“Therapy works!”
That’s what the media and celebrities have been shouting for years. I swear I’ve seen at least a hundred BetterHelp ads, and I feel like I know just as many people who’ve tried therapy. By the end of COVID‑19 lockdowns and remote college, I had spent some of my most formative years inside. At first, thanks to my introverted personality, I loved the alone time. But then, my life started to feel like it was shrinking, closing me in.
I was 23 years old, working a low‑paying pharmacy tech job, and I was terrible at the “people” part. Some customers were fine, but others… not so much. One customer threatened a coworker. Another tried to buy a certain adult item with a fake, soggy, gold coupon. These people really make you question your life choices and your commitment to “helping people.”
So in 2023, I used my employer’s “free therapy.”
I had a feeling that it wouldn’t be as confidential as my employer advertised — and I wasn’t wrong. State lawmakers have since raised alarms about Employee Assistance Programs creating power imbalances, with some employers allegedly accessing employees’ sensitive mental health information. I had similar concerns that my “private” conversations in therapy weren’t truly private.
My therapist reminded me of Joel Osteen — the Houston pastor who once closed his 16,000‑seat megachurch during Hurricane Harvey. This oddly serene man looked at me with his squinty eyes, and he seemed high on something. He sat in a room where everything was white: walls, chair, shirt. In that moment, I felt like I was talking with a televangelist who broadcast from a cloud.
I didn’t have a dramatic crisis. I was just dealing with the fallout of spending my early 20s doomscrolling, watching TikTok, crying, working low‑paying jobs, and hiding from the world. Being an introvert made staying home feel safe — until my home became a depression incubator.
By 2023, the world was reopening.
I had a consulting job that kept me on the road, which I loved — it felt like a constant road trip. But I also felt lonely. Most of all, I wanted stability. I wanted to move out and begin a life that felt like mine. Instead, I felt like someone constantly handed me Thanksgiving leftovers: dry, bland, pale, clammy turkey for three years straight. I wanted to step back into the light, but I didn’t know my purpose.
As I poured my heart out to the Joel Osteen lookalike in the white chair, he asked me whether my need for stability affected my work… four or five separate times. After hearing “Does that impact your work at all?” a few times, I wondered if he secretly planned to take his notes to HR so that he could declare me a workplace hazard. He seemed completely unaware that I — along with the rest of the world — was coming out of a global crisis.
Then he said, “Do you know what I look forward to in the morning? A purple Monster.”
He paused dramatically.
“And after this? I’m going to The Cheesecake Factory.”
Another pause.
“I suggest that you find a treat to look forward to as well.”
Now, I respect a good cheesecake. Chandler and Rachel once ate one off the floor, and honestly, I get it. But “Treat yourself to cheesecake?” That isn’t advice that I’d expect from a mental health professional. As a matter of fact, I wouldn’t pay a cent for that advice! It was employer-sponsored therapy, so I guess I got what I paid for. But this man certainly didn’t make me want to continue with therapy.
You can probably guess that I never went back to see the “cheesecake therapist.”
I hope his cheesecake heals whatever he’s working through, though. As for me, I ended up confiding in Microsoft Copilot instead. Should I? Probably not. Is it free? Yeah. I’m feeding it the strangest data, and I know that I’m also indirectly harming the planet. Still, I refuse to pay for therapy only for the therapist to tell me that my penance is cheesecake.
*orders cheesecake from The Cheesecake Factory online.*
Featured Photo by Kelsey Todd on Unsplash.
