This is a work of fiction. The characters, events, and therapeutic encounters are imagined.
Tasha left therapy irritated.
Not devastated.
Not enlightened.
Irritated.
Which, considering she’d spent fifty minutes paying somebody to ask her questions she had spent years successfully avoiding, felt appropriate.
She sat in the parking lot for a minute with the air conditioning blowing directly in her face.
Her phone had eleven notifications.
Two from Cherish.
Three from the group chat.
One from Darren.
Four work emails.
And a text from her son asking if he could order dessert.
Tasha stared at the screen.
Then laughed.
Of course.
The therapist had spent half the session asking her what she wanted, and the second she walked out, everybody wanted something.
She opened Darren’s message first.
You coming over?
Tasha stared at it.
Then typed:
Not tonight.
She almost added an explanation.
Deleted it.
Almost added a laughing emoji.
Deleted that too.
Not tonight.
Send.
Her heart beat harder than it had any business beating over three words.
He responded almost immediately.
You good?
Tasha looked at the message.
There it was again.
Whenever she moved even an inch outside their usual pattern, he acted like something must be wrong.
She typed:
Yep. Just going home.
Then put the phone face down.
She wasn’t ready to call that a boundary.
But she didn’t go over there.
That was enough for one day.
Across town, Mya-Ann was folding towels that had already been folded.
Her husband, Evan, noticed.
He was stretched across the sectional with a controller in his hand, some anime battle filling the television with explosions and dramatic Japanese dialogue.
“Mya.”
She didn’t answer.
“Mya-Ann.”
“What?”
“Those towels were done.”
“They weren’t folded right.”
Evan looked toward the basket.
“They looked folded to me.”
“That’s because you don’t care.”
He paused the game.
“I care about towels.”
“No, you care about having towels.”
“That is usually why people have towels.”
She shot him a look.
He held his hands up.
“My bad.”
Mya-Ann moved to the dining table, where her laptop sat open beside two calendars, a school permission slip, her mother’s medication list, and a half-written grocery order.
One daughter needed a uniform washed for The Legacy Circle.
The other had a dentist appointment Thursday.
Her mother’s neurologist had called.
The nanny needed Friday off.
The homeowners association had sent another email about the side gate.
There was a church committee meeting Sunday.
Her mother’s home aide had asked whether they could change Tuesday’s hours.
And earlier that afternoon, her mother had walked out of the house while Mya-Ann was on a work call.
Again.
A neighbor found her two streets away.
Again.
“Mya.”
“I’m listening.”
“No, you’re doing twelve things.”
“Because twelve things need to be done.”
“Not tonight.”
She turned toward him.
“What does that mean?”
“It means sit down.”
“I am not sitting down when everything isn’t done.”
“Everything is never done.”
“Exactly.”
Evan watched her.
There were days he knew better than to push.
This was one of them.
He unpaused the television.
“Come watch this with me when you’re finished.”
“I don’t like that show.”
“You liked it last week.”
“I tolerated it.”
“You asked me what happened in the next episode.”
“Because it didn’t make sense.”
He smiled.
“That’s how they get you.”
She rolled her eyes.
Twenty minutes later, he realized she had disappeared.
The bathroom door wasn’t fully closed.
Evan pushed it open because his vape was somewhere in there.
He found Mya-Ann sitting on the toilet lid.
Fully dressed.
Hands in her lap.
Staring at the floor.
At first he thought she was scrolling on her phone.
Then he heard her breathing.
“Mya?”
She didn’t look up.
He froze.
Her face was wet.
Not dramatic crying.
No sobbing.
Just tears sliding down her cheeks while she stared at nothing.
Evan quietly put the cabinet door back.
“What happened?”
She shook her head.
He took one step toward her.
“Did somebody call about your mom?”
“No.”
“The girls okay?”
“Yes.”
“Work?”
“No.”
“Then what—”
“Everything.”
He stopped.
Mya-Ann wiped her face.
“I can’t do everything anymore.”
Evan lowered himself onto the bathroom floor.
He didn’t touch her.
Not yet.
She looked at him and became irritated immediately.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re looking at me.”
“You’re crying.”
“I know I’m crying.”
“Okay.”
That irritated her too.
She hated when people said okay when nothing was okay.
“My mother wandered off today.”
“I know.”
“No. You know she wandered off. You don’t know what that does to me.”
Evan stayed quiet.
“I was on a call. I was literally presenting numbers to people while looking at the camera on my phone trying to figure out where she went.”
He nodded.
“The nanny is off Friday. Zuri has that leadership thing Saturday. Nyla’s teacher emailed me again because she’s crying before tests. My mom has three appointments next month. The insurance company denied the home-care hours. My job is doing restructuring. The house needs shit. The girls need shit. My mother needs shit. Everybody always needs something.”
“Mya—”
“And I know you’re going to say you help.”
He closed his mouth.
“Because you do.”
She looked at him.
“But I still have to know what needs to be done.”
That landed differently.
“I have to remember it. Plan it. Tell somebody. Follow up. Check behind people. Put it on the calendar. Make sure it gets paid. Make sure nobody forgot.”
Evan looked down.
“I’m tired of being the person who knows everything.”
He leaned his back against the tub.
“I didn’t know you felt like that.”
“How could you not know?”
“I knew you were overwhelmed.”
“That’s not the same.”
“No.”
“And then everybody tells me to relax.”
“I do say that.”
“It’s insulting.”
His eyebrows lifted slightly.
“I’m not trying to insult you.”
“I know.”
“Then why is it insulting?”
“Because relax into what?”
He didn’t answer.
“If I stop doing things, things don’t disappear. They just wait for me.”
Evan nodded slowly.
“I hear you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I’m trying to.”
“You don’t even know what to say.”
“I don’t.”
That shut her up.
Evan looked at her.
“I don’t know what to say, Mya.”
She hated how honest that was.
“I can tell you I love you.”
She looked away.
“I can tell you I don’t want you drowning.”
Another tear slipped down.
“And I can tell you I don’t know how to fix all the shit you just named.”
Mya-Ann wiped her face again.
“But I can sit here.”
She looked at him.
He stayed on the floor.
No speech.
No solution.
No suggestion that she make a list, delegate, pray harder, hire somebody, take a bath, get more sleep, or think positively.
He just sat there.
Mya-Ann was still angry with him.
That surprised her.
She loved him.
And she was angry.
Both things existed at once.
Eventually she slid from the toilet lid onto the rug beside him.
Their shoulders touched.
Neither spoke.
For the first time that day, nobody needed her to answer anything.
The girls went to bed around ten.
At eleven-fifteen, Mya-Ann found Evan downstairs in the basement.
The game was back on.
“Really?”
He looked over.
“What?”
“You paused it for like three hours and came right back.”
“I have resilience.”
She almost smiled.
He held up the vape.
“Found it.”
“Congratulations.”
Then he lifted a small jar from the table.
Mya-Ann stared at him.
“No.”
“I didn’t ask you.”
“You were about to.”
“I was actually going to ask if you wanted tea.”
“Bullshit.”
He laughed.
She sat down.
Mya-Ann didn’t smoke often.
Or at least that was what she still told herself.
A few times a year had become once every couple months.
Once every couple months had recently become a few times this month.
Not enough that she thought of herself as somebody who smoked weed.
Enough that she had started noticing how quickly she accepted when Evan offered.
She took two pulls.
Twenty minutes later, the laundry was still upstairs.
The calendar was still open.
Her mother still had dementia.
Nyla was still anxious.
Her inbox still existed.
And for one small stretch of time, Mya-Ann didn’t feel responsible for solving any of it.
She rested her head against the couch.
Evan looked over at her.
“You good?”
“For this exact second?”
“Yeah.”
She closed her eyes.
“Yes.”
At 12:42 a.m., Mya-Ann opened the therapy intake form.
She had been avoiding it for four days.
Reason for seeking therapy:
She typed:
Stress.
Deleted it.
Typed:
Depression.
Stared at it.
Added:
Possible burnout.
Deleted possible.
Next question.
Do you experience difficulty identifying or expressing emotions?
Mya-Ann frowned.
No.
Then maybe.
Then she clicked sometimes.
Do you experience sensory sensitivities?
She stared at that one longer.
She hated certain sounds.
Certain lights.
Certain fabrics.
People talking while the television was on made her irrationally angry.
Grocery stores exhausted her.
Unexpected touch could make her whole body tighten.
But everybody had things they didn’t like.
Didn’t they?
She clicked sometimes.
Do changes in routine cause significant distress?
Mya-Ann thought about Target moving the toothpaste.
She selected yes.
Then changed it to sometimes.
Do you find social situations difficult to interpret?
“No,” she whispered.
She understood people.
Usually.
She understood rules.
What she struggled to understand was why people broke rules and then acted surprised when outcomes became messy.
She selected no.
Have you ever suspected that you may be neurodivergent?
Mya-Ann stopped.
She had.
Privately.
After reading about autism in women.
After seeing a woman online describe rehearsing conversations before having them.
After learning that some women spent decades being described as rigid, difficult, controlling, overly sensitive, antisocial, perfectionistic, or “too much” before realizing there was another framework for understanding how their brains processed the world.
She had closed the article halfway through.
Then reopened it three days later.
She selected:
Unsure.
At the bottom of the form:
What would you like your therapist to know about you before your first session?
Mya-Ann typed:
I don’t want somebody telling me to breathe.
She stared at it.
Then added:
I need practical help. I need you to tell me when I’m wrong. Please don’t just validate everything I say.
Submit.
She closed the laptop.
Her therapist was white.
Mya-Ann hadn’t selected her because of race.
She had selected her because the woman’s profile mentioned adult autism, late identification in women, depression, caregiver stress, and neurodivergent couples.
Her credentials were excellent.
Her reviews were excellent.
Simone had even mentioned her name before.
That should have been enough.
Twenty-three minutes into the session, Mya-Ann wasn’t sure it was.
The therapist leaned forward.
“You seem to carry a tremendous amount of responsibility.”
“I do.”
“And I’m wondering what it would feel like to allow other people to carry some of it.”
Mya-Ann stared at her.
“Which responsibilities?”
The therapist paused.
“Well, perhaps some of the household tasks.”
“Which ones?”
Another pause.
“I’m not sure yet.”
“Then how do you know they can be delegated?”
The therapist blinked.
Mya-Ann continued.
“My mother has dementia. My husband cannot legally make medical decisions for her. My daughters have school obligations I manage because I have greater schedule flexibility than he does. I handle our finances because I’m an accountant and I’m better at it.”
“I hear that.”
“So when therapists tell women to delegate, sometimes I think y’all skip over whether delegation actually makes logistical sense.”
The therapist shifted slightly.
Mya-Ann noticed.
Immediately.
“You don’t like that I said that.”
“I wouldn’t say I don’t like it.”
“You changed your posture.”
The therapist paused.
“You’re very observant.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Silence.
Mya-Ann’s face remained neutral.
The therapist took a breath.
“You’re right. I became slightly defensive.”
“Why?”
“Because I felt corrected.”
“You were.”
There it was.
The therapist smiled awkwardly.
Mya-Ann did not.
“I don’t mean that disrespectfully.”
“I believe you.”
“But if I tell you something doesn’t apply to my life, I need you to be curious before assuming I’m resistant.”
The therapist looked at her for several seconds.
“That’s fair.”
Mya-Ann crossed her arms.
“And I don’t want everything I say turned into pathology.”
“Tell me more.”
“If I say something doesn’t make sense, it might actually not make sense. If I want specifics, that doesn’t necessarily mean I’m trying to control the session. And if I’m direct, I’m not angry.”
The therapist nodded.
“Have people interpreted you as angry before?”
“Yes.”
“Often?”
“Enough.”
The therapist wrote something down.
Mya-Ann’s eyes narrowed.
“What did you write?”
The therapist stopped.
Normally, she might have responded with a boundary.
Instead she said:
“That directness has been interpreted as anger.”
Mya-Ann relaxed slightly.
“Okay.”
The therapist looked back at her.
“Would it help if I explained why I was asking about delegation?”
“Yes.”
So she did.
And for ten minutes, the session improved.
Then the therapist asked:
“How important is faith in your life?”
“Very.”
“Your intake says you attend church regularly.”
“I do.”
“And does your faith community provide support?”
Mya-Ann laughed once.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“What came up?”
“I don’t know if you understand Black church.”
The therapist paused.
“Probably not the way you do.”
Mya-Ann looked at her.
That answer was better than pretending.
Still, something inside her remained guarded.
When the session ended, the therapist asked if she’d like to schedule again.
Mya-Ann looked at the calendar invitation.
“I’ll think about it.”
“Okay.”
“You don’t have to say okay like that.”
The therapist smiled despite herself.
Mya-Ann noticed.
She almost smiled back.
Almost.
Twenty minutes after her last appointment, the therapist sat in her office staring at Mya-Ann’s chart.
She was excellent with autism.
She knew that.
She’d worked with autistic adults for more than fifteen years.
She understood masking.
Sensory processing.
Rigid thinking.
Burnout.
Late identification in women.
She also knew enough to recognize when clinical expertise wasn’t the only expertise needed in the room.
She could not call Simone and discuss Mya-Ann specifically without permission.
But she could request professional consultation without identifying her client.
So she sent a message.
You free sometime tomorrow? Had a session today that reminded me I have some work to do around cultural responsiveness. Would value your perspective. No identifying information.
Simone called her instead.
“What happened?”
The therapist laughed nervously.
“Hello to you too.”
“What happened?”
She explained.
Not who.
Not enough details to identify anyone.
Just the interaction.
The defensiveness.
The assumptions.
The moment around church.
The way directness had landed in her body before she’d had time to examine why.
Simone was quiet.
Then:
“This is why I keep telling y’all being good at autism doesn’t automatically make you good at treating Black autistic women.”
“I know.”
“No, you know theoretically.”
The therapist winced.
“Fair.”
“You know how many Black women get called difficult because they’re direct?”
“I know.”
“How many get called resistant because they ask questions?”
“I know.”
“How many spend their entire lives over-functioning because everybody praises their competence and then walk into therapy and get told to just delegate?”
“Simone.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know you’re serious.”
“And I refer people to you because you’re excellent.”
That surprised her.
Simone continued.
“You are excellent at what you do. That’s why this pisses me off.”
The therapist sat back.
“Okay.”
“Don’t okay me.”
She laughed.
Simone did too.
Then her voice softened.
“Competence in one area doesn’t exempt any of us from training in another.”
“I agree.”
“Good.”
“What would you have done differently?”
And Simone told her.
Not because she was a bad therapist.
Because good therapists still had blind spots.
And sometimes the difference between rupture and repair was whether somebody was willing to admit they had one.
At home, Mya-Ann stood in her bedroom looking at the appointment reminder.
Would you like to schedule your next session?
She hovered over the button.
Evan walked past the doorway.
“How’d therapy go?”
Mya-Ann kept staring at the screen.
“She irritated me.”
He nodded.
“So you’re going back?”
Mya-Ann looked at him.
“Why would you assume that?”
“Because everybody irritates you.”
She threw a pillow at him.
He laughed and kept walking.
Mya-Ann looked back at the screen.
For once, she wasn’t sure whether something uncomfortable meant it was wrong.
Or whether it meant there was something there worth examining.
She closed the app.
Not yet.
But she didn’t delete it either.
