I started therapy at 21, unsure of what I needed but deeply certain I needed something. I had just graduated college and was dealing with a foggy, aching kind of sadness that settled in and refused to leave. To make matters worse, I was tangled in the messiest situationship of my life. I couldn’t think straight, couldn’t focus, and most days, I felt like I was unraveling. Therapy seemed like a lifeline, so I reached for it.
My First Step Into Therapy
Like many Black women, I was told to find a therapist who looked like me. I was under the impression that no one understands a Black woman like another Black woman. That made sense, and I followed the advice without question. I searched specifically for a Black woman therapist, and I found one. But after one session, I never returned. She diagnosed me with anxiety and depression, which helped give a name to the pain. But emotionally, she felt unreachable. Her energy was cold. She barely made eye contact. I didn’t feel seen or safe. It was disappointing, but I knew not every provider would be the right match. I continued on, determined to find someone who could hold space for me in a way that felt real.
Over the next eight years, I worked with two other therapists, both better fits than the first. They were kind, curious, and thoughtful. But even in my best sessions, I walked away feeling like something was missing. They listened, but they didn’t challenge me. They helped me cope, but I didn’t feel like I was moving forward. I needed more than just a listening ear. Earlier this year, something shifted. After years of dealing with depression on and off, I decided to explore medication. I booked an appointment with a psychiatrist and answered what felt like the same battery of questions I had answered a dozen times. But this time, the conclusion was different. He diagnosed me with borderline personality disorder.
A Diagnosis That Changed Everything
The diagnosis rattled me. I had never even heard of BPD before that appointment, and suddenly, it had a name and it belonged to me. He prescribed the medication I had asked for, but also encouraged me to seek therapy with someone trained to treat BPD. At that time, I was already seeing a therapist. When I told her about the diagnosis, she admitted she didn’t know much about it and said she would start researching. That moment was a turning point. I appreciated her honesty, but I knew I couldn’t wait for someone to learn about my condition. I needed care from someone who already understood it.So I started searching again. This time, the list of requirements was longer. I needed someone who specialized in BPD, accepted my insurance, and, because I still held tightly to my original ideal, was a Black woman.
The options were painfully limited. I scrolled through directories for days. The few Black women who met all the criteria were booked, didn’t take my insurance, or weren’t accepting new clients. I felt stuck. I turned to my group chat and unloaded my frustration. My friends heard me, but one of them gently said something I’ll never forget. She said that ultimately, I need someone who is capable of helping me, regardless of skin color, and that should be my priority. That was the nudge I needed.
Finding Healing in Unexpected Places
I broadened my search and eventually found someone. She was a white woman in her late thirties and, at first glance, the complete opposite of what I had envisioned for my healing journey. I was hesitant. I braced myself for awkward explanations, for the cultural disconnect, for the feeling of being othered. But that first session surprised me.
She greeted me with warmth and presence. She was attentive, open, and, to my relief, funny. We clicked in a way I hadn’t expected. She made me feel safe, not because she looked like me, but because she listened in a way that made me feel known. She didn’t coddle me, but she also didn’t keep me at arm’s length. From the beginning, she made it clear that she pushes her clients. She challenges them, and that’s exactly what I had been craving.
For the past five months, we’ve been working together consistently. In that short time, I’ve seen more growth in myself than I have in nearly a decade of therapy. I am finally learning how to manage my symptoms in real time and am building emotional regulation skills while confronting some of the hardest parts of myself. I am finally learning how to live better.
This experience didn’t make me abandon the belief that Black women deserve Black therapists. I still believe cultural competence is essential and that representation in mental health matters deeply. But I also learned that sometimes, healing asks us to let go of our expectations and focus on what will actually move us forward.
I believe there are brilliant Black women therapists out there who could have helped me just as much as my current therapist. But my insistence on finding someone who fit a specific mold may have kept me from the care I needed for longer than I realized.
My white therapist changed my life. Not because of who she is on the outside, but because of what she offers and because I was finally ready to receive it.
Sometimes healing begins when we choose to see beyond the checklist and ask ourselves what we truly need.