Son, sit with me for a moment. I know you’re busy; I just want a few minutes of your time. Your mother told me that you’re nervous about going to therapy. I completely understand, I was too. If you’ve told your friends, I hope they were supportive, but I need you to know you’re doing the right thing no matter what anyone says. There’s nothing shameful about investigating your well-being with a professional. And there’s no one stronger than someone willing to plunge into the depths of their own emotions. When I was a young man, back when the idea of you was just a dream your mother and I shared, I knew something was wrong with me but I couldn’t articulate what was happening. I felt a deep, ever-present sense of dissatisfaction in my life I could not shake. No matter how I tried to alter the course of my life — making better decisions, planning out my future, even ignoring my troubles — I seemed to sink further and further into an inky internal abyss. Depression and anxiety run in the family, but when you’re young, it’s difficult to conceive of the enormity of mental maladies. I knew my mother had struggled all my life but like most people that age, I had convinced myself I was invincible, somehow strong enough to defy both circumstance and genetics. Your grandmother had gone to therapy for as long as I could remember, but I didn’t view this as an option for me. I saw the way your grandfather looked at her, disappointed in her supposed weakness. Sometimes it even seemed like he believed she was responsible for her reactions to her traumatic childhood. Going to a doctor would be a confirmation something unknowable plagued me and that I wasn’t strong enough to cope with day-to-day trials and tribulations. Leaving that pain unaddressed felt easier than facing it head-on. When I met your mother, she helped me forget my demons for a couple of years. But it wasn’t gone, it simply retreated further into the recesses of my mind, laying dormant. At my weakest moment, my boiling insecurities rose to the surface for all to see.  That’s a story for another time. I don’t want to hide the ugly parts of myself from you, but I know you have better things to do than sitting with your dad as he unearths ancient history. The important part is that I almost lost her, and we both knew the only way to save our relationship was for me to find out what was eating me up from the inside. Naturally, I was horrified. I turned to my best friends for support. I was met with helpful comments such as: “You? There’s nothing wrong with you. Leave therapists for actual crazy people.” “Just exercise, drink more water, and go to sleep on time and you’ll be fine.” “Try smiling more.” “I always knew there was something wrong with you.” Reactions like these served only to push me further from getting help, but I pushed through regardless. I quickly discovered the impossibility of finding the perfect therapist on your first try. The first one told me I wasn’t Godly enough. The second demanded more than I could pay. The third wanted only to give me pills and skip the talking part. And so on and so forth, but eventually, I found the right person. This doctor made me feel comfortable and showed me how widespread these feelings truly were, and how much of it was due to things unsaid. She often stated my generation was “going to therapy for our parents, their parents, and beyond,” since they didn’t have the choice to do so (or refused to because of the taboo nature of therapy). Her expertise gave me the space to explore my problems while guiding me to long-term solutions. I’ve gone to her ever since and now consider her one of the most important people I’ve ever met. The healing she offered was incredible. I extolled the virtues of therapy everywhere I went. I thought by sharing my experiences with friends, family — anyone really, I wasn’t shy — I could help destigmatize the unwarranted shame associated with psychotherapy.  Unfortunately, the world wasn’t quite ready. Any time I mentioned the topic, I watched as people became visibly uncomfortable. They couldn’t meet my eyes, they became restless, tried to change the subject as quickly as possible. For reasons I could not understand, talking about the real anxieties we all face was conversational anathema.  But I didn’t care anymore. Despite all of the discomfort wrapped up in mental health, therapy was ultimately just an hour I took each week to explore my mind. If friends wouldn’t be a safe space for me to do this, I was perfectly happy going to a doctor for the rest of my life.  Each time I was insulted or made to feel weak for having the courage to better myself, I just reminded myself: this is the price I’ve paid for peace of mind. The world has changed, and talking about our turmoil alongside our triumphs is more commonly accepted. But there will always be critics, and I hope you can tune them out. I already love you, son, and I know therapy will only strengthen the man you’re becoming.