first therapy session — yeah, I nearly yeeted myself into the Hudson to avoid it. So anyway, last Thursday I’m idling outside a strip-mall shrink in north Jersey, chugging a flat Red Bull I found under the seat, hoodie inside-out because who has time for mirrors. The building smells like burnt popcorn and broken dreams, and I’m 99% sure the “therapy” sign flickers like it’s mocking me. I legit circled the lot three times blasting Chappell Roan just to feel something other than panic.
The Lobby Was a Whole Vibe (And Not a Good One)
So I stumble in, and the receptionist hands me a tablet that’s stickier than a movie theater floor. First therapy session paperwork asks if I’ve “felt hopeless in the past two weeks” and I’m like buddy, I cried because my toast landed butter-side down. I check “often” so many times the stylus dies. Meanwhile, my knee’s doing Morse code on the carpet—S-O-S, obviously. There’s a betta fish in a cloudy bowl just staring into the void. Honestly, same therapy session .
Then the Door Opened and I Forgot How to Human
Next thing I know, the therapist—let’s call her Lisa ’cause HIPAA is a thing—pops out in clogs and zero judgment. She’s got this calm voice like warm soup on a hangover. First therapy session kicks off with “what brings you here?” and I word-vomit about yelling at a DoorDash guy for being four minutes late, then tipping him $20 out of guilt. She doesn’t flinch. Instead, I’m suddenly crying about the time I hid in a Target bathroom at 15 because some kid laughed at my braces. Tissues? Two-ply, within arm’s reach. Clock ticks like it’s counting my sins.
[Check out my post on why I finally caved and started therapy] if you’re still stalling.*
The Questions That Should Come with a Trigger Warning
Halfway through, Lisa asks, “what keeps you up at night?” and my brain blue-screens harder than Windows 98. I mumble “everything” and she’s like “cool, pick one.” I pick the irrational fear that pigeons are government drones. We laugh. Therapy’s weird, y’all.
- No Freud couch (it’s 2025, not a movie)
- She says “that sounds hard” and I almost fall off the chair
- I snort-laughed into a tissue and it disintegrated—10/10
Homework I Definitely Half-Assed
Before I bolt, she says “notice one spiral a day without judging.” Easy, right? Wrong. That night I’m eating cereal with a fork ’cause spoons are MIA and write “SPIRALING: yes, volume: 11” on a pizza box. Sent Lisa a pic next session. She replied with a thumbs-up emoji. Iconic.
Red Flags I Dodged (Thank God)
Lisa didn’t push lavender oil, didn’t blame Mercury retrograde, didn’t say “just breathe.” Green flags everywhere. If yours does any of that? Run. I vetted her on Psychology Today’s therapist finder—saved me from a potential crystal scam.
The Parking-Lot Aftermath Was Peak Me
So I sit in my car for 25 minutes eating gas-station sushi with a spork, ugly-crying to Phoebe Bridgers. Text my group chat “I TALKED ABOUT PIGEONS AND LIVED” and get 52 crying-laughing emojis. Then I circle the $0 copay on the receipt like it’s an Olympic medal.
Anyway, Book the Damn Appointment
Look, if you’re doom-scrolling “first therapy session” at 3 a.m. with 47 tabs open—stop. I showed up smelling like Red Bull and defeat, hoodie inside-out, and left with a plan and zero shame. Just go. Bring the weird, the snot, the pigeon trauma. Read my follow-up on session two here if you need proof it gets less terrifying.
Drop your own “I survived” disaster stories below—I read ‘em all while stress-eating pretzels. You got this, even if your socks don’t match.
Outbound links
