Ever walk out of therapy so wrecked you consider emailing your therapist just to say, hey, I take it back. Hey, I'm Joshua Erickson, your host, and welcome to another episode of Brainverse Me, the show where we overthink everything, then spiral about it, then turn it into a podcast so you don't feel as alone in your own disaster brain. If you've ever been to therapy before and stuck around, you know the routine. You meet a stranger, admit everything, if you want actual help anyway, skeptically show up and try to follow suggestions, eventually start seeing results. Then one day, slip into your old patterns. Now you're thinking therapy has failed you and you contemplate giving up. What do you do? Well, I've been in this situation a number of times. Sometimes I've given up, and I always regretted it. Always. Today we're gonna explore why that was not the right move. Today we're digging into one of the most disorienting parts of healing, that moment when you think you're making progress, but suddenly everything feels worse. We're talking about why therapy doesn't move in a straight line, why sometimes you leave a session feeling like a hot mess instead of a healed icon, and why that might mean it's actually working. Let's get into it. What if progress doesn't feel like progress? What if getting better makes you cry more, not less? What if your healing era involves lying in bed wondering if your therapist is low-key gaslighting you into an emotional collapse? Nobody talks about this part. The part where things get worse before they get better. The part where your old coping mechanisms stop working, but the new ones haven't kicked in yet. The part where you're self-aware enough to see your patterns, but not strong enough yet to stop them. That in-between space, that's where a lot of people quit. Because it feels like failure. But it's not. Healing is messy. It doesn't reward you with immediate relief, it challenges your identity, your defenses, your denial. And when you start finally feeling the stuff you spent years avoiding, yeah, it sucks. But it's also part of the process, and you are not alone in it. I've had sessions where I left feeling like somebody ripped the floor out from under me. Where I sat in the parking lot holding the steering wheel with both hands, like it was the only thing keeping me from floating away. I've walked out of therapy feeling broken, like all the work I'd done didn't matter. Like I was back at square one. But those were the moments I was closest to something real, to something worth holding on to. There was one time I came into session with the plan. I had done the journaling, I had the insight, I even rehearsed how I was going to explain it. Calm, clear, impressive. I was ready to be the good client, but five minutes in, my therapist asked one question I wasn't prepared for, one simple, well placed question that cracked everything open. And suddenly, I wasn't calm or clear. I was ten years old again, defensive and ashamed, trying not to lose it because I didn't want her to see how deep it still hurt. I left the session feeling like a fraud, like I had made no progress at all. Another session, not too long ago, my therapist was trying to help me push through something hard, and I was resisting all the way. I knew what she was doing. I even knew it was probably right. But I didn't want to go there. I didn't want to let her see how much it actually hurt. So I kept the mask on, cool, controlled, maybe even a little smug. The I'm fine I got this version of me. Until I didn't. Until the pain punched the performance and I kinda lost it. This time I didn't feel like a fraud, I felt like a lunatic. Like I was unraveling in real time and couldn't do a damn thing to stop it. Like I was failing the session, failing the process, failing myself. But that wasn't true. That day, that day was a turning point. Because it was the first time I let the mask slip in real time instead of performing through it. It was the first time I didn't polish the pain before presenting it. It felt like falling apart, but it was actually the start of coming together. So today we're going to walk through what that messy middle actually looks like, why it feels like a regression, and how to survive it without throwing your therapist out the metaphorical window. Linear healing is a myth. We all want therapy to look like this nice little upward graph. Start here, learn some stuff, and steadily climb toward emotional enlightenment. Like leveling up in a video game, gain XP, unlock new tools, become the upgraded version of yourself. But healing doesn't do linear. It does circles, it spirals, loops, backtracks, detours. Some days you're journaling like a grounded adult, and the next you're rage-eating cereals and sobbing at a dog food commercial. I used to think revisiting old wounds meant I hadn't healed them. That if I was still getting triggered, still snapping at my kids, still falling into the same spirals, I must be failing. But I wasn't. I was learning. I was relearning. The kind of learning that rewires you, not just educates you. And that doesn't happen in a straight line. Sometimes you return to the same wound, but this time you know its name. You know what it feels like in your body. You know how long it usually lasts. That's not regression. That's progress wearing a disguise. But I'll be honest, sometimes it does feel like regression. I had one stretch where I thought I was finally getting somewhere. Three good weeks. I was sleeping better, I wasn't as reactive, and I even caught myself being kind to myself. Wild, right? Then boom, one conversation, and I completely shut down. Old wounds, old patterns. I left that phone call, feeling like I was 16 again, powerless, angry, invisible. I didn't journal. I skipped therapy or thought about it the next week. I convinced myself it was pointless. That spiral cost me a month. A full month of silence avoidance, self-sabotage. And when I finally dragged myself back to therapy, I expected judgment. Instead, my therapist said, What made coming back so hard? Not why did you leave? Not let's talk about the missed session. Just that one question, gentle, curious, patient, and it hit me. I wasn't failing. I was scared. Scared of being seen, of being vulnerable again, of trusting the process after it hurt me. That was the moment I realized healing doesn't always look like forward motion. Sometimes it's just coming back. That's why the myth of linear progress is comforting, but it's also dangerous. It sets us up to think that revisiting old pain means we failed. That slipping into a depressive episode means therapy isn't working. That needing support again means we've regressed. And then there are those moments that feel like nothing is happening, like the work is stuck. There was a session where I spent a full fifty minutes in silence, arms crossed staring out the staring out the window. The therapist didn't push too hard. She stayed with me in it. I left that day convinced it was a waste of time. Why am I even doing this? I asked myself. Nothing changed. But that night I shut down. Just silent, I was isolated from everyone. For no reason I could name. It was like I had something shifted. Like something or something had shifted below the surface. Something old and brittle that finally cracked. I didn't know at the time, but the session was the first time I sat with my discomfort without numbing it, avoiding it, or trying to make it go away. Nothing happened that day, and yet everything started. I thought I swore I was broken. I convinced myself I was failing. None of that was true. Healing is a loop. But every time you come back to the same place, you do it with more insight, more language, more strength. That's not regression, that's integration. You're not back at square one. You're just deeper in the work. Sometimes, insight isn't enough. Here's a fun one. You figure out exactly why you do the thing. You connect it to childhood, to trauma. To that one time someone said you were too much in third grade. You say it out loud, you nod, you feel seen, and then you go home and do the thing anyway. Welcome to the frustrating world of insight without integration. Therapy can feel like you're unlocking secrets with no idea how to use a damn key. Awareness is important, but it doesn't magically overwrite decades of wiring. You can know your abandonment issues are flaring up and still text someone seventeen times when they don't reply. That doesn't mean you're broken, it means you're in the middle. I had a session once from my therapist gently, so gently, called out a pattern I'd been running for you from for years. She didn't shame me, she just named it. We talked about where it came from, how it was protecting me, why it wasn't helping me anymore, and I left the session feeling craft open but seen. And then an hour later, I blew up at someone I love over nothing. It was like watching a slow motion car crash from inside my own brain. I knew it was happening, I knew I was reacting from fear, not reality. I even said, mid-panic, I'm doing the thing again. And I did it anyway. Just because you know what to do doesn't mean you'll always get it right. You're human. We make mistakes. Sometimes the emotion is just too strong, and as good as you are, it slips through. Maybe for just a moment, but you realize and you judge yourself. Because your brain can be an asshole sometimes. And that's the hell of it. Insight doesn't equal change. It's just the first step. And sometimes that first step makes you feel worse, not better. Because now you can see yourself clearly, and that level of honesty is brutal. But it's also the doorway. You can't change what you can't name. And once you've named it, you've already started the work. The insight is there. The behavior change is coming. But there's a delay. And that delay, that's the worst part. It makes you doubt yourself. But it's also exactly where change begins. Do you know you can get a type of hangover from therapy? There are days when therapy feels like a warm bath. Safe, reflective, productive. There are days when therapy feels like someone walked into your soul with muddy boots, rearranged all your emotional furniture, and left you to sit in a mess. And there are days when therapy feels like getting emotionally hit by a truck, and all you did was sit on a couch and talk. The therapy hangover is real. Your nervous system just did emotional crossfit. Now your brain's foggy, your chest is heavy, and everything feels loud. You might be irritable, vulnerable, or straight up undone. I remember one session where I said something I'd never said out loud, not to anyone. Barely to myself. It came out before I could stop it, and the moment it did, I felt my stomach drop, like I jumped off an emotional cliff. I nodded through the end of the session like I was fine, drove home, made dinner, acted normal, then stared at myself for solid fifteen minutes in the bathroom mirror trying to figure out who I really was. That wasn't weakness, that was the weight of honesty hitting all at once. That was my body trying to process what my brain had finally let through. You'll question everything. Your therapist, your progress, your decision to even start therapy in the first place. You'll wonder if you should have just stuck with avoidance. At least avoidance didn't leave you panicking in a Taco Bell parking lot. But that hangover is often a sign that the session mattered. You felt it because it hit something real. You were honest, you were open, you let your guard down. And yeah, it hurts. But pain can be a sign that something important just happened. It's exhausting, but it's also evidence of the work. You need to let go of better. We chase better like it's a destination. As if one day we'll just wake up healed with perfect boundaries and zero anxiety. But better isn't a fixed point. It's not a state of being. It's a direction. Sometimes better looks like crying instead of disassociating, saying, That hurt instead of bottling it up. Take you one breath before the spiral hits instead of diving in headfirst. Sometimes better is just staying in the room, staying in the session, not canceling when you want to, showing up with your messy, exhausted self and saying, Yeah, I'm struggling, but I'm here. I used to think healing meant becoming unrecognizable, that the healed version of me would be calmer, kinder, more organized, less sensitive. But healing hasn't made me a new person. It's made me more me. Underneath the coping, the fear, the masks, I was always there. I just didn't trust that version enough to let them out. The other day, I had an anxiety and panic fueled morning. While doing some last-minute cleanup on my book, I decided to Google the title I'd been using, Brain vs. Me and Overthinker's Playbook. It features back and forth dialogue skits between characters called Brain and Me in every chapter. To my absolute horror, I discovered that two years ago, a comedian had already released a best-selling book called Me vs. Brain and Overthinker's Guide to Life. It also had dialogue skits and the characters Brain and Me. I was literally done writing the book, ready for editing, and I found this out now? I was mortified. Q full on panic. I didn't pause. I didn't breathe. I immediately launched into a two-hour spiral trying to come up with new names for the book, for the series, for the podcast, for everything. I burned through 200 options, rejecting most of them before even finishing the thought. And the more I remembered all the things I'd have to change, website, social media handles, domains, the more overwhelmed I got. Eventually, after locking in new titles, think, rethink, panic, and making a decision to rebrand the book, A Brain in Me Book, I finally slowed down enough to breathe. And in that pause, I had a moment of clarity. I realized what was happening in my body. I used the tools I've actually written about, mindfulness and distress tolerance. I noticed how much I judged myself for not doing it sooner, but I did stop the judgment. And I did let it go. Looking back, I realized that if I had just paused earlier, if I'd stepped away, even for something simple like taking a shower, I probably would have found that clarity so much faster. And even though I didn't catch myself in the moment, I did realize it. I did catch it later. And now I knew even better what my body feels like when I'm panicking, and I'd be ready for it next time. So yeah, better is messy. It's nonlinear. And most of the time, it doesn't feel like progress until you look back and realize you didn't spiral as hard. Or you caught the thought before it caught you. That counts. That is progress. Even if it doesn't feel good, even if no one else notices it, even if you still feel like a mess, letting go of the idea that you have to feel amazing to be healed, that's the real shift. And yeah, you might break down more, but you'll also be more you than you've ever been. So to wrap up here, if you've ever walked out of therapy, feeling like you just lost a fight with your own soul. You're not alone. That doesn't mean you're broken. It doesn't mean you're going backwards. It means you're in it. Deep in the mud. And even though it doesn't feel like it, that's where real healing happens. Progress isn't clean. It's chaotic and painful and non-linear as hell. But every time you come back to that pain with a little more clarity, every time you feel the thing instead of running from it, you're building something. You're not failing. You're healing. You just don't recognize it yet. So keep going. Not because it feels good, but because you're worth the effort it takes to heal. Thanks for listening to Brainvsme. If this episode hit you somewhere, Tender, don't panic. It's probably working. You can subscribe, leave a review, or check out more at BrainVsme.com. New episodes drop every Tuesday. Next week, we're digging into emotional regulation and why random meltdowns in the target stack aisle might actually be progress. As always, remember to be kind to yourself. You deserve it.