Depression didn’t just live in my head, it lived in my body. Some mornings I couldn’t even get out of bed. I’d have to cancel on my own clients because I physically felt sick, like I was paralyzed.
It wasn’t just “feeling sad.” It was a full-body shutdown. Some days I felt numb. Others, hopeless. And even when I had bursts of high energy, I’d still mess up, missing details, making financial mistakes, moving too fast. Either way, I was paying for it.
The day I chose to get help, everything changed. But not in the “life is instantly better” kind of way.
It changed because I finally accepted myself. I stopped pretending. I stopped letting ego convince me I was above being human. That day, I realized my failures and struggles weren’t disqualifying, they were lessons.
I could finally see my clients through their eyes, not just mine. And I knew then that medication alone wasn’t enough. What we both needed were emotional regulation skills.
So I learned them. I practiced them. And I taught them.
And you know what? That’s what made me a better provider. Not the degrees. Not the titles. Not pretending I had it all together. What made me better was being human enough to admit I didn’t.
Getting help didn’t erase my diagnosis, it reframed it. It gave me compassion for myself, and in turn, deeper compassion for the people I serve.
Because at the end of the day, no one — provider or patient — is above needing help.
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