I used to think anyone who went to therapy was automatically enlightened. These brave souls had taken a leap into the fortress of their minds, making the effort to unpick old habits, break generational curses and generally “fix” their mental states. Having a therapist was the ultimate form of self-care.

And yet I still avoided it for a long time – even as I started to feel as if I was treading water with no direction. Perhaps I was following a similar logic to the many Black people who seek help only when they reach crisis point. But I didn’t want to share the same fate. After a relationship breakdown, an ADHD diagnosis that spiralled into an identity crisis and the ongoing emotional repercussions of the pandemic, I decided to start therapy in 2021. I didn’t anticipate that I would be quitting it after only a year.

Finding a private therapist is a bit like navigating the dating pool – if dates cost upwards of £50 an hour. Before you decide to meet anyone, you have to sift through all the different types of talking therapy to work out what’s right for you – from cognitive behavioural therapy (CBT) to counselling and psychodynamic therapy. And once you’ve got as far as choosing your modality, you have to find the right person: someone who understands your lived experiences, who you can fully trust.

This is particularly difficult for Black people. A lack of Black practitioners, combined with structural racism in services and a resulting lack of trust, means that even thinking about getting a therapist can be draining. Thankfully, platforms such as the Black, African and Asian Therapy Network (BAATN) and Black Minds Matter exist – and I found mine through the former.

My therapist was great. She was affordable, understood how my identity shaped how I saw the world and equipped me with practical tips. More than anything, she was patient with me. But I wasn’t prepared for how uncomfortable therapy would be. I was confronting parts of myself I had buried away, reliving moments I’d rather forget and understanding how events and people in my life have led to my behavioural patterns. I’d leave sessions in tears, feeling drained and wondering if it was worth it. Having to be present in those swirling emotions was exhausting.

Then I found myself trying to “win” at therapy. Had I made her laugh? Did she think I was fine? Perhaps I needed to unpack my tendencies to people-please and put others’ perceived feelings before my own – even my therapist’s. Over the months, I began spending most of the day leading up to my sessions agonising about what I could bring to the table. I’d already talked about misogynoir, the hatred directed at black women, my loved ones, my childhood, friendship and relationship breakdowns, and how my neurodivergence had affected my confidence throughout my life. Eventually, trying to come up with things made me feel anxious. I started to dread the sessions, and then felt guilty for dreading them. So, after a year, I quit.

On reflection, I think the reason I was racking my brain to come up with talking points was that I didn’t have any any more. I didn’t quit therapy because it didn’t work – in some ways I quit because it did. After a year, I felt more like myself, I had the tools to deal with my emotions, trust my gut and open up. I also had a better sense of when something wasn’t working for me any more.

I know this won’t last for ever – our mental states ebb and flow – and maybe one day I’ll return to therapy. But some things about me feel changed. Previously, I looked at my mind as something that needed to be fixed or “cured”. I spent so much time trying to reach a place of eternal nirvana – a state in which I could somehow quell my neurodivergence to fit in. Now I give myself much more grace.

Realistically, we can’t all go to psychotherapy all the time, for ever. It’s not a one-size-fits-all solution for everyone. Therapy is expensive, and isn’t always enough on its own. At its worst, it can even actively harm. And with an overstretched NHS, waiting lists for free counselling can stretch to months. I’ve had friends who have tried hypnosis, tarot readers, medication, cold water swimming, spending time in nature, reiki healing, exercise and life drawing as forms of therapy. Personally, I’ve turned to art, journalling and gardening. I also try to find meditation in the everyday.

I’ll always recommend therapy – it helped me recalibrate my outlook on life. But I know it is a luxury, even though it shouldn’t be. Whenever I question whether quitting therapy was the right decision, I remember one of the greatest lessons I learned from my time there: I can always change my mind.

• Niellah Arboine is a writer and deputy editor at Where the Leaves Fall, a magazine exploring humankind’s connection with nature

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