There’s a certain kind of silence I’ve been noticing lately—not just in the therapy room, but in the lives of the people I work with.
It shows up as long pauses. Cancelled sessions. The phrase, “I don’t even know what I’d say right now.”
It’s not dramatic. It’s not a crisis. It’s just… a kind of emotional distance.
From themselves. From others. From the things that used to matter.
And almost every time, it’s followed by guilt.
“I should be more present.”
“I should feel more.”
“I should be doing better by now.”
I see it especially in my clients in their 20s and 30s.
People who are dating. People newly married. People balancing work and life and faith and community, while trying to make sense of a world that hasn’t felt stable for a long time.
They come in saying things like:
- “I don’t know why I haven’t reached out to him. I like him, I just… can’t.”
- “I used to be so connected to my friends. I don’t know where that version of me went.”
- “I should go back to therapy. But I’m too tired to talk.”
There’s a common thread:
They’re not choosing to disconnect.
They’re protecting themselves from overwhelm – because something inside them feels too depleted to engage.
In the past year and a half, we’ve all had to absorb more than we were built for. War. Fear. Grief. Disruption. Constant tension.
Even when things begin to stabilize, the body doesn’t just spring back to life.
It moves slowly. Cautiously. Sometimes, it freezes before it dares to thaw.
That freeze can look like:
- Pulling away from people you love, without meaning to
- Losing the words for what you’re feeling
- Feeling too “off” to date, connect, or even pray
- Avoiding therapy, even when a part of you knows it would help
This is how trauma works. Not just through flashbacks and fear—but through a subtle emotional freeze. We stop knowing what we want. We stop trusting our capacity to hold things. We stop showing up because we don’t know who we are showing up as anymore.
And this matters, because relationships are often where trauma plays out first.
Not because we’re doing anything wrong—but because relationships require vulnerability. They require presence. They require being known. And when someone’s inner world feels like it’s falling apart or standing still, the idea of being seen can feel… unbearable.
That’s why so many are pulling away right when they’re most in need of care.
And that’s why therapy, now more than ever, isn’t optional self-care—it’s essential support.
I know it takes energy to book a session when you feel like you have none.
I know it feels indulgent or dramatic or impossible.
But if you’ve felt like:
- You don’t recognize your own emotional patterns anymore
- You keep ghosting people you care about
- You’ve lost interest in things that once moved you
- Or you just feel flat, but can’t explain why
You are not broken.
But your system might be overwhelmed.
And it deserves care.
Therapy is not just about “talking through” your problems. It’s about reconnecting to the parts of you that went offline when everything became too much.
It’s about having a space where your feelings don’t need to be translated or justified.
It’s where healing can begin—not by doing everything at once—but by slowly coming back to yourself.
If that feels scary, that’s okay.
But let it scare you into movement, not silence.
Because the longer we wait, the harder it becomes to find our way back.
Support isn’t something you earn by holding it all together.
There is strength- not weakness, in naming what’s hard.
And there’s healing in letting someone meet you there.