I was twenty-three the first time I walked into therapy.

I didn’t know what qualified as trauma. I didn’t know what I was supposed to talk about. I just knew I felt unsettled in my life and assumed the therapist would help me look inward.

Instead, we kept talking about my mother.

Even when I wasn’t.

At first it didn’t feel dramatic. It felt structured. Clarifying. There was a sense that we were locating the source of things. And when someone with training and authority keeps returning to the same explanation, you begin to assume it must be important.

My mom was far from perfect. There were things that hurt. There were things I wish had been different. But she also wasn’t someone I would have described as terrible. She wasn’t someone I would have chosen to disown.

Still, the narrative kept forming.

And slowly, my lens shifted.

I began scanning my childhood for confirmation. Ordinary imperfections took on diagnostic weight. Nuance flattened into cause. Complexity narrowed into origin story.

I left sessions heartbroken.

Not because I had uncovered a hidden truth.

Because I had absorbed a version of my story that didn’t fully fit, and I didn’t yet know I was allowed to question it.

Therapists hold power.

Not because clients are weak. But because clients arrive open. Especially in their first experience of therapy. You assume the person across from you sees something you can’t yet see.

And sometimes they do.

But interpretation is influence.

Repetition becomes narrative.

Certainty reshapes memory.

Instead of helping me deepen my understanding of myself, the work centered blame. I don’t think they meant to harm me. I think they were trying to give me an answer. But instead of asking what I felt, it suggested what had been done to me.

Blame organizes pain quickly. It gives clarity where there was confusion. It offers a villain when the story feels messy.

But it also flattens humanity.

For nearly a decade, my relationship with my mom carried the strain of that framing. Not because she had suddenly changed. Because I had.

Now that I am a parent, this is the part that feels most sobering.

One day, someone will sit across from my adult children and hold that same power.

They will talk about me.

They will name my mistakes. They will process their hurt. They will explore where I fell short. And they should. Every child deserves space to understand their experience honestly.

But I hope the person listening does not rush to villainize me.

Not because I am flawless.

Because I am human.

This is one of the reasons I practice the way I do.

I know what it feels like to sit across from someone who sounds certain.

I know how easily interpretation becomes identity.

So I move carefully.

I don’t hand people villains.
I don’t rush them toward rupture.
I don’t decide which relationships are beyond repair.

I help people hold the complexity of the people they love.

I ask slower questions.

I help people search from within. To understand their experience in full dimension. To hold hurt without erasing love. To differentiate limitation from harm.

What my clients choose to do with that clarity is theirs.

But it must be theirs.

We all play a part in the lives we live.

Parents carry their history. Children carry theirs. Relationships are formed at the intersection of both.

Blame is simple.

Understanding is slower.

Looking back, what needed the most repair wasn’t my relationship with my mother.

It was my relationship with my own perception.

That is what therapy should strengthen.

Not allegiance to a narrative.

But trust in yourself.

At twenty-three, I was looking for someone to tell me what was wrong.

What I needed was someone to help me trust what I already knew.

Now, that is the work I try to offer.

Embracing Shadows, Illuminating Hope,
Chelsey Fjeldheim, LCSW
Empowering Souls on the Path of Healing

Copyright © 2026 Chelsey Fjeldheim, Courage Speaks Counseling