Reflections on Revisiting My Former Therapist After 15 Years

Just two weeks before my father passed away last June, I reached out to my former psychotherapist, known here as L.P.

Although we had only exchanged a few brief emails over the years, we hadn’t spoken in 15 years. I hoped she would agree to see me again.

L.P., who preferred to remain identified by her initials for privacy reasons, was taken aback but open to reconnecting. She suggested meeting a few times to gauge how our sessions might feel now. While it seemed she was treating me like a new client, I wondered if I was being cautiously evaluated. I kept reflecting on the self-focused young woman I once was, and I could understand why she might approach our reunion carefully.

On the day of our first appointment, I took the subway filled with questions: How had she changed? Would our dynamic still work? And if not, what would that mean?

L.P. welcomed me warmly at the reception, and her smile eased my nerves. We took a moment to observe each other: At 53, my hair had begun to gray and my face showed signs of weariness. L.P., nearly two decades older, was elegantly dressed in light summer layers. Her warm brown eyes, framed by tortoiseshell glasses, still held a lively spark. I imagined she might have an old portrait of me tucked away somewhere.

Settling into her office, we discovered that we both had developed mild hearing loss, prompting us to lean closer as we talked.

She recalled many details from our past sessions, which spared me from revisiting the complexities of managing my father’s healthcare. Yet, I realized I had withheld much from her in my youth, worried she might judge some of my reckless decisions. Back then, I saw her as an authority figure—the only adult in the room.