My first therapist and I parted ways the following year, a decision that was for the best. I was assigned to another therapist, a woman I'll refer to as V. She was an older white woman who handled me with the kind of care the therapist before her had not. V was professional and kind, yet honest and practical. Near the end of my junior year, she suggested I try group therapy sessions that my college had been developing, convinced that we had done all the work we could do together during our individual sessions.

We'd spent nearly two years in her office, me on her couch talking about friendships I'd lost, familial deaths I experienced, and how these experiences affected the way that I saw myself and the world. We also talked about the danger of vulnerability, and how for me it created a fear of getting close to people. We had done truly exhausting and rewarding work, and I was better for it. So for my senior year, I heeded her suggestion and started group therapy.

In my first group, I was the only person of color. In and of itself, this didn't surprise me, as I attended a primarily white institution. However, in this group, I never felt like I could be completely honest because my experiences were so vastly different from the other group participants. I made an effort, anyway, and so did the other group members. We worked to be there for ourselves and each other, to show up and trust the process.

That group taught me that I needed to open up more and to give as much as my other group members were. Once that set of sessions with that group ended, I was left during holiday breaks to put into practice the coping techniques suggested to us. My experience with group therapy was the opposite of how I approached group projects. In college, I often gave too much in group projects, out of a desperation to be sure that everything was done both on time and to my satisfaction. But in group therapy, I gave very little because I was scared of judgment. It felt as if there was a regression taking place, and I did not want to let V down.

I thought happiness meant the end of sadness, and in turn, that I'd never need to return to therapy.

I entered another group in the spring semester, determined to open up in a way that I hadn't in my first group sessions. While I managed to be much more open, I still felt like I wasn't being heard, that no space was being made for me, and the members were not really listening to me. This group had other people of color, but I found that even that did not give me the sense of comfort I was hoping for because we did not connect in any way either. The lack of connection, despite my vulnerability and openness, left me sad all the time and living with depression. I dealt with suicide ideation less and ate more, but no one broke my heart daily quite like I did. Old habits die hard. I was the first person to tear myself down at the first sign of frustration in school, work, and life, although I knew how much it hurt me to do so. Once college was over, so was my exploration in therapy.