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My mom is a therapist. Because of this, I’m sometimes reluctant to open up for fear of her analyzing me. My mom and I often fight. It drives crazy when she analyzes me — by giving unwarranted insights or not fully listening.
I usually confide in my older sister, but she’s away in college. So when I got hit with this year’s gnarly flu while my dad was on a business trip, I spent five days quarantined with the only person available, my mom.
Surprisingly, we spent most of the time talking! Before I knew it I was pouring out secrets, my dreams, the story of my first kiss. As I laid sprawled out on the couch and looked over at my mother intently nodding her head, I realized: this looks like therapy. And it was nothing like I had feared. She didn’t try to fix me. She just listened.
It felt bittersweet because in a few months I’ll be going away to college, and I won’t have my mom there for me. Confiding in my mom was like discovering a completely neglected resource that had just been waiting for me this whole time.